flavour for which the vegetable obtained the credit.
Such are a few particulars of a beetle on which, notwithstanding its size, naturalists still possess not very accurate information. As our orchids and ferns are our closest link to tropical vegetation, so the stag-beetle, from its habits and economy, forms the best British representative of the myriads of beetles that prey on the foliage of hot climes. It is by no means so scarce as many other of our large insects, and thus may hope to escape extinction at the hands of those enthusiastic collectors who bid fair to thin the ranks of British insects as their brother ornithologists have helped to exterminate many of our native birds. A true naturalist always prefers an animal at freedom to its mummy in a glass case. Thus the stag-beetle has much of the charm of the “Great Unknown” about him, and is just sufficiently uncommon to break the monotony of an autumnal evening’s walk. If he has not the same claim to the interest of the fair sex that many beetles of the buprestis family can bring forward, from furnishing their iridescent wing-cases to glitter as ornaments on snowy necks and arms, he is at all events a patriotic animal, and as such is always sure of their sympathy. Though he is a Tory of the old school, this is to some people all the greater recommendation. Having been in high favour with our ancestors long before the Normans came, like a true follower of the merry monarch, he is very glad to shelter himself amongst the acorns. In these days of naval reform he utterly abjures iron plates, and, with many more of us, is still always to be found strongly attached to the heart of oak of old England.
“MY EMMA AND CUPID.”
“No earthly love my path shall cross,”
Romantic Emma cries; “Love’s dross,
And hearts are foolish empty toys,
For moon-struck maids and sillier boys.
No! happy in my single state,
I’ll live and die without a mate.”
Sly Cupid heard the fair maid’s vow,
And, chuckling, drew his amber bow,
Then whispered in mine ear, “My friend,
Fear not, this whim will find its end;
Fair Emma is not what she seems,
And when a young maid vows, she dreams.
“I swear by these unerring darts,
I can read maidens’ inmost hearts;
And what is true of A. B. C.
(Not to say anything of D.)
Can scarce be false of E. F. G.
“Trust me, your Emma means but this,—
Should some fond lover steal a kiss,
Standing upon her left or right,
She’ll not let slip the lucky wight,
But do her best to hold him tight.”
