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(and it would cost a good deal of trouble) to compile a volume containing the scientific names of every British plant and animal, with all the local synonyms printed under each.

Some local names are exceedingly curious, and it is somewhat puzzling to find out their derivations. In Cumberland the bistort (Polygonum bistorta) is called by the strange name of Easter man-giants. The only derivation that I can suggest for this appellation,—and I think it is the right one,—is that being sometimes in that country eaten in the spring about Easter-time, the leaves being boiled as a vegetable, the word "mangiant" must be derived from the French manger, "to eat." In Cheshire, the edible qualities of the plant are well known, but it is there called "patient dock," which is rather remarkable, as that name is given in botanical books to a different plant, "Rumex patientia,"—this latter plant being unknown in Cheshire.

In Gloucestershire, the purple orchis has a very ominous name; it is called "bloody man's fingers"—why, I do not know; but the country people have as much horror of it as if there were some terrible foundation for the name. If children gather wild flowers and bring them home, the orchises are carefully sorted out by their mothers and thrown away, lest bloody man's fingers should enter the house.

The local names of birds are quite as varied as those of plants. In Cheshire, the magpie is "piánnet," a rather pretty name; titmice are "tomtits," or "tittimaws," hedge-sparrows are "dunnocks." The starling is called "shepster," the long-tailed titmouse is "churn," the spotted flycatcher is "old man," the peewit is a "happinch," the chaffinch is "piedfinch," the missel thrush is a "sedcock," the yellow-hammer is in Yorkshire called "yellow-yowley," but in Cheshire it is generally known as a "goldfinch," a name which it certainly merits more than the real goldfinch, while the latter bird is frequently called "red linnet," and very often also "knicker-knocker."

If any naturalist should think it worth while to act upon the suggestions thrown out in these notes, and should wish to collect all the local names, I should be very glad to help him as regards Cheshire. R. H.

(N.B.—We are prepared to act as custodian for all local names of Birds and Plants, which will be acknowledged and retained until in sufficient number to construct a summary.—Ed. Sc. G.)

the first number of "Science Gossip," under the head of "Notes and Queries," I observe that one of your correspondents asks the question, "Does the Spider eat its own Web?" Rennie, in his work on "Insect Architecture," states that the poet Bloomfield affirms that it does. But this Rennie seems inclined to regard rather as a fiction of the poet's brain than a well-authenticated fact. Perhaps the strangeness of the fact startled the accomplished naturalist, and led him to doubt the statement of one who from the very nature of his profession is privileged to take a "poet's license" with the materials he works with. Still Rennie ought to have known that "truth is stranger than fiction." Any one who reads the "Farmer's Boy" cannot help being struck with the poet's admirable powers for observing and describing what he saw. Bloomfield was without doubt a born naturalist, whose poetic temperament led him to adopt song rather than prose as the vehicle of his thoughts and observations. Being well acquainted with the poet's productions, I have always entertained a lively faith in the accuracy of his statements, and was led to make the experiment I now record more for the vindication of the poet's character than for the satisfaction of my own mind.

The means for doing so were simple enough, and they were at hand. In a small garden, some 12 feet by 10, situated at the back of the house, a colony of garden spiders (Epeira diadema) had established themselves, and spread a perfect network of webs amongst my choicest chrysanthemums. I took great interest in watching the habits of these sagacious little creatures, and would not allow them to be disturbed although they did restrict my peregrinations by weaving their nets across the gravel path, and retarded the development of my flowers by encasing their buds in silken network. The instruction they afforded me more than counterbalanced the inconvenience they caused, so they were allowed the remain without molestation to increase and multiply in accordance with their natural instincts.

My first step in the experiment was to provide myself with a pair of sharp scissors, and my next to select one of the largest and most perfect specimens of a geometric web my garden contained. At that moment the little architect, contrary to custom, happened to be in the centre of his domains, looking much like an Alexander Selkirk—

After a leisure survey, taken with the object of discovering the principal lines on which the web was supported, I rapidly cut them asunder with my scissors. The web instantly collapsed, and would have fallen to the ground but for one point of support which I had intentionally left untouched. From this point, hung dangling, like tangled threads, all that remained of this once beautiful structure. Stunned by the suddenness of the catastrophe, the spider for a moment remained motionless, but quickly collecting his scattered senses, he nimbly disengaged himself from the wreck, and plying his busy feet with the manipulative skill of as many hands rapidly rolled up the fragments of his web into a round ball the size of a small pea. This he held firmly between his mandibles, and courting retirement attached himself by his spinnarets to the underside of a leaf. I now seated myself in a convenient position from whence I could observe every movement of the little creature without being observed in turn, and I had moreover provided myself with an excellent had moreover provided myself with an excellent Coddington lens of low magnifying power. My first peep at my small friend convinced me (notwithstanding what Rennie had said) that he evidently contemplated the feat of eating his own web. If this were not his intention, why should he be so busily engaged, under the shadow of his retreat, with feet and jaws endeavouring to bring the ravelled threads of his net into a more compact and commodious form? And why, when the dry loose materials resisted all his attempts at compression, did he saturate them with a glutinous fluid, which I observed repeatedly exude from his mouth, causing them to adhere more closely to one another? And why should he take the trouble to knead them together and fashion them into a shape