eature which is the usual
accompaniment of my group of hoppers, and is, indeed, the most
conspicuous sign of their presence on any given shrub. In the cut below
I have indicated a short section of a bittersweet branch as it commonly
appears, the twig apparently beset with tiny tufts of cotton,
occasionally so numerous as to present a continuous white mass, usually
on the lower side of the branch, where its direction is horizontal. They
are thus easily seen from below, and a closer examination will always
reveal one or more of the black animated thorns in their immediate
vicinity, suggesting the responsible source. These tufts are pure
white, a little over an eighth of an inch in length, and semicircular in
vertical outline. The natural presumption is the idea of maternity, the
mother hopper guarding her bundles of white eggs, or her infant hoppers,
perhaps, snugly tucked up in their downy swaddling-clothes. But a closer
examination completely dispels this illusion. Instead of the supposed
fluffy cotton, we now discover the white substance to be of firm though
somewhat sticky consistency, its surface, moreover, beautifully ridged
from base to summit in parallel rounded flutings, which meet and
interfold like a braid along the summit. If with a sharp knife we now
cut downward through and across the mass, we find our tuft to be a mere
frothy shell containing two hollow compartments, with a thin central
partition extending through the whole length of the cavity. But there is
no sign of an egg or other life to be disclosed anywhere, either in its
substance or its concealment. What, then, is the office of this tiny
fragile house of congealed foam, with its snowy aerated structure, its
double arched chambers, its corrugated walls and ceilings, and missing
tenant or host? Such was the riddle which it propounded to me, and
guided by some previous knowledge of the habits of allied insects, I
was soon enabled to witness a solution of at least a part of its
mystery.

This little thorn-like tree-hopper and all of its queer harlequin tribe
are near relatives to the buzzing cicada, or harvest-fly, whose whizzing
din in the dog-days has won it the popular misnomer of "locust."

To the average listener this insect is a mere "wandering voice and a
mystery," and its singular form, wide prominent eyes, glassy wings, and
double drums are always a surprise to the tyro who first identifies the
grotesque as his well-known "locust." Its musica