usual habits of these interesting insects; but it is a curious fact that a single thread thrown out from the body of a spider should be able to bear the weight it did.
It has long been a matter of doubt amongst naturalists as to the food of the glow-worm. Cuvier suggests that they are probably carnivorous, and it would appear, from recent observations, that he is right.
The larvæ of the glow-worm are very voracious in their habits, and it is now known that they feed on snails and not upon plants. It is not very probable that perfect insects feed much. If it does, it would probably be on some animal substance, such as decayed worms, &c.
The male glow-worm only is winged, and has two spots of bluish phosphorescent light on the belly. The greatest luminosity is given to the female:—
“To captivate her favourite fly,
And tempt the rover through the dark.”
Some time after the female has laid her eggs, which are very numerous and large, spherical, and of citron-colour, and shine in the dark, the light disappears in both sexes. Glow-worms crawl slowly, and are able to shorten and lengthen their bodies.
It has been suggested that the phosphorescent light in these insects is for the purpose of attracting small flies to it, on which the glow-worm feeds. This is certainly a mistake, though flies have been observed to hover over the light. So strong is the light of another species of glow-worm—the Lampyris noctiluca, found under juniper, rose-bushes, &c.—that two of them placed in a glass give sufficient light to read by.
The male glow-worm hovers over the female in the twilight.
WHAT?
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She was working a slipper; but she didn’t like that;
She sang a little melody, that wouldn’t do;
She tried to read a little, then she played with the cat,
And then commenced a note—“Dearest, Why didn’t you—?”
And then she tore it up, and then tried to keep still
And watch the spent sun till he dropped behind the hill.
He was reading a novel, but he didn’t like that,
So he took down his fishing rod, that wouldn’t do;
Then he whistled to his dog, then he put on his hat,
And then commenced a note—“Dearest, Why didn’t you—?”
And then he tore it up, and then tried to keep still
And watch the spent sun till he dropped behind the hill.
The sun dropped out of sight, and she walked up the lane;
He too, quite by chance, of course, came along;
So they met, and they stopped: not a look would either deign:
Then he said—nothing, and naught had she to say.
At last he look’d up at her, and she look’d up too—
“Why didn’t you—Dearest?”—“Dearest, why didn’t you—?”
