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 THE
TALES OF
BEEDLE
THE
BARD
Translated from the original
runes by Hermione Granger
by
J. K. ROWLING
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by the Children’s High Level Group,
45 Great Peter Street, London, SW1P 3LT,
in association with Bloomsbury Publishing Plc,
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

Text and illustrations copyright © J. K. Rowling 2007/2008

The Children’s High Level Group and the Children’s High

Level Group logo and associated logos are trademarks of
the Children’s High Level Group

The Children’s High Level Group (CHLG) is a charity established

under English law. Registered charity number 1112575

J. K. Rowling has asserted her moral rights

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying
or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 0 7475 9987 6

The paper on which this book is printed has © 1996 Forest

Stewardship Council A.C. (FSC) accreditation. The FSC promotes
environmentally appropriate, socially beneficial and economically
viable management of the world’s forests.

Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives Plc

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
 www.chlg.org
www.bloomsbury.com/beedlebard
 Introduction
The Tales of Beedle the Bard is a collection of stories written for
young wizards and witches. They have been popular bedtime
reading for centuries, with the result that the Hopping Pot and the
Fountain of Fair Fortune are as familiar to many of the students at
Hogwarts as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty are to Muggle (non-
magical) children.
Beedle’s stories resemble our fairy tales in many respects; for
instance, virtue is usually rewarded and wickedness punished.
However, there is one very obvious difference. In Muggle fairy tales,
magic tends to lie at the root of the hero or heroine’s troubles – the
wicked witch has poisoned the apple, or put the princess into a
hundred years’ sleep, or turned the prince into a hideous beast. In
The Tales of Beedle the Bard, on the other hand, we meet heroes
and heroines who can perform magic themselves, and yet find it just
as hard to solve their problems as we do. Beedle’s stories have
helped generations of wizarding parents to explain this painful fact
of life to their young children: that magic causes as much trouble as
it cures.
Another notable difference between these fables and their Muggle
counterparts is that Beedle’s witches are much more active in
seeking their fortunes than our fairy-tale heroines. Asha, Altheda,
Amata and Babbitty Rabbitty are all witches who take their fate into
their own hands, rather than taking a prolonged nap or waiting for
someone to return a lost shoe. The exception to this rule – the
unnamed maiden of “The Warlock’s Hairy Heart” – acts more like our
idea of a storybook princess, but there is no “happily ever after” at
the end of her tale.
Beedle the Bard lived in the fifteenth century and much of his life
remains shrouded in mystery. We know that he was born in
Yorkshire, and the only surviving woodcut shows that he had an
exceptionally luxuriant beard. If his stories accurately reflect his
opinions, he rather liked Muggles, whom he regarded as ignorant
rather than malevolent; he mistrusted Dark Magic, and he believed
that the worst excesses of wizardkind sprang from the all-too-human
traits of cruelty, apathy or arrogant misapplication of their own
talents. The heroes and heroines who triumph in his stories are not
those with the most powerful magic, but rather those who
demonstrate the most kindness, common sense and ingenuity.
One modern-day wizard who held very similar views was, of
course, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of
Merlin (First Class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation
of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. This similarity of
outlook notwithstanding, it was a surprise to discover a set of notes
on The Tales of Beedle the Bard among the many papers that
Dumbledore left in his will to the Hogwarts Archives. Whether this
commentary was written for his own satisfaction, or for future
publication, we shall never know; however, we have been graciously
granted permission by Professor Minerva McGonagall, now
Headmistress of Hogwarts, to print Professor Dumbledore’s notes
here, alongside a brand new translation of the tales by Hermione
Granger. We hope that Professor Dumbledore’s insights, which
include observations on wizarding history, personal reminiscences
and enlightening information on key elements of each story, will help
a new generation of both wizarding and Muggle readers appreciate
The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It is the belief of all who knew him
personally that Professor Dumbledore would have been delighted to
lend his support to this project, given that all royalties are to be
donated to the Children’s High Level Group, which works to benefit
children in desperate need of a voice.
It seems only right to make one small, additional comment on
Professor Dumbledore’s notes. As far as we can tell, the notes were
completed around eighteen months before the tragic events that
took place at the top of Hogwarts’ Astronomy Tower. Those familiar
with the history of the most recent wizarding war (everyone who has
read all seven volumes on the life of Harry Potter, for instance) will
be aware that Professor Dumbledore reveals a little less than he
knows – or suspects –about the final story in this book. The reason
for any omission lies, perhaps, in what Dumbledore said about truth,
many years ago, to his favourite and most famous pupil:

“It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be

treated with great caution.”

Whether we agree with him or not, we can perhaps excuse Professor

Dumbledore for wishing to protect future readers from the
temptations to which he himself had fallen prey, and for which he
paid so terrible a price.
J K Rowling
2008
 A Note on the Footnotes

Professor Dumbledore appears to have been writing for a wizarding

audience, so I have occasionally inserted an explanation of a term or
fact that might need clarification for Muggle readers.
JKR
The Wizard and the Hopping Pot
There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously
and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the
true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and
antidotes sprang ready-made from the little cauldron he called his
lucky cooking pot. From miles around people came to him with their
troubles, and the wizard was pleased to give his pot a stir and put
things right.
This well-beloved wizard lived to a goodly age, then died, leaving
all his chattels to his only son. This son was of a very different
disposition to his gentle father. Those who could not work magic
were, to the son’s mind, worthless, and he had often quarrelled with
his father’s habit of dispensing magical aid to their neighbours.
Upon the father’s death, the son found hidden inside the old
cooking pot a small package bearing his name. He opened it, hoping
for gold, but found instead a soft, thick slipper, much too small to
wear, and with no pair. A fragment of parchment within the slipper
bore the words “In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need
it.”
The son cursed his father’s age-softened mind, then threw the
slipper back into the cauldron, resolving to use it henceforth as a
rubbish pail.
That very night a peasant woman knocked on the front door.
“My granddaughter is afflicted by a crop of warts, sir,” she told
him. “Your father used to mix a special poultice in that old cooking
pot –”
“Begone!” cried the son. “What care I for your brat’s warts?”
And he slammed the door in the old woman’s face.
At once there came a loud clanging and banging from his kitchen.
The wizard lit his wand and opened the door, and there, to his
amazement, he saw his father’s old cooking pot: it had sprouted a
single foot of brass, and was hopping on the spot, in the middle of
the floor, making a fearful noise upon the flagstones. The wizard
approached it in wonder, but fell back hurriedly when he saw that
the whole of the pot’s surface was covered in warts.
“Disgusting object!” he cried, and he tried firstly to Vanish the pot,
then to clean it by magic, and finally to force it out of the house.
None of his spells worked, however, and he was unable to prevent
the pot hopping after him out of the kitchen, and then following him
up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair.
The wizard could not sleep all night for the banging of the warty
old pot by his bedside, and next morning the pot insisted upon
hopping after him to the breakfast table. Clang, clang, clang, went
the brass-footed pot, and the wizard had not even started his
porridge when there came another knock on the door.
An old man stood on the doorstep.
“’Tis my old donkey, sir,” he explained. “Lost, she is, or stolen, and
without her I cannot take my wares to market, and my family will go
hungry tonight.”
“And I am hungry now!” roared the wizard, and he slammed the
door upon the old man.
Clang, clang, clang, went the cooking pot’s single brass foot upon
the floor, but now its clamour was mixed with the brays of a donkey
and human groans of hunger, echoing from the depths of the pot.
“Be still. Be silent!” shrieked the wizard, but not all his magical
powers could quieten the warty pot, which hopped at his heels all
day, braying and groaning and clanging, no matter where he went or
what he did.
That evening there came a third knock upon the door, and there
on the threshold stood a young woman sobbing as though her heart
would break.
“My baby is grievously ill,” she said. “Won’t you please help us?
Your father bade me come if troubled –”
But the wizard slammed the door on her.
And now the tormenting pot filled to the brim with salt water, and
slopped tears all over the floor as it hopped, and brayed, and
groaned, and sprouted more warts.
Though no more villagers came to seek help at the wizard’s
cottage for the rest of the week, the pot kept him informed of their
many ills. Within a few days, it was not only braying and groaning
and slopping and hopping and sprouting warts, it was also choking
and retching, crying like a baby, whining like a dog, and spewing out
bad cheese and sour milk and a plague of hungry slugs.
The wizard could not sleep or eat with the pot beside him, but the
pot refused to leave, and he could not silence it or force it to be still.
At last the wizard could bear it no more.
“Bring me all your problems, all your troubles and your woes!” he
screamed, fleeing into the night, with the pot hopping behind him
along the road into the village. “Come! Let me cure you, mend you
and comfort you! I have my father’s cooking pot, and I shall make
you well!”
And with the foul pot still bounding along behind him, he ran up
the street, casting spells in every direction.
Inside one house the little girl’s warts vanished as she slept; the
lost donkey was Summoned from a distant briar patch and set down
softly in its stable; the sick baby was doused in dittany and woke,
well and rosy. At every house of sickness and sorrow, the wizard did
his best, and gradually the cooking pot beside him stopped groaning
and retching, and became quiet, shiny and clean.
“Well, Pot?” asked the trembling wizard, as the sun began to rise.
The pot burped out the single slipper he had thrown into it, and
permitted him to fit it on to the brass foot. Together, they set off
back to the wizard’s house, the pot’s footstep muffled at last. But
from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father
before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once
more.
 Albus Dumbledore on "The Wizard
and the Hopping Pot"
A kind old wizard decides to teach his hardhearted son a lesson by
giving him a taste of the local Muggles’ misery. The young wizard’s
conscience awakes, and he agrees to use his magic for the benefit of
his non-magical neighbours. A simple and heart-warming fable, one
might think – in which case, one would reveal oneself to be an
innocent nincompoop. A pro-Muggle story showing a Muggle-loving
father as superior in magic to a Muggle-hating son? It is nothing
short of amazing that any copies of the original version of this tale
survived the flames to which they were so often consigned.
Beedle was somewhat out of step with his times in preaching a
message of brotherly love for Muggles. The persecution of witches
and wizards was gathering pace all over Europe in the early fifteenth
century. Many in the magical community felt, and with good reason,
that offering to cast a spell on the Muggle-next-door’s sickly pig was
tantamount to volunteering to fetch the firewood for one’s own
funeral pyre.1 “Let the Muggles manage without us!” was the cry, as
the wizards drew further and further apart from their non-magical
brethren, culminating with the institution of the International Statute
of Wizarding Secrecy in 1689, when wizardkind voluntarily went
underground.
Children being children, however, the grotesque Hopping Pot had
taken hold of their imaginations. The solution was to jettison the
pro-Muggle moral but keep the warty cauldron, so by the middle of
the sixteenth century a different version of the tale was in wide
circulation among wizarding families. In the revised story, the
Hopping Pot protects an innocent wizard from his torch-bearing,
pitchfork-toting neighbours by chasing them away from the wizard’s
cottage, catching them and swallowing them whole. At the end of
the story, by which time the Pot has consumed most of his
neighbours, the wizard gains a promise from the few remaining
villagers that he will be left in peace to practise magic. In return, he
instructs the Pot to render up its victims, who are duly burped out of
its depths, slightly mangled. To this day, some wizarding children are
only told the revised version of the story by their (generally anti-
Muggle) parents, and the original, if and when they ever read it,
comes as a great surprise.
As I have already hinted, however, its pro-Muggle sentiment was
not the only reason that “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot” attracted
anger. As the witch-hunts grew ever fiercer, wizarding families began
to live double lives, using charms of concealment to protect
themselves and their families. By the seventeenth century, any witch
or wizard who chose to fraternise with Muggles became suspect,
even an outcast in his or her own community. Among the many
insults hurled at pro-Muggle witches and wizards (such fruity
epithets as “Mudwallower”, “Dunglicker” and “Scumsucker” date
from this period), was the charge of having weak or inferior magic.
Influential wizards of the day, such as Brutus Malfoy, editor of
Warlock at War, an anti-Muggle periodical, perpetuated the
stereotype that a Muggle-lover was about as magical as a Squib.2 In
1675, Brutus wrote:

This we may state with certainty: any wizard who shows

fondness for the society of Muggles is of low intelligence, with
magic so feeble and pitiful that he can only feel himself superior
if surrounded by Muggle pigmen.
Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-
magical company.

This prejudice eventually died out in the face of overwhelming

evidence that some of the world’s most brilliant wizards3 were, to
use the common phrase, “Muggle-lovers”.
The final objection to “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot” remains
alive in certain quarters today. It was summed up best, perhaps, by
Beatrix Bloxam (1794-1910), author of the infamous Toadstool Tales.
Mrs Bloxam believed that The Tales of Beedle the Bard were
damaging to children because of what she called “their unhealthy
preoccupation with the most horrid subjects, such as death, disease,
bloodshed, wicked magic, unwholesome characters and bodily
effusions and eruptions of the most disgusting kind”. Mrs Bloxam
took a variety of old stories, including several of Beedle’s, and
rewrote them according to her ideals, which she expressed as “filling
the pure minds of our little angels with healthy, happy thoughts,
keeping their sweet slumber free of wicked dreams and protecting
the precious flower of their innocence”.
The final paragraph of Mrs Bloxam’s pure and precious reworking
of “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot” reads:

Then the little golden pot danced with delight – hoppitty

hoppitty hop! – on its tiny rosy toes! Wee Willykins had cured all
the dollies of their poorly tum-tums, and the little pot was so
happy that it filled up with sweeties for Wee Willykins and the
dollies!
“But don’t forget to brush your teethy-pegs!” cried the pot.
And Wee Willykins kissed and huggled the hoppitty pot and
promised always to help the dollies and never to be an old
grumpy-wumpkins again.

Mrs Bloxam’s tale has met the same response from generations of
wizarding children: uncontrollable retching, followed by an
immediate demand to have the book taken from them and mashed
into pulp.
 The Fountain of Fair Fortune
High on a hill in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and
protected by strong magic, flowed the Fountain of Fair Fortune.
Once a year, between the hours of sunrise and sunset on the
longest day, a single unfortunate was given the chance to fight their
way to the Fountain, bathe in its waters and receive Fair Fortune for
evermore.
On the appointed day, hundreds of people travelled from all over
the kingdom to reach the garden walls before dawn. Male and
female, rich and poor, young and old, of magical means and without,
they gathered in the darkness, each hoping that they would be the
one to gain entrance to the garden.
Three witches, each with her burden of woe, met on the outskirts
of the crowd, and told one another their sorrows as they waited for
sunrise.
The first, by name Asha, was sick of a malady no Healer could
cure. She hoped that the Fountain would banish her symptoms and
grant her a long and happy life.
The second, by name Altheda, had been robbed of her home, her
gold and her wand by an evil sorcerer. She hoped that the Fountain
might relieve her of powerlessness and poverty.
The third, by name Amata, had been deserted by a man whom
she loved dearly, and she thought her heart would never mend. She
hoped that the Fountain would relieve her of her grief and longing.
Pitying each other, the three women agreed that, should the
chance befall them, they would unite and try to reach the Fountain
together.
The sky was rent with the first ray of sun, and a chink in the wall
opened. The crowd surged forward, each of them shrieking their
claim for the Fountain’s benison. Creepers from the garden beyond
snaked through the pressing mass, and twisted themselves around
the first witch, Asha. She grasped the wrist of the second witch,
Altheda, who seized tight upon the robes of the third witch, Amata.
And Amata became caught upon the armour of a dismal-looking
knight who was seated on a bone-thin horse.
The creepers tugged the three witches through the chink in the
wall, and the knight was dragged off his steed after them.
The furious screams of the disappointed throng rose upon the
morning air, then fell silent as the garden walls sealed once more.
Asha and Altheda were angry with Amata, who had accidentally
brought along the knight.
“Only one can bathe in the Fountain! It will be hard enough to
decide which of us it will be, without adding another!”
Now, Sir Luckless, as the knight was known in the land outside the
walls, observed that these were witches, and, having no magic, nor
any great skill at jousting or duelling with swords, nor anything that
distinguished the non-magical man, was sure that he had no hope of
beating the three women to the Fountain. He therefore declared his
intention of withdrawing outside the walls again.
At this, Amata became angry too.
“Faint heart!” she chided him. “Draw your sword, Knight, and help
us reach our goal!”
And so the three witches and the forlorn knight ventured forth into
the enchanted garden, where rare herbs, fruit and flowers grew in
abundance on either side of the sunlit paths. They met no obstacle
until they reached the foot of the hill on which the Fountain stood.
There, however, wrapped around the base of the hill, was a
monstrous white Worm, bloated and blind. At their approach, it
turned a foul face upon them, and uttered the following words:

“Pay me the proof of your pain.”

Sir Luckless drew his sword and attempted to kill the beast, but his
blade snapped. Then Altheda cast rocks at the Worm, while Asha
and Amata essayed every spell that might subdue or entrance it, but
the power of their wands was no more effective than their friend’s
stone, or the knight’s steel: the Worm would not let them pass.
 The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and Asha, despairing,
began to weep.
Then the great Worm placed its face upon hers and drank the
tears from her cheeks. Its thirst assuaged, the Worm slithered aside,
and vanished into a hole in the ground.
Rejoicing at the Worm’s disappearance, the three witches and the
knight began to climb the hill, sure that they would reach the
Fountain before noon.
Halfway up the steep slope, however, they came across words cut
into the ground before them.

Pay me the fruit of your labours.

Sir Luckless took out his only coin, and placed it upon the grassy
hillside, but it rolled away and was lost. The three witches and the
knight continued to climb, but though they walked for hours more,
they advanced not a step; the summit came no nearer, and still the
inscription lay in the earth before them.
All were discouraged as the sun rose over their heads and began
to sink towards the far horizon, but Altheda walked faster and harder
than any of them, and exhorted the others to follow her example,
though she moved no further up the enchanted hill.
“Courage, friends, and do not yield!” she cried, wiping the sweat
from her brow.
As the drops fell glittering on to the earth, the inscription blocking
their path vanished, and they found that they were able to move
upwards once more.
Delighted by the removal of this second obstacle, they hurried
towards the summit as fast as they could, until at last they glimpsed
the Fountain, glittering like crystal in a bower of flowers and trees.
Before they could reach it, however, they came to a stream that
ran round the hilltop, barring their way. In the depths of the clear
water lay a smooth stone bearing the words:

Pay me the treasure of your past.

Sir Luckless attempted to float across the stream on his shield, but it
sank. The three witches pulled him from the water, then tried to leap
the brook themselves, but it would not let them cross, and all the
while the sun was sinking lower in the sky.
So they fell to pondering the meaning of the stone’s message, and
Amata was the first to understand. Taking her wand, she drew from
her mind all the memories of happy times she had spent with her
vanished lover, and dropped them into the rushing waters. The
stream swept them away, and stepping stones appeared, and the
three witches and the knight were able to pass at last on to the
summit of the hill.
The Fountain shimmered before them, set amidst herbs and
flowers rarer and more beautiful than any they had yet seen. The
sky burned ruby, and it was time to decide which of them would
bathe.
Before they could make their decision, however, frail Asha fell to
the ground. Exhausted by their struggle to the summit, she was
close to death.
Her three friends would have carried her to the Fountain, but Asha
was in mortal agony and begged them not to touch her.
Then Altheda hastened to pick all those herbs she thought most
hopeful, and mixed them in Sir Luckless’s gourd of water, and
poured the potion into Asha’s mouth.
At once, Asha was able to stand. What was more, all symptoms of
her dread malady had vanished.
“I am cured!” she cried. “I have no need of the Fountain – let
Altheda bathe!”
But Altheda was busy collecting more herbs in her apron.
“If I can cure this disease, I shall earn gold aplenty! Let Amata
bathe!”
Sir Luckless bowed, and gestured Amata towards the Fountain,
but she shook her head. The stream had washed away all regret for
her lover, and she saw now that he had been cruel and faithless, and
that it was happiness enough to be rid of him.
“Good sir, you must bathe, as a reward for all your chivalry!” she
told Sir Luckless.
 So the knight clanked forth in the last rays of the setting sun, and
bathed in the Fountain of Fair Fortune, astonished that he was the
chosen one of hundreds and giddy with his incredible luck.
As the sun fell below the horizon, Sir Luckless emerged from the
waters with the glory of his triumph upon him, and flung himself in
his rusted armour at the feet of Amata, who was the kindest and
most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Flushed with success, he
begged for her hand and her heart, and Amata, no less delighted,
realised that she had found a man worthy of them.
The three witches and the knight set off down the hill together,
arm in arm, and all four led long and happy lives, and none of them
ever knew or suspected that the Fountain’s waters carried no
enchantment at all.
Albus Dumbledore on “The Fountain
of Fair Fortune”
“The Fountain of Fair Fortune” is a perennial favourite, so much so
that it was the subject of the sole attempt to introduce a Christmas
pantomime to Hogwarts’ festive celebrations.
Our then Herbology master, Professor Herbert Beery,4 an
enthusiastic devotee of amateur dramatics, proposed an adaptation
of this well-beloved children’s tale as a Yuletide treat for staff and
students. I was then a young Transfiguration teacher, and Herbert
assigned me to “special effects”, which included providing a fully
functioning Fountain of Fair Fortune and a miniature grassy hill, up
which our three heroines and hero would appear to march, while it
sank slowly into the stage and out of sight.
I think I may say, without vanity, that both my Fountain and my
Hill performed the parts allotted to them with simple goodwill. Alas,
that the same could not be said of the rest of the cast. Ignoring for
a moment the antics of the gigantic “Worm” provided by our Care of
Magical Creatures teacher, Professor Silvanus Kettleburn, the human
element proved disastrous to the show. Professor Beery, in his role
of director, had been dangerously oblivious to the emotional
entanglements seething under his very nose. Little did he know that
the students playing Amata and Sir Luckless had been boyfriend and
girlfriend until one hour before the curtain rose, at which point “Sir
Luckless” transferred his affections to “Asha”.
Suffice it to say that our seekers after Fair Fortune never made it
to the top of the Hill. The curtain had barely risen when Professor
Kettleburn’s “Worm” – now revealed to be an Ashwinder5 with an
Engorgement Charm upon it – exploded in a shower of hot sparks
and dust, filling the Great Hall with smoke and fragments of scenery.
While the enormous fiery eggs it had laid at the foot of my Hill
ignited the floorboards, “Amata” and “Asha” turned upon each other,
duelling so fiercely that Professor Beery was caught in the crossfire,
and staff had to evacuate the Hall, as the inferno now raging
onstage threatened to engulf the place. The night’s entertainment
concluded with a packed hospital wing; it was several months before
the Great Hall lost its pungent aroma of wood smoke, and even
longer before Professor Beery’s head reassumed its normal
proportions, and Professor Kettleburn was taken off probation.6
Headmaster Armando Dippet imposed a blanket ban on future
pantomimes, a proud non-theatrical tradition that Hogwarts
continues to this day.
Our dramatic fiasco notwithstanding, “The Fountain of Fair
Fortune” is probably the most popular of Beedle’s tales, although,
just like “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot”, it has its detractors.
More than one parent has demanded the removal of this particular
tale from the Hogwarts library, including, by coincidence, a
descendant of Brutus Malfoy and one-time member of the Hogwarts
Board of Governors, Mr Lucius Malfoy. Mr Malfoy submitted his
demand for a ban on the story in writing:

Any work of fiction or non-fiction that depicts interbreeding

between wizards and Muggles should be banned from the
bookshelves of Hogwarts. I do not wish my son to be influenced
into sullying the purity of his bloodline by reading stories that
promote wizard–Muggle marriage.

My refusal to remove the book from the library was backed by a

majority of the Board of Governors. I wrote back to Mr Malfoy,
explaining my decision:

So-called pure-blood families maintain their alleged purity by

disowning, banishing or lying about Muggles or Muggle-borns
on their family trees. They then attempt to foist their hypocrisy
upon the rest of us by asking us to ban works dealing with the
truths they deny. There is not a witch or wizard in existence
 whose blood has not mingled with that of Muggles, and I should
therefore consider it both illogical and immoral to remove works
dealing with the subject from our students’ store of knowledge.7

This exchange marked the beginning of Mr Malfoy’s long campaign

to have me removed from my post as Headmaster of Hogwarts, and
of mine to have him removed from his position as Lord Voldemort’s
Favourite Death Eater.
 The Warlock’s Hairy Heart
There was once a handsome, rich and talented young warlock, who
observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love,
gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The
young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and
employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity.
Unaware of his secret, the warlock’s family laughed to see him so
aloof and cold.
“All will change,” they prophesied, “when a maid catches his
fancy!”
But the young warlock’s fancy remained untouched. Though many
a maiden was intrigued by his haughty mien, and employed her
most subtle arts to please him, none succeeded in touching his
heart. The warlock gloried in his indifference and the sagacity that
had produced it.
The first freshness of youth waned, and the warlock’s peers began
to wed, and then to bring forth children.
“Their hearts must be husks,” he sneered inwardly, as he observed
the antics of the young parents around him, “shrivelled by the
demands of these mewling offspring!”
And once again he congratulated himself upon the wisdom of his
early choice.
In due course, the warlock’s aged parents died. Their son did not
mourn them; on the contrary, he considered himself blessed by their
demise. Now he reigned alone in their castle. Having transferred his
greatest treasure to the deepest dungeon, he gave himself over to a
life of ease and plenty, his comfort the only aim of his many
servants.
The warlock was sure that he must be an object of immense envy
to all who beheld his splendid and untroubled solitude. Fierce were
his anger and chagrin, therefore, when he overheard two of his
lackeys discussing their master one day.
The first servant expressed pity for the warlock who, with all his
wealth and power, was yet beloved by nobody.
But his companion jeered, asking why a man with so much gold
and a palatial castle to his name had been unable to attract a wife.
Their words dealt dreadful blows to the listening warlock’s pride.
He resolved at once to take a wife, and that she would be a wife
superior to all others. She would possess astounding beauty, exciting
envy and desire in every man who beheld her; she would spring
from magical lineage, so that their offspring would inherit
outstanding magical gifts; and she would have wealth at least equal
to his own, so that his comfortable existence would be assured, in
spite of additions to his household.
It might have taken the warlock fifty years to find such a woman,
yet it so happened that the very day after he decided to seek her, a
maiden answering his every wish arrived in the neighbourhood to
visit her kinsfolk.
She was a witch of prodigious skill and possessed of much gold.
Her beauty was such that it tugged at the heart of every man who
set eyes on her; of every man, that is, except one. The warlock’s
heart felt nothing at all. Nevertheless, she was the prize he sought,
so he began to pay her court.
All who noticed the warlock’s change in manners were amazed,
and told the maiden that she had succeeded where a hundred had
failed.
The young woman herself was both fascinated and repelled by the
warlock’s attentions. She sensed the coldness that lay behind the
warmth of his flattery, and had never met a man so strange and
remote. Her kinsfolk, however, deemed theirs a most suitable match
and, eager to promote it, accepted the warlock’s invitation to a great
feast in the maiden’s honour.
The table was laden with silver and gold bearing the finest wines
and most sumptuous foods. Minstrels strummed on silk-stringed
lutes and sang of a love their master had never felt. The maiden sat
upon a throne beside the warlock, who spake low, employing words
of tenderness he had stolen from the poets, without any idea of
their true meaning.
The maiden listened, puzzled, and finally replied, “You speak well,
Warlock, and I would be delighted by your attentions, if only I
thought you had a heart!”
The warlock smiled, and told her that she need not fear on that
score. Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast, and down to the
locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure.
Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock’s beating
heart.
Long since disconnected from eyes, ears and fingers, it had never
fallen prey to beauty, or to a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin.
The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was
shrunken and covered in long black hair.
“Oh, what have you done?” she lamented. “Put it back where it
belongs, I beseech you!”
Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his
wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and
replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied.
“Now you are healed and will know true love!” cried the maiden,
and she embraced him.
The touch of her soft white arms, the sound of her breath in his
ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened
heart like spears. But it had grown strange during its long exile,
blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned,
and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse.
The guests at the feast had noticed the absence of their host and
the maiden. At first untroubled, they grew anxious as the hours
passed, and finally began to search the castle.
They found the dungeon at last, and a most dreadful sight
awaited them there.
The maiden lay dead upon the floor, her breast cut open, and
beside her crouched the mad warlock, holding in one bloody hand a
great, smooth, shining scarlet heart, which he licked and stroked,
vowing to exchange it for his own.
 In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his own
chest the shrivelled, hairy heart. But the hairy heart was stronger
than he was, and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or to
return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long.
Before the horror-struck eyes of his guests, the warlock cast aside
his wand, and seized a silver dagger. Vowing never to be mastered
by his own heart, he hacked it from his chest.
For one moment, the warlock knelt triumphant, with a heart
clutched in each hand; then he fell across the maiden’s body, and
died.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
body; a projection from the thoracic side-pieces, forming a long
pouch, into which a fold on the inner side of the elytra fits, the two
being subsequently locked by the action of some special projections.
This arrangement is similar to that which exists in the anomalous
family of water-beetles Pelobiidae. In order to make this mechanism
more perfect the side-pieces in Belostoma form free processes.
Martin has informed us that the young have the metasternal
episternum prolonged to form a lamella that he thinks may be for
respiratory purposes.[499] About twelve genera and upwards of fifty
species of Belostomidae are known. None exist in our isles, but
several species extend their range to Southern Europe. In the waters
of the warm regions of the continents of both the Old and New
Worlds they are common Insects, but as yet they have not been
found in Australia.

Fam. 24. Notonectidae.—Prosternum short, so that the legs are

placed near the back part of it as well as near the front; back of the
head overlapped by the front of the pronotum.—The water-boatmen
are extremely common in our ponds, where they may be seen rising
to the surface and raising the posterior extremity of the body for
breathing. They swim on their backs instead of in the usual position,
and have an elaborate arrangement of long hairs on the body to
assist them to carry about an air-supply. They are said to be lighter
than the water, and to have some difficulty in keeping away from the
surface. Notonecta glauca is the only British species, but we have a
second minute Insect, Plea minutissima, belonging to the family. It
lies in the mud at the bottom of shallow waters, and may sometimes
be fished up in great numbers. It is considered by some authors to
form a distinct family. The oviposition of Notonecta has been
observed by Regimbart; the eggs are inserted into the stems of
aquatic plants.

Fam. 25. Corixidae.—Prosternum short, as in Notonectidae; summit

of the head free from the thorax.—We have numerous species of the
genus Corixa in Britain; and others extremely similar in appearance
occur in various parts of the world. The head is remarkably free, and
capable of great rotation. On dissection it is found to be attached to
the thorax only by a narrow area; in this respect it differs widely from
Notonecta, which possesses an extremely large occipital foramen,
and the head of which possesses but little freedom of movement.
The extremely short proboscis is more or less retractile, and
therefore frequently appears absent. A second British genus consists
of a single species, Sigara minutissima. These Insects, unlike
Notonecta, are quite at home beneath the water, where they scurry
about with extreme rapidity, and occur sometimes in enormous
numbers. In Mexico the eggs of Corixa americana and of C.
femorata are used as food, and are said to be very nice. The Insects
themselves are used as food in both Mexico and Egypt. The species
of this family can make a noise beneath the water by rubbing the
front feet against the proboscis.[500] The males have a very complex
asymmetry of the terminal segments, and in some species possess
on one side of the dorsal surface a curious asymmetrical organ
consisting of rows of very closely-packed, intensely black, comb-like
plates, called by Buchanan White a strigil. This organ seems to be
similar to the peculiar structures found on the terminal segments of
certain species of Scutellerides.

Sub-Order II. Homoptera.[501]

Fam. 1. Cicadidae.—Head with three ocelli, placed triangularly on

the summit between the compound eyes; antennae consisting of a
short basal joint, surmounted by a hair-like process divided into
about five segments. Front femora more or less thick, armed with
teeth. Peduncle (or basal joints) of antennae without sensitive
organs.—This important family consists chiefly of large Insects, few
being as small as one inch across the expanded wings, while in
some the expanse is as much as seven inches. As a rule the four
wings are transparent and shining, with the nervures remarkably
distinct and dark coloured; but there are numerous forms where the
whole creature, including the wings, is highly pigmented in a showy
manner; frequently in black and yellow. Cicadas are said to be
without any special protection, and to be destroyed in considerable
numbers by birds and other animals. The body is broad and robust,
and is never shaped into the extravagant forms we meet with in
some of the other families of Homoptera.

Fig. 280—Cicada septendecim. North America. (After Riley.) A, Larva;

B, nymph; C, nymph skin after emergence of the imago, D; E,
section of twig with series of eggs; F, two eggs magnified.

Cicadidae are almost confined to the warmer regions of the earth,

but we have one species, a great rarity, in the extreme south of
England; altogether there are about 800 species known. These
Insects are seen above ground—so far as the life-histories are at
present known—only in the perfect condition, the creatures in their
earlier stages being subterranean and living on roots. As soon as the
individual comes out of the ground it splits open the nymph-skin, and
the perfect Cicada emerges. One species—the North American
Cicada septendecim—is a most notorious Insect owing to its life-
cycle of seventeen years. It is considered that the individual, after
nearly seventeen years of underground existence, comes to the
surface and lives for a brief period the life of a noisy Insect. This is
the only Insect at present known having so considerable a longevity.
This fact, and several other peculiarities, have attracted much
attention, so that there is an extensive literature connected with the
seventeen-year Cicada. It has a wide distribution over the United
States, but does not confine its appearance to every seventeenth
year, being found somewhere or other—frequently in numerous
localities—almost every year. The evidence as to its periodicity has
been obtained by taking the locality and other points into
consideration as well as the year of appearance. By so doing it has
been found possible to establish the existence of twenty-two broods
which are distinguished by consecutive numeration. This being done,
the evidence as to the years during which Cicadas have appeared in
any given locality is examined, and the result is believed to bear out
the view that the life-cycle of the individual Insect is really one of
seventeen years. According to this view there are, underground, in
certain localities individuals of different ages that will appear on the
surface as mature individuals in different years. Thus in 1885 it was
understood that there were underground in Alabama two broods, viz.
brood xviii. that would appear on the surface in 1894, and brood iv.
that would appear on the surface in 1896. The predictions made as
to the years in which Cicadas would appear in some given locality
are considered to have proved correct. Moreover, particular
entomologists have in certain localities verified by personal
examination the appearance of the Insects for several consecutive
periods of seventeen years. These facts appear fairly conclusive, but
they are much complicated by another point, viz. that in certain
localities the period is one of thirteen, not of seventeen, years. This
is to some extent a question of climate, the thirteen-year interval
being chiefly characteristic of the Southern States. It is not, however,
entirely so, for there are localities in which the broods have an
interval of either thirteen years or seventeen years. Another fact
should be remembered, viz. that it is admitted that not quite all the
individuals of a particular brood are true to their proper time of
appearance; in other words, a few specimens may appear
precociously a year or two before their comrades, while some may
lag behind to a considerable extent. It is therefore a matter for great
surprise that, under these circumstances, the broods should keep
distinct at all, for one would suppose that time-variation of this kind
would lead to completely obscuring the distinctness of the broods.
We must also call attention to the fact that both the seventeen-year
and the thirteen-year broods have a dimorphic form, or sub-species,
called C. cassinii which accompanies the ordinary form, with which it
is apparently as a rule not connected by intermediates.[502]
Cicadidae are provided with powerful ovipositors. The eggs of C.
septendecim are deposited in the woody stems of bushes; after
remaining there a few weeks the young hatch out, drop to the
ground, and, as previously stated, disappear for nearly seventeen
years, nearly the whole of which time is passed in the larval state,
the nymph-condition existing for only a few days. They feed on the
roots of various trees; it has been said that they are injurious in this
way, but other authorities maintain that they suck only a moist
exudation from the roots. It is very difficult to obtain information as to
their strange, prolonged, subterranean life; it said that the Insects
sometimes penetrate to a great depth—ten feet, even twenty feet are
mentioned;—and as great changes may take place on the surface
during their long lives, these Insect Rip Van Winkles sometimes
emerge in very strange conditions, and may appear even in deep
cellars. When the pupa comes to the surface it hooks itself on to the
stem of some plant or other object, the skin of the back splits, and
the Cicada emerges. Among the inexplicable peculiarities of this
Insect must be mentioned the fact that when emerging it sometimes
constructs chimneys, or flues, extending several inches above the
surface of the ground. The reason for this is much disputed; it was
said that they are for refuge against inundations, but this appears to
be very doubtful. Certain of the broods consist of an almost
incalculable number of individuals, and it is very strange to hear
woods, or other localities, that have been for many years free from
these Insects, all at once resounding with their noisy song. The
seventeen-year Cicada is considered to be doomed to a speedy
extinction; the extension of cultivation and building, and the
introduction to America of the English sparrow, are likely to prove too
much for the Insect.

Although Hemiptera are classified by many among the Ametabola or

Insects without metamorphosis, it is impossible to deny that the
Cicadidae exhibit a considerable amount of metamorphosis, and
they are usually mentioned as exceptional. The young (Fig. 280, A)
is totally unlike the adult in form and colour, and maintains, to a
certain extent, its existence by the aid of a different set of
implements. The larva of the Cicada is colourless, with an
integument of very feeble consistence, rather large antennae, and a
remarkable pair of fossorial legs; the wings are totally wanting. The
mode of passage from the larval to the pupal state has not been
recorded. The pupa, or nymph, differs from the larva by its much
shorter, compressed form; by being encased in a remarkably hard
shell; and by the antennae approximating in form to those of the
adult. It has short wing-pads at the sides of the body; the front legs
are remarkably powerful, and the creature is capable of moving
about; the imago escapes from the pupa by the splitting dorsally of
the middle of the thoracic segments. The empty pupa-skin does not
shrivel, but retains its form, and in countries where Cicadas occur,
frequently attracts attention by the strange form it presents, being
often placed in a conspicuous position.

Song.—Cicadas are the most noisy of the Insect world; the shrilling
of grasshoppers and even of crickets being insignificant in
comparison with the voice of Cicada. Darwin heard them in South
America when the Beagle was anchored a quarter of a mile from the
shore; and Tympanoterpes gigas, from the same region, is said to
make a noise equal to the whistle of a locomotive.[503] A curious
difference of opinion prevails as to whether their song is agreeable
or not; in some countries they are kept in cages, while in others they
are considered a nuisance. The Greeks are said to have decided in
favour of their performances, the Latins against them. Only the
males sing, the females being completely dumb; this has given rise
to a saying by a Greek poet (so often repeated that it bids fair to
become immortal) "Happy the Cicadas' lives, for they all have
voiceless wives."[504] The writer considers the songs of the
European species he has heard far from unpleasant, but he is an
entomologist, and therefore favourably prepossessed; and he admits
that Riley's description of the performances of the seventeen-year
Cicada is far from a satisfactory testimonial to the good taste of that
Insect; Riley says, "The general noise, on approaching the infested
woods, is a combination of that of a distant threshing-machine and a
distant frog-pond. That which they make when disturbed, mimics a
nest of young snakes or young birds under similar circumstances—a
sort of scream. They can also produce a chirp somewhat like that of
a cricket and a very loud, shrill screech prolonged for fifteen or
twenty seconds, and gradually increasing in force and then
decreasing." The object, or use of the noise is very doubtful; it is said
that it attracts the females to the males. "De gustibus non est
disputandum!" perhaps, however, there may be some tender notes
that we fail to perceive; and it may be that the absence of any
definite organs of hearing reduces the result of a steam-engine
whistle to the equivalent of an agreeable whisper. No special
auditory organs have been detected[505] as we have already
intimated; and certain naturalists, amongst whom we may mention
Giard, think that the Insects do not hear in our sense of the word, but
feel rhythmical vibrations; it is also recorded that though very shy the
Insects may be induced to approach any one who will stand still and
clap his hands—in good measure—within the range of their
sensibilities. There is a good deal of support to the idea that the
males sing in rivalry.

Vocal structures.—Although we may not be able to pronounce a

final opinion as to the value to the Insect of the sounds, yet we
cannot withhold our admiration from the structures from which they
proceed. These are indeed so complex that they must be ranked as
amongst the most remarkable voice-organs in the animal kingdom.
They are totally different from the stridulating organs that are found
in many other Insects, and are indeed quite peculiar to the
Cicadidae. Some difference of opinion has existed as to the manner
in which the structures act, but the account given by Carlet, some of
whose figures we reproduce, will, we believe, be found to be
essentially correct. The structures are partly thoracic and partly
abdominal. On examining a male Cicada there will be seen on the
under surface two plates—the opercula—usually meeting in the
middle line of the body and overlapping the base of the abdomen to
a greater or less extent according to the species, sometimes nearly
covering this part of the body; these are enlargements of the
metathoracic epimera; they can be slightly moved away from the
abdomen, and, as the latter part is capable of a still greater extent of
movement, a wide fissure may be produced, displaying the complex
structures. In order to see the parts it is better to cut away an
operculum; underneath it three membranes can be seen, an
external, the timbal; an anterior, the folded or soft membrane; and a
posterior, the mirror. This last is a most beautiful object, tensely
stretched and pellucid, yet reflecting light so as to be of varied
colours; there are also three stigmata, and some chambers
connected with the apparatus. The sound is primarily produced by
the vibrations of the timbal, to which a muscle is attached; the other
membranes are probably also thrown into a condition of vibration,
and the whole skeleton of the Insect helps to increase or modify the
sound, which is probably also influenced by the position of the
opercula. The stigmata probably play an important part by regulating
the tension of the air in the chambers. In the female some of the
structures are present in a rudimentary form, but there are no
muscles, and this sex appears to be really quite voiceless.

Fig. 281.—Musical apparatus of Cicada plebeia. (After Carlet.) A,

Ventral view (Operculum on right side is removed); ap, apophysis;
C, cavern; c, trochantin (cheville of Réaumur); ent, part of internal
skeleton of abdomen; mi, specular membrane; m.pl, soft or folded
membrane; P, base of leg; st, st′, st″, stigmata; t, drum "timbale";
v, operculum; 1a, first, 2a, second abdominal segment: B, same
seen laterally, portion of abdominal wall as well as operculum
removed; A, point of insertion of hind wing; Mes, mesothorax; sc,
scutum of metathorax; 3a, third abdominal segment; rest as in A.

Fam. 2. Fulgoridae.—Ocelli two (rarely three, or entirely obsolete),

placed beneath the eyes or near the eyes, usually in cavities of the
cheeks, antennae placed beneath the eyes, very variable in form;
usually of two joints terminated by a very fine hair, the second joint
with a peculiar texture of the surface, owing to the existence of
sensitive structures (Hansen). Form of head very diverse; vertex and
face forming either a continuous curve, or the planes of the vertex
and face forming an acute angle, or both prolonged so as to form a
projection or growth that may be monstrous. Prothorax neither
armed nor unusually developed.

Fig. 282—Fulgora candelaria. × 1. China.

This family is of large extent, and includes at present so great a

variety of forms that it is really almost impossible to frame a definition
that will apply to all. The unusual situation of the ocelli and the
peculiar second joint of the antennae must at present be taken as
the best diagnostic characters: occasionally a third ocellus is
present. Some of the Fulgoridae are amongst the largest Insects,
others are quite small. The family includes the so-called Lantern-
flies, in which the front of the head forms a huge misshapen
proboscis that was formerly believed to be luminous. Many of the
species are of brilliant or beautiful coloration. A great many—and of
very different kinds—have the curious power of excreting large
quantities of a white, flocculent wax. This is exhibited by our little
British Insects of the genus Cixius, and in some of the exotic forms is
carried to an extent that becomes a biological puzzle. The Tropical
American genus Phenax may be cited as an example; being about
an inch long it flies about with a large mass of this waxy substance
twice as long as itself; indeed, in the Mexican P. auricoma, the waxy
processes are four or five inches long. This wax forms a favourite
food of certain kinds of Lepidoptera, and two or three larvae of a
maggot-like nature may frequently be found concealed in the wax of
the live Fulgorids; this has been recorded by Westwood as occurring
in India; and Champion has observed it in the New World.[506] The
wax of Fulgorids is used by the Chinese for candles and other
purposes; and this white Insect-wax is said to be much esteemed in
India. Very curious chemical substances have been obtained from it,
but its importance in the economy of the Insects that produce it is
quite obscure. We have about seventy species of Fulgoridae in
Britain. They belong to the subfamilies Tettigometrides, Issides,
Cixiides, and Delphacides, which by many authors are treated as
separate families. The exotic subfamily Flatides is highly peculiar. In
some of its members the head is very different from that of the
ordinary forms, being narrow, and the vertex and front forming a
continuous curve. Some of these Insects are remarkably like
butterflies or moths (e.g. the African Ityraea nigrocincta and the
species of the genus Pochazia), but the young are totally unlike the
old, the posterior part of the body bearing a large bush of curled,
waxy projections, several times the size of the rest of the body.

Fig. 283—A, B, Heteronotus trinodosus. A, Male seen from above; B,

profile of female; a, terminal part of pronotum; b, terminal part of
abdomen: C, front view of head and pronotum of Cyphonia
clavata. Both species from Central America. (From Biol. Centr.
Amer. Rhynch. Homopt. II.)

Fam. 3. Membracidae.—Prothorax prolonged backwards into a

hood or processes of diverse forms; antennae inserted in front of the
eyes; ocelli two, placed between the two eyes.—This family is of
large extent but its members are chiefly tropical, and are specially
abundant in America. Although not of large size the Membracidae
are unsurpassed for the variety and grotesqueness of their shapes,
due to the unusual development of the pronotum. We figure two of
these forms (Fig. 283).[507] Very little is known about their habits and
life-histories. We have only two species of the family in Britain, and
these do not afford any ground for supposing that there are any
peculiarities in their lives at all commensurate with the oddness of
the Insect's structures. Belt has recorded the fact that in Nicaragua
the larvae of certain Homoptera were assiduously attended by ants
for the sake of a sweet juice excreted by the bugs, but it is by no
means clear that these larvae were really those of Membracidae. In
North America Ceresa bubalus and C. taurina place their eggs in an
extremely neat manner in the woody twigs of trees. The young have
but little resemblance to the adults, the great thoracic hood being
absent, while on the back there is on each segment a pair of long,
sub-erect processes having fringed, or minutely spiny, margins.[508]

Fam. 4. Cercopidae.—Ocelli two (occasionally absent) placed on

the vertex; antennae placed between the eyes. Thorax not peculiarly
formed.—In the characteristic forms of this family the front of the
vertex bears a suture, touched on each side by one at right angles to
it, or converging to it so as to form a triangle or a sort of embrasure;
the hind tibiae have only one to three strong spines. The Cercopidae
are much less extraordinary than many of the previously considered
families. But some of them have the habit of secreting a large
quantity of fluid; and when in the immature stages, certain of them
have the art of emitting the liquid in the form of bubbles which
accumulate round the Insect and conceal it. These accumulations of
fluid are called cuckoo-spits or frog-spits; and the perfect Insects are
known as frog-hoppers, their power of leaping being very great. The
most abundant of the frog-hoppers in our gardens is Philaenus
spumarius, a little Insect of about a quarter of an inch long, obscurely
coloured, with more or less definite pale spots; it is so variable in
colour that it has received scores of names. Some of the Insects do
not use their fluid in this manner, but eject it in the form of drops, and
sometimes cast them to a considerable distance. The phenomena
known as weeping-trees are due to Cercopidae; some of the species
make such copious exudations of this kind that the drops have been
compared to a shower of rain. In Madagascar it is said that Ptyelus
goudoti exudes so much fluid that five or six dozen larvae would
about fill a quart vessel in an hour and a half. The frog-spit is
considered by some naturalists to be a protective device; the larvae
are, however, a favourite food with certain Hymenoptera, which pick
out the larvae from the spits and carry them off to be used as stores
of provision for their larvae. In Ceylon the larva of Machaerota
guttigera constructs tubes fixed to the twigs of the tulip-tree, and
from the tube water is exuded drop by drop. According to Westwood,
this Insect is intermediate between Cercopidae and Membracidae.
[509]

Fam. 5. Jassidae.—Ocelli two, placed just on the front margin of the

head (almost in a line with the front of the eyes or more to the front)
or on the deflexed frons. Hind tibiae usually with many spines. This
vaguely limited family includes a very large number of small or
minute Insects, usually of narrow, parallel form, and frequently
excessively delicate and fragile. They are often mentioned under the
name of Cicadellinae. Ashmead distinguishes two families,
Bythoscopidae, in which the ocelli are clearly on the frons or front,
and Jassidae, in which they are on the upper edge thereof. Ulopa,
Ledra, and a few other exceptional forms, are also by many
distinguished as representatives of distinct families. Very little is
actually known as to the life-histories of these small and fragile
Insects, but it is believed that the eggs are usually deposited in the
leaves or stems of plants, and more particularly of grasses. In North
America the development of Deltocephalus inimicus, from hatching
to assumption of the adult form, has been observed by Webster to
occupy about six weeks. As Jassidae are numerous both in species
and individuals it is believed that they consume a considerable part
of the vegetation of pastures. Osborn has calculated that on an acre
of pasture there exist, as a rule, about one million of these hoppers,
and he considers they obtain quite as large a share of the food as
the Vertebrates feeding with them.

Fam. 6. Psyllidae.—Minute Insects with wings usually transparent,

placed in a roof-like manner over the body; with three ocelli, and
rather long, thin antennae of eight to ten joints. Tarsi two-jointed.—
These small Insects have been studied chiefly in Europe and North
America, very little information having yet been obtained as to the
exotic forms. They are about the size of Aphidae, but in form and
general appearance remind one rather of Cicadidae. The wings are
in many cases even more perfectly transparent than they are in
many Cicadidae. They are sometimes called springing plant-lice, as
their habit of jumping distinguishes them from the Aphidae. Löw has
called attention to the remarkable variation in colour they present in
conformity with either the age of the individual, the food-plant, the
climate, and, more particularly, the season of the year.[510] Réaumur
long since pointed out that at their ecdyses these Insects go through
a remarkable series of changes of colour, and Löw found that this did
not take place in the normal manner in the winter generation that
hibernates. This has been confirmed by Slingerland in North America
in the case of Psylla pyricola,[511] which has been introduced there.
He finds that there are several generations in the year, and that the
hibernating adults differ from the summer adults in size, being nearly
one-third larger; in their much darker colouring; and especially in the
coloration of the front wings.

Fig. 284—Psylla succincta. x 15. Europe. (After Heeger.) A, larva

before first moult. B, larva after third moult. C, adult.

In the earlier stages, Psyllidae differ greatly in appearance from the

adult forms; the legs and antennae in the newly hatched larvae are
short, and have a less number of joints. In the nymph the shape is
very peculiar, the large wing-pads standing out horizontally from the
sides of the body, so that the width of the creature is about as great
as the length. The period occupied by the development apparently
varies according to season. Witlaczil, who has given an account of
many details of the anatomy and histology of various Psyllidae,[512]
considers that there are four larval stages; Heeger's account of
Psylla succincta is not quite clear on this point, and Slingerland
indicates a stage more than this, the perfect Insect being disclosed
as the result of a fifth moult; it is probable that he is correct. In these
earlier stages the body bears long hairs called wax-hairs; according
to Witlaczil in the young larvae of certain species—Trioza rhamni,
e.g.—these are broad and flat, so as to make the body appear
studded with oval processes; he states that these hairs change their
form during the growth of the individual. Nothing is more remarkable
in Psyllidae than the amount of matter they secrete or exude from
their bodies; in some species the substance is a "honey-dew," and
the nymph may keep itself covered with a drop of it: in other cases it
is solid, as shown in Réaumur's figures of P. buxi, where this
exudation forms a string several times longer than the body, and
attached to it. Another form of exudation is a light downy or waxy
matter. Slingerland says that honey-dew was exuded by P. pyricola
in such quantities that it "literally rained from the trees upon the
vegetation beneath; in cultivating the orchard the back of the horse
and the harness often became covered with the sticky substance
dropping from the trees. It attracts thousands of ants, bees, and
wasps, which feed upon it." The writer last year observed in the New
Forest a stunted sloe-bush, about which a large number of Bombi
were busily occupied; and examination showed that they were
thrusting their proboscides into the curled and deformed leaves, in
which were secreted nymphs of a Psylla exuding honey-dew. It must
not be assumed that this honey-dew is the excrement of the Insect;
this also is known, and is a different substance. Those who have
tasted it say that the honey-dew has a clean, good flavour. The
source of the honey-dew is not quite certain, but it seems probable
that it comes, like the solid matter figured by Réaumur, directly from
the alimentary canal, and not from hairs or pores on the body.
Psyllidae give rise to definite formations or galls on certain plants;
sometimes these Psyllid galls are mere changes in form of a limited
part, or parts, of a leaf, giving rise either to crumpling or to growth of
a portion in one direction only, so that on one surface of the leaf a
swelling is formed, and on the opposite side a more or less deep
cavity in which the Insect dwells. A formation of this kind on the
leaves of Aegopodium podagraria is described by Thomas[513] who
states that the growth is due to the deposition of an egg of the
Psylla, and is independent of the after life of the Insect; a fungus—
Puccinia aegopodii—forms similar structures on the leaves.
Structures much more definite than this may be the result of the
attacks of Psyllidae; for an example the reader may refer to
Réaumur's account of Psylla buxi.[514] In Australia and Tasmania
there are Psyllidae known as Laap or Lerp Insects, the products of
which are called leaf-manna or Lerp, and are used as food. This
manna is a scale produced by the young Insect on the leaves of
Eucalyptus as a covering or protection. The scale is fastened to the
leaf by a hinge, and is somewhat like the shell of a cockle. Although
the scales are said to be in some cases objects of great beauty, very
little is known about these Australian Psyllidae, one of which has,
however, been referred by Schwarz to the genus Spondyliaspis,
Signoret.[515] About 160 species of Psyllidae are known to occur in
the Palaearctic region, and about fifty of them have been found in
Britain.[516]

Fam. 7. Aphidae (Plant-lice or Green-fly.)—Minute Insects; as

usually met with destitute of wings, though many individuals have
two pairs of transparent wings. Antennae long, or moderately long,
three- to seven-jointed; abdomen frequently with a pair of tubes
(siphons), or short processes on the upper side of the fifth abdominal
segment. Tarsi two-jointed, first joint sometimes excessively short.—
These soft-skinned Insects are frequently called blight, and are so
abundant in temperate climates that a garden, however small, is
sure to afford abundance of specimens during the warm months of
the year. This great abundance is due to peculiarities in the
physiological processes that render these obscure little animals
highly important creatures; the individual life for several generations
is restricted to constant, or at any rate copious, imbibition of food,
accompanied by an almost uninterrupted production of young by
parthenogenetic females, the young so produced becoming rapidly
(sometimes in the course of eight or ten days, but more usually in
about twenty days) themselves devoted to a similar process; so that
in the comparatively short period of a few months the progeny
resulting from a single individual is almost innumerable. This
remarkable state of affairs is accompanied by other peculiarities of
physiology, with the result that the life-histories of successive
generations become very diverse, and complex cycles of series of
generations differing more or less from one another are passed
through, the species finally returning to bi-sexual reproduction, and
thus inaugurating another cycle of generations. The surprising nature
of these facts has in the last 150 years caused an immense amount
of discussion, but no satisfactory light has yet been thrown on the
conditions that really give rise to the exceptional phenomena. These
phenomena are (1) parthenogenesis; (2) oviparous and viviparous
reproduction; (3) the production of generations of individuals in which
the sexes are very unequally represented, males being frequently
entirely absent; (4) the production of individuals differing as to the
acquirement of wings, some remaining entirely apterous, while
others go on to the winged form; (5) the production of individuals of
the same sex with different sexual organs, and distinctions in the
very early (but not the earliest) stages of the formation of the
individual; (6) differences in the life-habits of successive generations;
(7) differences in the habits of individuals of one generation, giving
rise to the phenomenon of parallel series. All these phenomena may
occur in the case of a single species, though in a very variable
extent.

The simple form of Aphid life may be described as follows:—eggs

are laid in the autumn, and hatch in the spring, giving rise to females
of an imperfect character having no wings; these produce living
young parthenogenetically, and this process may be repeated for a
few or for many generations, and there may be in these generations
a greater or less number of winged individuals, and perhaps a few
males.[517] After a time when temperature falls, or when the supply
of food is less in quantity, or after a period of deliberate abstention
from food, sexual individuals are produced and fertilised eggs are
laid which hatch in the spring, and the phenomena are repeated. In
other cases these phenomena are added to or rendered more
complicated by the intercalated parthenogenetic generations
exhibiting well-marked metamorphosis, of kinds such as occur in
apterous or in winged Insects; while again the habits of successive
generations may differ greatly, the individuals of some generations
dwelling in galls, while those of other generations live underground
on roots.

Parthenogenesis.—Returning to the various kinds of peculiarities

we have enumerated on the preceding page, we may remark that
the phenomena of parthenogenesis have been thoroughly
established as occurring in Aphidae since Bonnet discovered the fact
150 years ago; and though they have not been investigated in much
detail it is known that the parthenogenesis is usually accompanied
by the production of young all of the female sex. In other cases
males are parthenogenetically produced; but whether these males
come from a female that produces only that sex is not yet, so far as
the writer knows, established. A note by Lichtenstein[518] suggests
that usually only one sex is produced by a parthenogenetic female,
but that both sexes are sometimes so produced. There is not at
present any species of Aphid known to be perpetuated by an
uninterrupted series of parthenogenetic generations. It was formerly
supposed that there are no males at all in Chermes, but, as we shall
subsequently show, this was erroneous. It has, however, been
observed that a series of such generations may be continued without
interruption for a period of four years, and we have no reason to
suppose that even this could not be much exceeded under
favourable conditions. The parthenogenetic young may be produced
either viviparously or oviparously, according to species.

Oviparous and viviparous reproduction.—The distinction between

these two processes has been extensively discussed, some
naturalists maintaining that they are thoroughly distinct ab initio. This
view, however, cannot be sustained. The best authorities are agreed
that in the earliest processes of individualisation the ovum, and the
pseudovum[519] giving rise to a viviparous individual, are
indistinguishable. Leydig, Huxley, Balbiani, and Lemoine are agreed
as to this. Nevertheless, differences in the development occur
extremely early. The nature of these differences may be briefly
described by saying that in the viviparous forms the embryonic
development sets in before the formation of the egg is properly
completed. Balbiani says, "In fact at this moment [when the
viviparous development is commencing] the germ [pseudovum] is far
from having obtained the development it is capable of, and from
having accumulated all the matter necessary for the increase of the
embryo, so that the evolution of the former coincides, so to speak,
with that of the latter. On the other hand, in the true ovum the two
processes are chronologically separate, for the rudiment of the new
individual never appears before the egg has completed the growth of
its constituent parts."[520] As regards the difference in structure of
the organs of viviparously and oviparously producing individuals, it is
sufficient to remark that they are not of great importance, being
apparently confined to certain parts remaining rudimentary in the
former. Leydig, indeed, found an Aphis in which certain of the egg-
tubes contained eggs in various stages of development, and others
embryos in all stages.[521]

As regards the physiology of production of winged and wingless

individuals there has been but little exact inquiry. Vast numbers of
individuals may be produced without any winged forms occurring,
while on the other hand these latter are occasionally so abundant as
to float about in swarms that darken the air; the two forms are
probably, however, determined by the supply of food. The winged
forms are less prolific than the apterous forms; and Forbes has
noticed in Aphis maidi-radicis, where the generations consist partly
of apterous and partly of winged individuals, that when the corn
begins to flag in consequence of the attacks of the Aphis, then the
proportion of winged individuals becomes large.[522] The
appearance of winged individuals is frequently accompanied by a
peculiar change of habit; the winged individuals migrating to another
plant, which in many cases is of a totally different botanical nature
from that on which the apterous broods were reared: for instance
Aphis mali, after producing several apterous generations on apple,
gives rise to winged individuals that migrate to the stems of corn or
grass, and feeding thereon commence another cycle of generations.
The study of this sort of Aphis-migration is chiefly modern, but many
very curious facts have already been brought to light; thus
Drepanosiphum platanoides, after producing a certain number of
viviparous generations on maple (Acer), quits this food-plant for
another, but after two or three months returns again to the maple,
and produces sexual young that lay eggs.[523] Histories such as this
are rather common. Even more interesting are the cases of those
species that, after some weeks of physiological activity on a plant,
pass into a state of repose on the same plant, and then after some
weeks produce sexual young. On the whole, it would appear that the
appearance of winged forms is a concomitant of decreasing nutrition.
It is a very remarkable fact that the sexually perfect females are
invariably apterous, and this is frequently also the case with the
males. It is also highly remarkable that the sexually perfect
individuals are of comparatively small size. There are at least three
kinds of males in Aphidae—1, winged males; 2, wingless males with
mouth well developed; 3, wingless small males with mouth absent.
As regards some of these points the conditions usual in Insect life
are reversed.[524] Huxley inclined to treat all these products of a
fertilised egg, that are antecedent to another process of
gamogenesis (i.e. production with fertilisation), as one zoological
individual: in that case the Aphis zoological individual is winged
before attaining the mature state, and is wingless and smaller when
mature. Some species may have as a rule two, others three, winged
generations in a year.

Fig. 285—Chermes abietis; hibernating female or "winter-mother."

Europe. Much magnified. (After Cholodkovsky.)
Parallel series.—In certain cases individuals of one generation
assume different habits, and so set up the phenomenon known as
parallel series. This has been recently investigated in the genus
Chermes by Blochmann, Dreyfus, and Cholodkovsky. This latter
savant informs us[525] that a wingless parthenogenetic female of
Chermes hibernates on a fir-tree—Picea excelsa—and in the spring
lays numerous eggs; these hatch, and by the effects of suction of the
Chermes on the young shoots, galls are formed (Fig. 286), in which
the Insects are found in large numbers; when they have grown the
galls open, and allowing the Insects to escape these moult and
become winged females. They now take on different habits; some of
them remain on the Picea, lay their eggs thereon, and out of these
there are produced young that grow into hibernating females, which
next spring produce galls as their grandmothers did; but another
portion migrates to the Larch (Larix); here eggs are laid, from which
proceed wingless parthenogenetic females, that hibernate on their
new or secondary plant, and in the following spring lay their eggs
and give rise to a dimorphic generation, part of them becoming
nymphs and going on to the winged condition, while the other part
remain wingless and lay eggs, that give rise to yet another wingless
generation; in fact, a second pair of parallel series is formed on the
new plant, of which one is wingless, and exclusively
parthenogenetic, and continues to live in this fashion for an indefinite
period on the secondary plant, while the other part becomes winged;
these latter are called sexuparous, and go back to the Picea, and
there lay eggs, that give rise to the sexual forms. If we would
summarise these facts with a view to remembering them, we may
say that a migration of a part of a generation from the Picea was
made with a view of producing a sexual generation, but that only a
portion of the migrants succeeded in effecting the object of the
migration, and this only in their third generation. Thus portions
remained on the Picea, producing unisexual (female) individuals,
and a portion of those that emigrated to the Larix remained thereon,
producing also unisexual (female) individuals, while the others
returned to the Picea and produced a sexual generation. How long
the production of the unisexual generations may continue has not
been determined.