the perfect insect, and are said to have a peculiar partiality for the caterpillars of Lasiocampa Processionea, a moth sometimes admitted into catalogues of the British Lepidoptera, but a very doubtful native. Its larvæ live in what Sussex people call puckets, thick silk webs, full of dozens of caterpillars, so that if a Calosoma discovers a pucket, he has only to enter, and devour to his heart's content, and has been caught in the act, too much gorged to attempt an escape. Many beetles prey on caterpillars; I once found a black Silpha in possession of a web made by the larvæ of Eriogaster Lanestris, a not very common moth, and he had not left a single one.

C. Sycophanta is a great enemy of the Bombardier, but does not persecute him much in England, as here it is extremely rare. One is celebrated as having been caught by the poet Crabbe, or, perhaps an entomologist would say, the poet Crabbe is celebrated for having caught a Calosoma Sycophanta.

(To be continued.)

"THE LITTLE DUKE' IN NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE MAORI CHIEF'S SON,

A TRUE STORY OF THE YEARS 1854-1856.

On the west coast of New Zealand there is a mountain rising like a pyramid of snow to the height of nine thou sand feet above the level of the sea. It is called Taranaki, and the legend says that he was once a giant living inland, but having a quarrelsome neighbour, named Ruapahu, he took a leap one day of one hundred miles towards the sea-side, and left his companion where we now see him, to sulk it out in lava and sulphur alone.

But good old Taranaki found out, like the rest of the world, that you do not always better your position by change, for instead of one quarrelsome neighbour, he has got hundreds of pigmies at his feet, blowing his trees and

THE LITTLE DUKE' IN NEW ZEALAND.

553

one another's brains out with 'villanous saltpetre.' The soil is owned by a tribe called the Ngati-awa, or Children of the River; and the uncles and cousins of this tribe have been fighting with one another for two dreary years about a piece of this land, which one chief named Rawiri (Anglicè David) wanted to sell to the British

government.

One day in November, 1854, Rawiri gave notice that he should go upon the land and mark it out with sur

veyer's pegs for sale.

a share in the land, and warned Rawiri not to attempt a sale; but if he did persist, to come armed. Next day Rawiri went unarmed and began to mark out the land. Katatore, with his gun on his shoulder, met him, drew a line across the path, and forbade him to advance. Rawiri advanced a step; Katatore pointed his gun to Heaven. to the earth. These were Maori ways of showing his Rawiri advanced another step; Katatore pointed his gun determination to resist Rawiri, and appealing to Heaven advanced a third step; Katatore levelled his gun and and earth to witness the justice of his cause. shot him. Rawiri lingered a day or two, and his last words were, 'Don't avenge my death.'

A cousin named Katatore claimed

Rawiri

to the knife has been raging between the two parties, and His request was not attended to; for two years war

there seemed

no

prospect of an end.

On one of the last days of November, 1856, a council

of war was

when a little child of nine years of age walked into the midst and said, 'Fathers, we have had enough of war; now let us taste peace and good-will.' The men looked at the child; it was Rawiri's. The mother was living

being held in the camp of Rawiri's party,

some miles off.

he said, 'No one.' A friendly Englishman was there, and heard what the child had said, and saw that the men were touched with surprise, if not with deeper feelings,

The men asked the child who sent him ;

thereupon he spoke out, 'Friends, who sent this child here? It was not a man who sent him, it was God!' Some one still said, 'Perhaps his mother sent him.' The Englishman rode off to the mother, and asked her where her son was. She said she did not know, he had been lost all day. He asked her if she had ever told him to go and bid her friends make peace ? She said 'No.' He told her what the child had done. She sat down and buried her face in her hands for a while; then she rose up, and said, 'It is the word of God; let us go to the camp and make peace.' So peace was made.

St. John's College, Auckland, December 3rd, 1856.

C. J. A.

ADELAIDE AND HER GODSON.

He little knew what a fresh pang of self-reproach be was inflicting.. Adelaide felt so humbled, that she had never before found it so difficult to 'lecture,' as her aunt called it; and when at last she sent the little boy away, she owned to herself that Esther had been right enough when she had said that those who had the care of children must teach themselves before they can hope to lead others. After breakfast, she was busily engaged in writing to her sister, when Ronald came in with a very melancholy face, and stealing up to her, said in a quivering voice, 'Please, Auntie, may I send mamma's letter this time? Adelaide looked at his little pleading face, and was strongly tempted to say yes. It had once been one of her most anxious wishes, that when Ronald's parents came home, they should not be perfect strangers to their child; and for this reason she had always endeavoured to make him understand, ever since he could understand anything, that he had a dear papa and mamma in India, who loved him even better than she did, and who would be, oh! so sorry, if their little boy was naughty and passionate. She had

succeeded so well, that his greatest punishment was not to be allowed to write to them, as he often did, in Adelaide's or grandmamma's letters. He had been very busy for the last few days covering a sheet with the large, straggling letters so dear to a mother's eye, and now he earnestly and tearfully petitioned to be allowed to send it. Ade. laide had determined to be very careful before she gave way a second time to her own inclinations, so, although she longed to bring back the glad smile to his face, she refrained. He should decide for himself. The lesson of selfdenial could never be taught too early. She therefore told him that if he felt that he deserved to send the letter, he might do so; he might bring it to her, or he might wait until the next time she wrote, just as he liked. Ronald stood quite still, and became very red. For a moment Adelaide feared that he was again going to give way, but

it

was the flush of resolution, not of passion; he went steadily and quietly, without saying a word, out of the room. The sound of a sob as he shut the door went to his aunt's heart, and she was half tempted to call him back, but she hardened herself, and the letter was not

sent.

'I give you joy, my dear !' exclaimed her aunt, coming in soon afterwards. I have found the artist I spoke to you about, a Frenchman, Monsieur Simonet, very talented, and most happy to give you lessons. His terms are not high, I think. He can only come three times a week, but that, for a couple of months, will do a great deal.' Adelaide was very glad. She had been wishing to alter and improve a portrait of Ronald, which she had been doing for his mother, and she had been afraid to do so without help. She asked her aunt if she had settled

about hours.

That is the only difficulty,' said Mrs. Grant, sitting down and pulling out memoranda.

'I made a list of

his disengaged hours, and I think only one out of them all

will suit you. Tuesday, at three; Saturday, do. or five. Stay, here it is; half-past ten till twelve on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. All the other hours are in the afternoon, when you are always out.'

'Yes,' said Adelaide; 'that would never do. Directly after breakfast would be a very good time-the best, in fact. But no, I forgot;' and her countenance fell. 'Well, what is the difficulty?"

'Ronald,' said Adelaide.

'Ronald again! What of him?'

'I always have him at that time for his lessons.' 'Always! You must be romancing, or it must be a new rule, for you have often been out with me, I am sure, at that very time.'

Adelaide blushed. 'I always intended it, and I have settled it so now, for I find he does not get on unless he has a fixed time for his lessons.'

'I thought you did all that before breakfast.'

'That is only his reading and Catechism,' said Adelaide, stripping her pen of its feathers.

'Why on earth can't you change the hour?'

'He goes out directly after his breakfast until eleven, and you know there is no doing anything in the afternoon; you said so just now.'

'I should think Maria might take him just for those three days in the week.'

'Mamma! oh no! Please not to ask her. Ronald would never mind; she is too fond of him. At least, I don't mean that exactly, but she thinks that I am too strict, I believe,' said Adelaide, half-laughing. She is so anxious about him, poor mamma, and fancies it is not good for him to be at his books. No, I am afraid I must give it up. I am very sorry. If he could only come at twelve.' 'Impossible! He told me so. And really, my dear Addie, I do think you make yourself a slave to that child, and all because he is your godson. Of course you should