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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Fabre's Book of Insects - -Author: Jean-Henri Fabre - -Editor: Maud Margaret Key Stawell - -Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos - -Illustrator: Edward Julius Detmold - -Release Date: December 22, 2021 [eBook #67000] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file - was produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS *** - - - - - FABRE’S - BOOK OF INSECTS - - RETOLD FROM ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS’ - TRANSLATION of FABRE’S “SOUVENIRS ENTOMOLOGIQUES” - BY MRS. RODOLPH STAWELL - - - Illustrated by - E. J. DETMOLD - - - NEW YORK - DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY - 1921 - - - - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I PAGE - MY WORK AND MY WORKSHOP 1 - - CHAPTER II - THE SACRED BEETLE 11 - - CHAPTER III - THE CICADA 25 - - CHAPTER IV - THE PRAYING MANTIS 40 - - CHAPTER V - THE GLOW-WORM 54 - - CHAPTER VI - A MASON-WASP 69 - - CHAPTER VII - THE PSYCHES 89 - - CHAPTER VIII - THE SELF-DENIAL OF THE SPANISH COPRIS 109 - - CHAPTER IX - TWO STRANGE GRASSHOPPERS 121 - - CHAPTER X - COMMON WASPS 138 - - CHAPTER XI - THE ADVENTURES OF A GRUB 157 - - CHAPTER XII - THE CRICKET 175 - - CHAPTER XIII - THE SISYPHUS 198 - - CHAPTER XIV - THE CAPRICORN 209 - - CHAPTER XV - LOCUSTS 227 - - CHAPTER XVI - THE ANTHRAX FLY 249 - - - - - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - -THE SACRED BEETLE Frontispiece - - Sometimes the Scarab seems to enter into partnership with - a friend - -THE CICADA FACING PAGE - - In July, when most of the insects in my sunny country are - parched with thirst, the Cicada remains perfectly cheerful 26 - -THE PRAYING MANTIS - - A long time ago, in the days of ancient Greece, this insect - was named Mantis, or the Prophet 42 - -PELOPÆUS SPIRIFEX - - When finished the work is amber-yellow, and rather reminds - one of the outer skin of an onion 80 - -THE PSYCHES - - This is the secret of the walking bundle of sticks. It is a - Faggot Caterpillar, belonging to the group known as the Psyches 90 - -THE SPANISH COPRIS - - The burrow is almost filled by three or four ovoid nests, - standing one against the other, with the pointed end upwards 116 - -THE WHITE-FACED DECTICUS - - The Greek word dectikos means biting, fond of biting. The - Decticus is well named. It is eminently an insect given - to biting 130 - -COMMON WASPS - - The wasp’s nest is made of a thin, flexible material like - brown paper, formed of particles of wood 144 - -THE FIELD CRICKET - - Here is one of the humblest of creatures able to lodge himself - to perfection. He has a home; he has a peaceful retreat, the - first condition of comfort 180 - -THE SISYPHUS - - The mother harnesses herself in the place of honour, in front. - The father pushes behind in the reverse position, head - downwards 204 - -ITALIAN LOCUSTS - - “I have buried underground,” she says, “the treasure of - the future” 238 - -THE ANTHRAX FLY - - Her delicate suit of downy velvet, from which you take the - bloom by merely breathing on it, could not withstand the - contact of rough tunnels 258 - - - - - - - - -FABRE’S BOOK OF INSECTS - - -CHAPTER I - -MY WORK AND MY WORKSHOP - - -We all have our own talents, our special gifts. Sometimes these gifts -seem to come to us from our forefathers, but more often it is difficult -to trace their origin. - -A goatherd, perhaps, amuses himself by counting little pebbles and -doing sums with them. He becomes an astoundingly quick reckoner, and in -the end is a professor of mathematics. Another boy, at an age when most -of us care only for play, leaves his schoolfellows at their games and -listens to the imaginary sounds of an organ, a secret concert heard by -him alone. He has a genius for music. A third—so small, perhaps, that -he cannot eat his bread and jam without smearing his face—takes a keen -delight in fashioning clay into little figures that are amazingly -lifelike. If he be fortunate he will some day be a famous sculptor. - -To talk about oneself is hateful, I know, but perhaps I may be allowed -to do so for a moment, in order to introduce myself and my studies. - -From my earliest childhood I have felt drawn towards the things of -Nature. It would be ridiculous to suppose that this gift, this love of -observing plants and insects, was inherited from my ancestors, who were -uneducated people of the soil and observed little but their own cows -and sheep. Of my four grandparents only one ever opened a book, and -even he was very uncertain about his spelling. Nor do I owe anything to -a scientific training. Without masters, without guides, often without -books, I have gone forward with one aim always before me: to add a few -pages to the history of insects. - -As I look back—so many years back!—I can see myself as a tiny boy, -extremely proud of my first braces and of my attempts to learn the -alphabet. And very well I remember the delight of finding my first -bird’s nest and gathering my first mushroom. - -One day I was climbing a hill. At the top of it was a row of trees that -had long interested me very much. From the little window at home I -could see them against the sky, tossing before the wind or writhing -madly in the snow, and I wished to have a closer view of them. It was a -long climb—ever so long; and my legs were very short. I clambered up -slowly and tediously, for the grassy slope was as steep as a roof. - -Suddenly, at my feet, a lovely bird flew out from its hiding-place -under a big stone. In a moment I had found the nest, which was made of -hair and fine straw, and had six eggs laid side by side in it. The eggs -were a magnificent azure blue, very bright. This was the first nest I -ever found, the first of the many joys which the birds were to bring -me. Overpowered with pleasure, I lay down on the grass and stared at -it. - -Meanwhile the mother-bird was flying about uneasily from stone to -stone, crying ”Tack! Tack!” in a voice of the greatest anxiety. I was -too small to understand what she was suffering. I made a plan worthy of -a little beast of prey. I would carry away just one of the pretty blue -eggs as a trophy, and then, in a fortnight, I would come back and take -the tiny birds before they could fly away. Fortunately, as I walked -carefully home, carrying my blue egg on a bed of moss, I met the -priest. - -“Ah!” said he. “A Saxicola’s egg! Where did you get it?” - -I told him the whole story. “I shall go back for the others,” I said, -“when the young birds have got their quill-feathers.” - -“Oh, but you mustn’t do that!” cried the priest. - -“You mustn’t be so cruel as to rob the poor mother of all her little -birds. Be a good boy, now, and promise not to touch the nest.” - -From this conversation I learnt two things: first, that robbing birds’ -nests is cruel and, secondly, that birds and beasts have names just -like ourselves. - -“What are the names of all my friends in the woods and meadows?” I -asked myself. “And what does Saxicola mean?” Years later I learnt that -Saxicola means an inhabitant of the rocks. My bird with the blue eggs -was a Stone-chat. - -Below our village there ran a little brook, and beyond the brook was a -spinney of beeches with smooth, straight trunks, like pillars. The -ground was padded with moss. It was in this spinney that I picked my -first mushroom, which looked, when I caught sight of it, like an egg -dropped on the moss by some wandering hen. There were many others -there, of different sizes, forms, and colours. Some were shaped like -bells, some like extinguishers, some like cups: some were broken, and -were weeping tears of milk: some became blue when I trod on them. -Others, the most curious of all, were like pears with a round hole at -the top—a sort of chimney whence a whiff of smoke escaped when I -prodded their under-side with my finger. I filled my pockets with -these, and made them smoke at my leisure, till at last they were -reduced to a kind of tinder. - -Many a time I returned to that delightful spinney, and learnt my first -lessons in mushroom-lore in the company of the Crows. My collections, I -need hardly say, were not admitted to the house. - -In this way—by observing Nature and making experiments—nearly all my -lessons have been learnt: all except two, in fact. I have received from -others two lessons of a scientific character, and two only, in the -whole course of my life: one in anatomy and one in chemistry. - -I owe the first to the learned naturalist Moquin-Tandon, who showed me -how to explore the interior of a Snail in a plate filled with water. -The lesson was short and fruitful. [1] - -My first introduction to chemistry was less fortunate. It ended in the -bursting of a glass vessel, with the result that most of my -fellow-pupils were hurt, one of them nearly lost his sight, the -lecturer’s clothes were burnt to pieces, and the wall of the -lecture-room was splashed with stains. Later on, when I returned to -that room, no longer as a pupil but as a master, the splashes were -still there. On that occasion I learnt one thing at least. Ever after, -when I made experiments of that kind, I kept my pupils at a distance. - -It has always been my great desire to have a laboratory in the open -fields—not an easy thing to obtain when one lives in a state of -constant anxiety about one’s daily bread. For forty years it was my -dream to own a little bit of land, fenced in for the sake of privacy: a -desolate, barren, sun-scorched bit of land, overgrown with thistles and -much beloved by Wasps and Bees. Here, without fear of interruption, I -might question the Hunting-wasps and others of my friends in that -difficult language which consists of experiments and observations. -Here, without the long expeditions and rambles that use up my time and -strength, I might watch my insects at every hour of the day. - -And then, at last, my wish was fulfilled. I obtained a bit of land in -the solitude of a little village. It was a harmas, which is the name we -give in this part of Provence to an untilled, pebbly expanse where -hardly any plant but thyme can grow. It is too poor to be worth the -trouble of ploughing, but the sheep pass there in spring, when it has -chanced to rain and a little grass grows up. - -My own particular harmas, however, had a small quantity of red earth -mixed with the stones, and had been roughly cultivated. I was told that -vines once grew here, and I was sorry, for the original vegetation had -been driven out by the three-pronged fork. There was no thyme left, nor -lavender, nor a single clump of the dwarf oak. As thyme and lavender -might be useful to me as a hunting-ground for Bees and Wasps, I was -obliged to plant them again. - -There were plenty of weeds: couch-grass, and prickly centauries, and -the fierce Spanish oyster-plant, with its spreading orange flowers and -spikes strong as nails. Above it towered the Illyrian cotton-thistle, -whose straight and solitary stalk grows sometimes to the height of six -feet and ends in large pink tufts. There were smaller thistles too, so -well armed that the plant-collector can hardly tell where to grasp -them, and spiky knapweeds, and in among them, in long lines provided -with hooks, the shoots of the blue dewberry creeping along the ground. -If you had visited this prickly thicket without wearing high boots, you -would have paid dearly for your rashness! - -Such was the Eden that I won by forty years of desperate struggle. - -This curious, barren Paradise of mine is the happy hunting-ground of -countless Bees and Wasps. Never have I seen so large a population of -insects at a single spot. All the trades have made it their centre. -Here come hunters of every kind of game, builders in clay, -cotton-weavers, leaf-cutters, architects in pasteboard, plasterers -mixing mortar, carpenters boring wood, miners digging underground -galleries, workers in gold-beaters’ skin, and many more. - -See—here is a Tailor-bee. She scrapes the cobwebby stalk of the -yellow-flowered centaury, and gathers a ball of wadding which she -carries off proudly with her mandibles or jaws. She will turn it, -underground, into cotton satchels to hold the store of honey and the -eggs. And here are the Leaf-cutting Bees, carrying their black, white, -or blood-red reaping brushes under their bodies. They will visit the -neighbouring shrubs, and there cut from the leaves oval pieces in which -to wrap their harvest. Here too are the black, velvet-clad Mason-bees, -who work with cement and gravel. We could easily find specimens of -their masonry on the stones in the harmas. Next comes a kind of Wild -Bee who stacks her cells in the winding staircase of an empty -snail-shell; and another who lodges her grubs in the pith of a dry -bramble-stalk; and a third who uses the channel of a cut reed; and a -fourth who lives rent-free in the vacant galleries of some Mason-bee. -There are also Bees with horns, and Bees with brushes on their -hind-legs, to be used for reaping. - -While the walls of my harmas were being built some great heaps of -stones and mounds of sand were scattered here and there by the -builders, and were soon occupied by a variety of inhabitants. The -Mason-bees chose the chinks between the stones for their -sleeping-place. The powerful Eyed Lizard, who, when hard pressed, -attacks both man and dog, selected a cave in which to lie in wait for -the passing Scarab, or Sacred Beetle. The Black-eared Chat, who looks -like a Dominican monk in his white-and-black raiment, sat on the top -stone singing his brief song. His nest, with the sky-blue eggs, must -have been somewhere in the heap. When the stones were moved the little -Dominican moved too. I regret him: he would have been a charming -neighbour. The Eyed Lizard I do not regret at all. - -The sand-heaps sheltered a colony of Digger-wasps and Hunting-wasps, -who were, to my sorrow, turned out at last by the builders. But still -there are hunters left: some who flutter about in search of -Caterpillars, and one very large kind of Wasp who actually has the -courage to hunt the Tarantula. Many of these mighty Spiders have their -burrows in the harmas, and you can see their eyes gleaming at the -bottom of the den like little diamonds. On hot summer afternoons you -may also see Amazon-ants, who leave their barracks in long battalions -and march far afield to hunt for slaves. - -Nor are these all. The shrubs about the house are full of birds, -Warblers and Greenfinches, Sparrows and Owls; while the pond is so -popular with the Frogs that in May it becomes a deafening orchestra. -And boldest of all, the Wasp has taken possession of the house itself. -On my doorway lives the White-banded Sphex: when I go indoors I must be -careful not to tread upon her as she carries on her work of mining. -Just within a closed window a kind of Mason-wasp has made her -earth-built nest upon the freestone wall. To enter her home she uses a -little hole left by accident in the shutters. On the mouldings of the -Venetian blinds a few stray Mason-bees build their cells. The Common -Wasp and the Solitary Wasp visit me at dinner. The object of their -visit, apparently, is to see if my grapes are ripe. - -Such are my companions. My dear beasts, my friends of former days and -other more recent acquaintances, are all here, hunting, and building, -and feeding their families. And if I wish for change the mountain is -close to me, with its tangle of arbutus, and rock-roses, and heather, -where Wasps and Bees delight to gather. And that is why I deserted the -town for the village, and came to Sérignan to weed my turnips and water -my lettuces. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE SACRED BEETLE - - -I - -THE BALL - -It is six or seven thousand years since the Sacred Beetle was first -talked about. The peasant of ancient Egypt, as he watered his patch of -onions in the spring, would see from time to time a fat black insect -pass close by, hurriedly trundling a ball backwards. He would watch the -queer rolling thing in amazement, as the peasant of Provence watches it -to this day. - -The early Egyptians fancied that this ball was a symbol of the earth, -and that all the Scarab’s actions were prompted by the movements of the -heavenly bodies. So much knowledge of astronomy in a Beetle seemed to -them almost divine, and that is why he is called the Sacred Beetle. -They also thought that the ball he rolled on the ground contained the -egg, and that the young Beetle came out of it. But as a matter of fact, -it is simply his store of food. - -It is not at all nice food. For the work of this Beetle is to scour the -filth from the surface of the soil. The ball he rolls so carefully is -made of his sweepings from the roads and fields. - -This is how he sets about it. The edge of his broad, flat head is -notched with six teeth arranged in a semi-circle, like a sort of curved -rake; and this he uses for digging and cutting up, for throwing aside -the stuff he does not want, and scraping together the food he chooses. -His bow-shaped fore-legs are also useful tools, for they are very -strong, and they too have five teeth on the outside. So if a vigorous -effort be needed to remove some obstacle the Scarab makes use of his -elbows, that is to say he flings his toothed legs to right and left, -and clears a space with an energetic sweep. Then he collects armfuls of -the stuff he has raked together, and pushes it beneath him, between the -four hinder-legs. These are long and slender, especially the last pair, -slightly bowed and finished with a sharp claw. The Beetle then presses -the stuff against his body with his hind-legs, curving it and spinning -it round and round till it forms a perfect ball. In a moment a tiny -pellet grows to the size of a walnut, and soon to that of an apple. I -have seen some gluttons manufacture a ball as big as a man’s fist. - -When the ball of provisions is ready it must be moved to a suitable -place. The Beetle begins the journey. He clasps the ball with his long -hind-legs and walks with his fore-legs, moving backwards with his head -down and his hind-quarters in the air. He pushes his load behind him by -alternate thrusts to right and left. One would expect him to choose a -level road, or at least a gentle incline. Not at all! Let him find -himself near some steep slope, impossible to climb, and that is the -very path the obstinate creature will attempt. The ball, that enormous -burden, is painfully hoisted step by step, with infinite precautions, -to a certain height, always backwards. Then by some rash movement all -this toil is wasted: the ball rolls down, dragging the Beetle with it. -Once more the heights are climbed, and another fall is the result. -Again and again the insect begins the ascent. The merest trifle ruins -everything; a grass-root may trip him up or a smooth bit of gravel make -him slip, and down come ball and Beetle, all mixed up together. Ten or -twenty times he will start afresh, till at last he is successful, or -else sees the hopelessness of his efforts and resigns himself to taking -the level road. - -Sometimes the Scarab seems to enter into partnership with a friend. -This is the way in which it usually happens. When the Beetle’s ball is -ready he leaves the crowd of workers, pushing his prize backwards. A -neighbour, whose own task is hardly begun, suddenly drops his work and -runs to the moving ball, to lend a hand to the owner. His aid seems to -be accepted willingly. But the new-comer is not really a partner: he is -a robber. To make one’s own ball needs hard work and patience; to steal -one ready-made, or to invite oneself to a neighbour’s dinner, is much -easier. Some thieving Beetles go to work craftily, others use violence. - -Sometimes a thief comes flying up, knocks over the owner of the ball, -and perches himself on top of it. With his fore-legs crossed over his -breast, ready to hit out, he awaits events. If the owner raises himself -to seize his ball the robber gives him a blow that stretches him on his -back. Then the owner gets up and shakes the ball till it begins -rolling, and perhaps the thief falls off. A wrestling-match follows. -The two Beetles grapple with one another: their legs lock and unlock, -their joints intertwine, their horny armour clashes and grates with the -rasping sound of metal under a file. The one who is successful climbs -to the top of the ball, and after two or three attempts to dislodge him -the defeated Scarab goes off to make himself a new pellet. I have -sometimes seen a third Beetle appear, and rob the robber. - -But sometimes the thief bides his time and trusts to cunning. He -pretends to help the victim to roll the food along, over sandy plains -thick with thyme, over cart-ruts and steep places, but he really does -very little of the work, preferring to sit on the ball and do nothing. -When a suitable place for a burrow is reached the rightful owner begins -to dig with his sharp-edged forehead and toothed legs, flinging armfuls -of sand behind him, while the thief clings to the ball, shamming dead. -The cave grows deeper and deeper, and the working Scarab disappears -from view. Whenever he comes to the surface he glances at the ball, on -which the other lies, demure and motionless, inspiring confidence. But -as the absences of the owner become longer the thief seizes his chance, -and hurriedly makes off with the ball, which he pushes behind him with -the speed of a pickpocket afraid of being caught. If the owner catches -him, as sometimes happens, he quickly changes his position, and seems -to plead as an excuse that the pellet rolled down the slope, and he was -only trying to stop it! And the two bring the ball back as though -nothing had happened. - -If the thief has managed to get safely away, however, the owner can -only resign himself to his loss, which he does with admirable -fortitude. He rubs his cheeks, sniffs the air, flies off, and begins -his work all over again. I admire and envy his character. - -At last his provisions are safely stored. His burrow is a shallow hole -about the size of a man’s fist, dug in soft earth or sand, with a short -passage to the surface, just wide enough to admit the ball. As soon as -his food is rolled into this burrow the Scarab shuts himself in by -stopping up the entrance with rubbish. The ball fills almost the whole -room: the banquet rises from floor to ceiling. Only a narrow passage -runs between it and the walls, and here sit the banqueters, two at -most, very often only one. Here the Sacred Beetle feasts day and night, -for a week or a fortnight at a time, without ceasing. - - - - -II - -THE PEAR - -As I have already said, the ancient Egyptians thought that the egg of -the Sacred Beetle was within the ball that I have been describing. I -have proved that it is not so. One day I discovered the truth about the -Scarab’s egg. - -A young shepherd who helps me in his spare time came to me one Sunday -in June with a queer thing in his hand. It was exactly like a tiny pear -that had lost all its fresh colour and had turned brown in rotting. It -was firm to the touch and very graceful in shape, though the materials -of which it was formed seemed none too nicely chosen. The shepherd -assured me there was an egg inside it; for a similar pear, crushed by -accident in the digging, had contained a white egg the size of a grain -of wheat. - -At daybreak the next morning the shepherd and I went out to investigate -the matter. We met among the browsing sheep, on some slopes that had -lately been cleared of trees. - -A Sacred Beetle’s burrow is soon found: you can tell it by the fresh -little mound of earth above it. My companion dug vigorously into the -ground with my pocket trowel, while I lay down, the better to see what -was being unearthed. A cave opened out, and there I saw, lying in the -moist earth, a splendid pear upon the ground. I shall not soon forget -my first sight of the mother Beetle’s wonderful work. My excitement -could have been no greater had I, in digging among the relics of -ancient Egypt, found the sacred insect carved in emerald. - -We went on with our search, and found a second hole. Here, by the side -of the pear and fondly embracing it, was the mother Beetle, engaged no -doubt in giving it the finishing touches before leaving the burrow for -good. There was no possible doubt that the pear was the nest of the -Scarab. In the course of the summer I found at least a hundred such -nests. - -The pear, like the ball, is formed of refuse scraped up in the fields, -but the materials are less coarse, because they are intended for the -food of the grub. When it comes out of the egg it is incapable of -searching for its own meals, so the mother arranges that it shall find -itself surrounded by the food that suits it best. It can begin eating -at once, without further trouble. - -The egg is laid in the narrow end of the pear. Every germ of life, -whether of plant or animal, needs air: even the shell of a bird’s egg -is riddled with an endless number of pores. If the germ of the Scarab -were in the thick part of the pear it would be smothered, because there -the materials are very closely packed, and are covered with a hard -rind. So the mother Beetle prepares a nice airy room with thin walls -for her little grub to live in, during its first moments. There is a -certain amount of air even in the very centre of the pear, but not -enough for a delicate baby-grub. By the time he has eaten his way to -the centre he is strong enough to manage with very little air. - -There is, of course, a good reason for the hardness of the shell that -covers the big end of the pear. The Scarab’s burrow is extremely hot: -sometimes the temperature reaches boiling point. The provisions, even -though they have to last only three or four weeks, are liable to dry up -and become uneatable. When, instead of the soft food of its first meal, -the unhappy grub finds nothing to eat but horrible crusty stuff as hard -as a pebble, it is bound to die of hunger. I have found numbers of -these victims of the August sun. The poor things are baked in a sort of -closed oven. To lessen this danger the mother Beetle compresses the -outer layer of the pear—or nest—with all the strength of her stout, -flat fore-arms, to turn it into a protecting rind like the shell of a -nut. This helps to ward off the heat. In the hot summer months the -housewife puts her bread into a closed pan to keep it fresh. The insect -does the same in its own fashion: by dint of pressure it covers the -family bread with a pan. - - - -I have watched the Sacred Beetle at work in her den, so I know how she -makes her pear-shaped nest. - -With the building-materials she has collected she shuts herself up -underground so as to give her whole attention to the business in hand. -The materials may be obtained in two ways. As a rule, under natural -conditions, she kneads a ball in the usual way and rolls it to a -favourable spot. As it rolls along it hardens a little on the surface -and gathers a slight crust of earth and tiny grains of sand, which is -useful later on. Now and then, however, the Beetle finds a suitable -place for her burrow quite close to the spot where she collects her -building-materials, and in that case she simply bundles armfuls of -stuff into the hole. The result is most striking. One day I see a -shapeless lump disappear into the burrow. Next day, or the day after, I -visit the Beetle’s workshop and find the artist in front of her work. -The formless mass of scrapings has become a pear, perfect in outline -and exquisitely finished. - -The part that rests on the floor of the burrow is crusted over with -particles of sand, while the rest is polished like glass. This shows -that the Beetle has not rolled the pear round and round, but has shaped -it where it lies. She has modelled it with little taps of her broad -feet, just as she models her ball in the daylight. - -By making an artificial burrow for the mother Beetle in my own -workshop, with the help of a glass jar full of earth, and a peep-hole -through which I can observe operations, I have been able to see the -work in its various stages. - -The Beetle first makes a complete ball. Then she starts the neck of the -pear by making a ring round the ball and applying pressure, till the -ring becomes a groove. In this way a blunt projection is pushed out at -one side of the ball. In the centre of this projection she employs -further pressure to form a sort of crater or hollow, with a swollen -rim; and gradually the hollow is made deeper and the swollen rim -thinner and thinner, till a sack is formed. In this sack, which is -polished and glazed inside, the egg is laid. The opening of the sack, -or extreme end of the pear, is then closed with a plug of stringy -fibres. - -There is a reason for this rough plug—a most curious exception, when -nothing else has escaped the heavy blows of the insect’s leg. The end -of the egg rests against it, and, if the stopper were pressed down and -driven in, the infant grub might suffer. So the Beetle stops the hole -without ramming down the stopper. - - - - -III - -THE GROWING-UP OF THE SCARAB - -About a week or ten days after the laying of the egg, the grub is -hatched, and without delay begins to eat its house. It is a grub of -remarkable wisdom, for it always starts its meal with the thickest part -of the walls, and so avoids making a hole through which it might fall -out of the pear altogether. It soon becomes fat; and indeed it is an -ungainly creature at best, with an enormous hump on its back, and a -skin so transparent that if you hold it up to the light you can see its -internal organs. If the early Egyptian had chanced upon this plump -white grub he would never have suspected it to contain, in an -undeveloped state, the sober beauty of the Scarab! - -When first it sheds its skin the insect that appears is not a -full-grown Scarab, though all the Scarab’s features can be recognised. -There are few insects so beautiful as this delicate creature with its -wing-cases living in front of it like a wide pleated scarf and its -fore-legs folded under its head. Half transparent and as yellow as -honey, it looks as though it were carved from a block of amber. For -four weeks it remains in this state, and then it too casts its skin. - -Its colouring now is red-and-white,—so many times does the Sacred -Beetle change its garments before it finally appears black as ebony! As -it grows blacker it also grows harder, till it is covered with horny -armour and is a full-grown Beetle. - -All this time he is underground, in the pear-shaped nest. Great is his -longing to burst the shell of his prison and come into the sunshine. -Whether he succeeds in doing so depends on circumstances. - -It is generally August when he is ready for release, and August as a -rule is the driest and hottest month of the year. If therefore no rain -falls to soften the earth, the cell to be burst and the wall to be -broken defy the strength of the insect, which is helpless against all -that hardness. The soft material of the nest has become an impassable -rampart; it has turned into a sort of brick, baked in the kiln of -summer. - -I have, of course, made experiments on insects that are ready to be -released. I lay the hard, dry shells in a box where they remain dry; -and sooner or later I hear a sharp, grating sound inside each cell. It -is the prisoner scraping the wall with the rakes on his forehead and -his fore-feet. Two or three days pass, and no progress seems to have -been made. - -I try to help a couple of them by opening a loophole with my knife; but -these favoured ones make no more progress than the others. - -In less than a fortnight silence reigns in all the shells. The -prisoners, worn out with their efforts, have all died. - -Then I take some other shells, as hard as the first, wrap them in a wet -rag, and put them in a corked flask. When the moisture has soaked -through them I rid them of the wrapper, but keep them in the flask. -This time the experiment is a complete success. Softened by the wet the -shells are burst by the prisoner, who props himself boldly on his legs, -using his back as a lever, or else scrapes away at one point till the -walls crumble to pieces. In every case the Beetle is released. - -In natural conditions, when the shells remain underground, the same -thing occurs. When the soil is burnt by the August sun it is impossible -for the insect to wear away his prison, which is hard as a brick. But -when a shower comes the shell recovers the softness of its early days: -the insect struggles with his legs and pushes with his back, and so -becomes free. - -At first he shows no interest in food. What he wants above all is the -joy of the light. He sets himself in the sun, and there, motionless, -basks in the warmth. - -Presently, however, he wishes to eat. With no one to teach him, he sets -to work, exactly like his elders, to make himself a ball of food. He -digs his burrow and stores it with provisions. Without ever learning -it, he knows his trade to perfection. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE CICADA - - -I - -THE CICADA AND THE ANT - -To most of us the Cicada’s song is unknown, for he lives in the land of -the olive-trees. But every one who has read La Fontaine’s “Fables” has -heard of the snub the Cicada received from the Ant, though La Fontaine -was not the first to tell the tale. - -The Cicada, says the story, did nothing but sing all through the -summer, while the Ants were busy storing their provisions. When winter -came he was hungry, and hurried to his neighbour to borrow some food. -He met with a poor welcome. - -“Why didn’t you gather your food in the summer?” asked the prudent Ant. - -“I was busy singing all the summer,” said the Cicada. - -“Singing, were you?” answered the Ant unkindly. “Well, then, now you -may dance!” And she turned her back on the beggar. - -Now the insect in this fable could not possibly be a Cicada. La -Fontaine, it is plain, was thinking of the Grasshopper and as a matter -of fact the English translations usually substitute a Grasshopper for -the Cicada. - -For my village does not contain a peasant so ignorant as to imagine the -Cicada ever exists in winter. Every tiller of the soil is familiar with -the grub of this insect, which he turns over with his spade whenever he -banks up the olive-trees at the approach of cold weather. A thousand -times he has seen the grub leave the ground through a round hole of its -own making, fasten itself to a twig, split its own back, take off its -skin, and turn into a Cicada. - -The fable is a slander. The Cicada is no beggar, though it is true that -he demands a good deal of attention from his neighbours. Every summer -he comes and settles in his hundreds outside my door, amid the greenery -of two tall plane-trees; and here, from sunrise to sunset, he tortures -my head with the rasping of his harsh music. This deafening concert, -this incessant rattling and drumming, makes all thought impossible. - -It is true, too, that there are sometimes dealings between the Cicada -and the Ant; but they are exactly the opposite of those described in -the fable. The Cicada is never dependent on others for his living. At -no time does he go crying famine at the doors of the Ant-hills. On the -contrary, it is the Ant who, driven by hunger, begs and entreats the -singer. Entreats, did I say? It is not the right word. She brazenly -robs him. - -In July, when most of the insects in my sunny country are parched with -thirst, and vainly wander round the withered flowers in search of -refreshment, the Cicada remains perfectly cheerful. With his -rostrum—the delicate sucker, sharp as a gimlet, that he carries on his -chest—he broaches a cask in his inexhaustible cellar. Sitting, always -singing, on the branch of a shrub, he bores through the firm, smooth -bark, which is swollen with sap. Driving his sucker through the -bunghole, he drinks his fill. - -If I watch him for a little while I may perhaps see him in unexpected -trouble. There are many thirsty insects in the neighbourhood, who soon -discover the sap that oozes from the Cicada’s well. They hasten up, at -first quietly and discreetly, to lick the fluid as it comes out. I see -Wasps, Flies, Earwigs, Rose-chafers, and above all, Ants. - -The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the body of the -Cicada, who good-naturedly raises himself on his legs to let them pass. -The larger insects snatch a sip, retreat, take a walk on a neighbouring -branch, and then return more eager and enterprising than before. They -now become violent brigands, determined to chase the Cicada away from -his well. - -The worst offenders are the Ants. I have seen them nibbling at the ends -of the Cicada’s legs, tugging at the tips of his wings, and climbing on -his back. Once a bold robber, before my very eyes, caught hold of a -Cicada’s sucker and tried to pull it out. - -At last, worried beyond all patience, the singer deserts the well he -has made. The Ant has now attained her object: she is left in -possession of the spring. This dries up very soon, it is true; but, -having drunk all the sap that is there, she can wait for another drink -till she has a chance of stealing another well. - -So you see that the actual facts are just the reverse of those in the -fable. The Ant is the hardened beggar: the industrious worker is the -Cicada. - - - - -II - -THE CICADA’S BURROW - -I am in an excellent position to study the habits of the Cicada, for I -live in his company. When July comes he takes possession of the -enclosures right up to the threshold of the house. I remain master -indoors, but out of doors he reigns supreme, and his reign is by no -means a peaceful one. - -The first Cicada appear at midsummer. In the much-trodden, sun-baked -paths I see, level with the ground, round holes about the size of a -man’s thumb. Through these holes the Cicada-grubs come up from the -underground to be transformed into full-grown Cicadæ on the surface. -Their favourite places are the driest and sunniest; for these grubs are -provided with such powerful tools that they can bore through baked -earth or sandstone. When I examine their deserted burrows I have to use -my pickaxe. - -The first thing one notices is that the holes, which measure nearly an -inch across, have absolutely no rubbish round them. There is no mound -of earth thrown up outside. Most of the digging insects, such as the -Dorbeetles for instance, make a mole-hill above their burrows. The -reason for this difference lies in their manner of working. The -Dorbeetle begins his work at the mouth of the hole, so he can heap up -on the surface the material he digs out: but the Cicada-grub comes up -from below. The last thing he does is to make the doorway, and he -cannot heap rubbish on a threshold that does not yet exist. - -The Cicada’s tunnel runs to a depth of fifteen or sixteen inches. It is -quite open the whole way. It ends in a rather wider space, but is -completely closed at the bottom. What has become of the earth removed -to make this tunnel? And why do not the walls crumble? One would expect -that the grub, climbing up and down with his clawed legs, would make -landslips and block up his own house. - -Well, he behaves like a miner or a railway-engineer. The miner holds up -his galleries with pit-props; the builder of railways strengthens his -tunnel with a casing of brickwork; the Cicada is as clever as either of -them, and covers the walls of his tunnel with cement. He carries a -store of sticky fluid hidden within him, with which to make this -plaster. His burrow is always built above some tiny rootlet containing -sap, and from this root he renews his supply of fluid. - -It is very important for him to be able to run up and down his burrow -at his ease, because, when the time comes for him to find his way into -the sunshine, he wants to know what the weather is like outside. So he -works away for weeks, perhaps for months, to make a funnel with good -strong plastered walls, on which he can clamber. At the top he leaves a -layer as thick as one’s finger, to protect him from the outer air till -the last moment. At the least hint of fine weather he scrambles up, -and, through the thin lid at the top, inquires into the state of the -weather. - -If he suspects a storm or rain on the surface—matter of great -importance to a delicate grub when he takes off his skin!—he slips -prudently back to the bottom of his snug funnel. But if the weather -seems warm he smashes his ceiling with a few strokes of his claws, and -climbs to the surface. - -It is the fluid substance carried by the Cicada-grub in his swollen -body that enables him to get rid of the rubbish in his burrow. As he -digs he sprinkles the dusty earth and turns it into paste. The walls -then become soft and yielding. The mud squeezes into the chinks of the -rough soil, and the grub compresses it with his fat body. This is why, -when he appears at the top, he is always covered with wet stains. - - - -For some time after the Cicada-grub’s first appearance above-ground he -wanders about the neighbourhood, looking for a suitable spot in which -to cast off his skin—a tiny bush, a tuft of thyme, a blade of grass, or -the twig of a shrub. When he finds it he climbs up, and clings to it -firmly with the claws of his fore-feet. His fore-legs stiffen into an -immovable grip. - -Then his outer skin begins to split along the middle of the back, -showing the pale-green Cicada within. Presently the head is free; then -the sucker and front legs appear, and finally the hind-legs and the -rumpled wings. The whole insect is free now, except the extreme tip of -his body. - -He next performs a wonderful gymnastic feat. High in the air as he is, -fixed to his old skin at one point only, he turns himself over till his -head is hanging downwards. His crumpled wings straighten out, unfurl, -and spread themselves. Then with an almost invisible movement he draws -himself up again by sheer strength, and hooks his fore-legs on to his -empty skin. This movement has released the tip of his body from its -sheath. The whole operation has taken about half an hour. - -For a time the freed Cicada does not feel very strong. He must bathe in -air and sunshine before strength and colour come to his frail body. -Hanging to his cast skin by his fore-claws only, he sways at the least -breath of air, still feeble and still green. But at last the brown -tinge appears, and is soon general. Supposing him to have taken -possession of the twig at nine o’clock in the morning, the Cicada flies -away at half-past twelve, leaving his cast skin behind him. Sometimes -it hangs from the twigs for months. - - - - -III - -THE CICADA’S MUSIC - -The Cicada, it appears, loves singing for its own sake. Not content -with carrying an instrument called the cymbal in a cavity behind his -wings, he increases its power by means of sounding-boards under his -chest. Indeed, there is one kind of Cicada who sacrifices a great deal -in order to give full play to his musical tastes. He carries such an -enormous sounding-board that there is hardly any room left for his -vital organs, which are squeezed into a tiny corner. Assuredly one must -be passionately devoted to music thus to clear away one’s internal -organs in order to make room for a musical box! - -Unfortunately the song he loves so much is extremely unattractive to -others. Nor have I yet discovered its object. It is usually suggested -that he is calling his mate; but the facts appear to contradict this -idea. - -For fifteen years the Common Cicada has thrust his society upon me. -Every summer for two months I have these insects before my eyes, and -their song in my ears. I see them ranged in rows on the smooth bark of -the plane-trees, the maker of music and his mate sitting side by side. -With their suckers driven into the tree they drink, motionless. As the -sun turns they also turn round the branch with slow, sidelong steps, to -find the hottest spot. Whether drinking or moving they never cease -singing. - -It seems unlikely, therefore, that they are calling their mates. You do -not spend months on end calling to some one who is at your elbow. - -Indeed, I am inclined to think that the Cicada himself cannot even hear -the song he sings with so much apparent delight. This might account for -the relentless way in which he forces his music upon others. - -He has very clear sight. His five eyes tell him what is happening to -right and to left and above his head; and the moment he sees any one -coming he is silent and flies away. Yet no noise disturbs him. Place -yourself behind him, and then talk, whistle, clap your hands, and knock -two stones together. For much less than this a bird, though he would -not see you, would fly away terrified. The imperturbable Cicada goes on -rattling as though nothing were there. - -On one occasion I borrowed the local artillery, that is to say the guns -that are fired on feast-days in the village. There were two of them, -and they were crammed with powder as though for the most important -rejoicings. They were placed at the foot of the plane-trees in front of -my door. We were careful to leave the windows open, to prevent the -panes from breaking. The Cicadæ in the branches overhead could not see -what was happening. - -Six of us waited below, eager to hear what would be the effect on the -orchestra above. - -Bang! The gun went off with a noise like a thunderclap. - -Quite unconcerned, the Cicadæ continued to sing. Not one appeared in -the least disturbed. There was no change whatever in the quality or the -quantity of the sound. The second gun had no more effect than the -first. - -I think, after this experiment, we must admit that the Cicada is hard -of hearing, and like a very deaf man, is quite unconscious that he is -making a noise. - - - - -IV - -THE CICADA’S EGGS - -The Common Cicada likes to lay her eggs on small dry branches. She -chooses, as far as possible, tiny stalks, which may be of any size -between that of a straw and a lead-pencil. The sprig is never lying on -the ground, is usually nearly upright in position, and is almost always -dead. - -Having found a twig to suit her, she makes a row of pricks with the -sharp instrument on her chest—such pricks as might be made with a pin -if it were driven downwards on a slant, so as to tear the fibres and -force them slightly upwards. If she is undisturbed she will make thirty -or forty of these pricks on the same twig. - -In the tiny cells formed by these pricks she lays her eggs. The cells -are narrow passages, each one slanting down towards the one below it. I -generally find about ten eggs in each cell, so it is plain that the -Cicada lays between three and four hundred eggs altogether. - -This is a fine family for one insect. The numbers point to some special -danger that threatens the Cicada, and makes it necessary to produce a -great quantity of grubs lest some should be destroyed. After many -observations I have discovered what this danger is. It is an extremely -tiny Gnat, compared with which the Cicada is a monster. - -This Gnat, like the Cicada, carries a boring-tool. It is planted -beneath her body, near the middle, and sticks out at right angles. As -fast as the Cicada lays her eggs the Gnat tries to destroy them. It is -a real scourge to the Cicada family. It is amazing to watch her calm -and brazen audacity in the presence of the giant who could crush her by -simply stepping on her. I have seen as many as three preparing to -despoil one unhappy Cicada at the same time, standing close behind one -another. - -The Cicada has just stocked a cell with eggs, and is climbing a little -higher to make another cell. One of the brigands runs to the spot she -has just left; and here, almost under the claws of the monster, as -calmly and fearlessly as though she were at home, the Gnat bores a -second hole above the Cicada’s eggs, and places among them an egg of -her own. By the time the Cicada flies away most of her cells have, in -this way, received a stranger’s egg, which will be the ruin of hers. A -small quick-hatching grub, one only to each cell, handsomely fed on a -dozen raw eggs, will take the place of the Cicada’s family. - -This deplorable mother has learnt nothing from centuries of experience. -Her large and excellent eyes cannot fail to see the terrible felons -fluttering round her. She must know they are at her heels, and yet she -remains unmoved, and lets herself be victimised. She could easily crush -the wicked atoms, but she is incapable of altering her instincts, even -to save her family from destruction. - -Through my magnifying-glass I have seen the hatching of the Cicada’s -eggs. When the grub first appears it has a marked likeness to an -extremely small fish, with large black eyes, and a curious sort of mock -fin under its body, formed of the two fore-legs joined together. This -fin has some power of movement, and helps the grub to work its way out -of the shell, and also—a much more difficult matter—out of the fibrous -stem in which it is imprisoned. - -As soon as this fish-like object has made its way out of the cell it -sheds its skin. But the cast skin forms itself into a thread, by which -the grub remains fastened to the twig or stem. Here, before dropping to -the ground, it treats itself to a sun-bath, kicking about and trying -its strength, or swinging lazily at the end of its rope. - -Its antennæ now are free, and wave about; its legs work their joints; -those in front open and shut their claws. I know hardly any more -curious sight than this tiny acrobat hanging by the tip of its body, -swinging at the least breath of wind, and making ready in the air for -its somersault into the world. - -Sooner or later, without losing much time, it drops to the ground. The -little creature, no bigger than a Flea, has saved its tender body from -the rough earth by swinging on its cord. It has hardened itself in the -air, that luxurious eiderdown. It now plunges into the stern realities -of life. - -I see a thousand dangers ahead of it. The merest breath of wind could -blow it on to the hard rock, or into the stagnant water in some deep -cart-rut, or on the sand where nothing grows, or else on a clay soil, -too tough for it to dig in. - -The feeble creature needs shelter at once, and must look for an -underground refuge. The days are growing cold, and delays are fatal to -it. It must wander about in search of soft soil, and no doubt many die -before they find it. - -When at last it discovers the right spot it attacks the earth with the -hooks on its fore-feet. Through the magnifying-glass I watch it -wielding its pickaxes, and raking an atom of earth to the surface. In a -few minutes a well has been scooped out. The little creature goes down -into it, buries itself, and is henceforth invisible. - -The underground life of the undeveloped Cicada remains a secret. But we -know how long it remains in the earth before it comes to the surface -and becomes a full-grown Cicada. For four years it lives below the -soil. Then for about five weeks it sings in the sunshine. - -Four years of hard work in the darkness, and a month of delight in the -sun—such is the Cicada’s life. We must not blame him for the noisy -triumph of his song. For four years he has dug the earth with his feet, -and then suddenly he is dressed in exquisite raiment, provided with -wings that rival the bird’s, and bathed in heat and light! What cymbals -can be loud enough to celebrate his happiness, so hardly earned, and so -very, very short? - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE PRAYING MANTIS - - -I - -HER HUNTING - -There is an insect of the south that is quite as interesting as the -Cicada, but much less famous, because it makes no noise. Had it been -provided with cymbals, its renown would have been greater than the -celebrated musician’s, for it is most unusual both in shape and habits. - -A long time ago, in the days of ancient Greece, this insect was named -Mantis, or the Prophet. The peasant saw her on the sun-scorched grass, -standing half-erect in a very imposing and majestic manner, with her -broad green gossamer wings trailing like long veils, and her fore-legs, -like arms, raised to the sky as though in prayer. To the peasant’s -ignorance the insect seemed like a priestess or a nun, and so she came -to be called the Praying Mantis. - -There was never a greater mistake! Those pious airs are a fraud; those -arms raised in prayer are really the most horrible weapons, which slay -whatever passes within reach. The Mantis is fierce as a tigress, cruel -as an ogress. She feeds only on living creatures. - -There is nothing in her appearance to inspire dread. She is not without -a certain beauty, with her slender, graceful figure, her pale-green -colouring, and her long gauze wings. Having a flexible neck, she can -move her head freely in all directions. She is the only insect that can -direct her gaze wherever she will. She almost has a face. - -Great is the contrast between this peaceful-looking body and the -murderous machinery of the fore-legs. The haunch is very long and -powerful, while the thigh is even longer, and carries on its lower -surface two rows of sharp spikes or teeth. Behind these teeth are three -spurs. In short, the thigh is a saw with two blades, between which the -leg lies when folded back. - -This leg itself is also a double-edged saw, provided with a greater -number of teeth than the thigh. It ends in a strong hook with a point -as sharp as a needle, and a double blade like a curved pruning-knife. I -have many painful memories of this hook. Many a time, when -Mantis-hunting, I have been clawed by the insect and forced to ask -somebody else to release me. No insect in this part of the world is so -troublesome to handle. The Mantis claws you with her pruning-hooks, -pricks you with her spikes, seizes you in her vice, and makes -self-defence impossible if you wish to keep your captive alive. - -When at rest, the trap is folded back against the chest and looks quite -harmless. There you have the insect praying. But if a victim passes by, -the appearance of prayer is quickly dropped. The three long divisions -of the trap are suddenly unfolded, and the prey is caught with the -sharp hook at the end of them, and drawn back between the two saws. -Then the vice closes, and all is over. Locusts, Grasshoppers, and even -stronger insects are helpless against the four rows of teeth. - -It is impossible to make a complete study of the habits of the Mantis -in the open fields, so I am obliged to take her indoors. She can live -quite happily in a pan filled with sand and covered with a gauze -dish-cover, if only she be supplied with plenty of fresh food. In order -to find out what can be done by the strength and daring of the Mantis, -I provide her not only with Locusts and Grasshoppers, but also with the -largest Spiders of the neighbourhood. This is what I see. - -A grey Locust, heedless of danger, walks towards the Mantis. The latter -gives a convulsive shiver, and suddenly, in the most surprising way, -strikes an attitude that fills the Locust with terror, and is quite -enough to startle any one. You see before you unexpectedly a sort of -bogy-man or Jack-in-the-box. The wing-covers open; the wings spread to -their full extent and stand erect like sails, towering over the -insect’s back; the tip of the body curls up like a crook, rising and -falling with short jerks, and making a sound like the puffing of a -startled Adder. Planted defiantly on its four hind-legs, the Mantis -holds the front part of its body almost upright. The murderous legs -open wide, and show a pattern of black-and-white spots beneath them. - -In this strange attitude the Mantis stands motionless, with eyes fixed -on her prey. If the Locust moves, the Mantis turns her head. The object -of this performance is plain. It is intended to strike terror into the -heart of the victim, to paralyse it with fright before attacking it. -The Mantis is pretending to be a ghost! - -The plan is quite successful. The Locust sees a spectre before him, and -gazes at it without moving. He to whom leaping is so easy makes no -attempt at escape. He stays stupidly where he is, or even draws nearer -with a leisurely step. - -As soon as he is within reach of the Mantis she strikes with her claws; -her double saws close and clutch; the poor wretch protests in vain; the -cruel ogress begins her meal. - -The pretty Crab Spider stabs her victim in the neck, in order to poison -it and make it helpless. In the same way the Mantis attacks the Locust -first at the back of the neck, to destroy its power of movement. This -enables her to kill and eat an insect as big as herself, or even -bigger. It is amazing that the greedy creature can contain so much -food. - -The various Digger-wasps receive visits from her pretty frequently. -Posted near the burrows on a bramble, she waits for chance to bring -near her a double prize, the Hunting-wasp and the prey she is bringing -home. For a long time she waits in vain; for the Wasp is suspicious and -on her guard: still, now and then a rash one is caught. With a sudden -rustle of wings the Mantis terrifies the new-comer, who hesitates for a -moment in her fright. Then, with the sharpness of a spring, the Wasp is -fixed as in a trap between the blades of the double saw—the toothed -fore-arm and toothed upper-arm of the Mantis. The victim is then gnawed -in small mouthfuls. - -I once saw a Bee-eating Wasp, while carrying a Bee to her storehouse, -attacked and caught by a Mantis. The Wasp was in the act of eating the -honey she had found in the Bee’s crop. The double saw of the Mantis -closed suddenly on the feasting Wasp; but neither terror nor torture -could persuade that greedy creature to leave off eating. Even while she -was herself being actually devoured she continued to lick the honey -from her Bee! - -I regret to say that the meals of this savage ogress are not confined -to other kinds of insects. For all her sanctimonious airs she is a -cannibal. She will eat her sister as calmly as though she were a -Grasshopper; and those around her will make no protest, being quite -ready to do the same on the first opportunity. Indeed, she even makes a -habit of devouring her mate, whom she seizes by the neck and then -swallows by little mouthfuls, leaving only the wings. - -She is worse than the Wolf; for it is said that even Wolves never eat -each other. - - - - -II - -HER NEST - -After all, however, the Mantis has her good points, like most people. -She makes a most marvellous nest. - -This nest is to be found more or less everywhere in sunny places: on -stones, wood, vine-stocks, twigs, or dry grass, and even on such things -as bits of brick, strips of linen, or the shrivelled leather of an old -boot. Any support will serve, as long as there is an uneven surface to -form a solid foundation. - -In size the nest is between one and two inches long, and less than an -inch wide; and its colour is as golden as a grain of wheat. It is made -of a frothy substance, which has become solid and hard, and it smells -like silk when it is burnt. The shape of it varies according to the -support on which it is based, but in all cases the upper surface is -convex. One can distinguish three bands, or zones, of which the middle -one is made of little plates or scales, arranged in pairs and -overlapping like the tiles of a roof. The edges of these plates are -free, forming two rows of slits or little doorways, through which the -young Mantis escapes at the moment of hatching. In every other part the -wall of the nest is impenetrable. - -The eggs are arranged in layers, with the ends containing the heads -pointed towards the doorways. Of these doorways, as I have just said, -there are two rows. One half of the grubs will go out through the right -door, and the other half through the left. - -It is a remarkable fact that the mother Mantis builds this -cleverly-made nest while she is actually laying her eggs. From her body -she produces a sticky substance, rather like the Caterpillar’s -silk-fluid; and this material she mixes with the air and whips into -froth. She beats it into foam with two ladles that she has at the tip -of her body, just as we beat white of egg with a fork. The foam is -greyish-white, almost like soapsuds, and when it first appears it is -sticky; but two minutes afterwards it has solidified. - -In this sea of foam the Mantis deposits her eggs. As each layer of eggs -is laid, it is covered with froth, which quickly becomes solid. - -In a new nest the belt of exit-doors is coated with a material that -seems different from the rest—a layer of fine porous matter, of a pure, -dull, almost chalky white, which contrasts with the dirty white of the -remainder of the nest. It is like the mixture that confectioners make -of whipped white of egg, sugar, and starch, with which to ornament -their cakes. This snowy covering is very easily crumbled and removed. -When it is gone the exit-belt is clearly visible, with its two rows of -plates. The wind and rain sooner or later remove it in strips or -flakes, and therefore the old nests show no traces of it. - -But these two materials, though they appear different, are really only -two forms of the same matter. The Mantis with her ladles sweeps the -surface of the foam, skimming the top of the froth, and collecting it -into a band along the back of the nest. The ribbon that looks like -sugar-icing is merely the thinnest and lightest portion of the sticky -spray, which appears whiter than the nest because its bubbles are more -delicate, and reflect more light. - -It is truly a wonderful piece of machinery that can, so methodically -and swiftly, produce the horny central substance on which the first -eggs are laid, the eggs themselves, the protecting froth, the soft -sugar-like covering of the doorways, and at the same time can build -overlapping plates, and the narrow passages leading to them! Yet the -Mantis, while she is doing all this, hangs motionless on the foundation -of the nest. She gives not a glance at the building that is rising -behind her. Her legs act no part in the affair. The machinery works by -itself. - -As soon as she has done her work the mother withdraws. I expected to -see her return and show some tender feeling for the cradle of her -family, but it evidently has no further interest for her. - -The Mantis, I fear, has no heart. She eats her husband, and deserts her -children. - - - - -III - -THE HATCHING OF HER EGGS - -The eggs of the Mantis usually hatch in bright sunshine, at about ten -o’clock on a mid-June morning. - -As I have already told you, there is only one part of the nest from -which the grub can find an outlet, namely the band of scales round the -middle. From under each of these scales one sees slowly appearing a -blunt, transparent lump, followed by two large black specks, which are -the creature’s eyes. The baby grub slips gently under the thin plate -and half releases itself. It is reddish yellow, and has a thick, -swollen head. Under its outer skin it is quite easy to distinguish the -large black eyes, the mouth flattened against the chest, the legs -plastered to the body from front to back. With the exception of these -legs the whole thing reminds one somewhat of the first state of the -Cicada on leaving the egg. - -Like the Cicada, the young Mantis finds it necessary to wear an overall -when it is coming into the world, for the sake of convenience and -safety. It has to emerge from the depths of the nest through narrow, -winding ways, in which full-spread slender limbs could not find enough -room. The tall stilts, the murderous harpoons, the delicate antennæ, -would hinder its passage, and indeed make it impossible. The creature -therefore appears in swaddling-clothes, and has the shape of a boat. - -When the grub peeps out under the thin scales of its nest its head -becomes bigger and bigger, till it looks like a throbbing blister. The -little creature alternately pushes forward and draws back, in its -efforts to free itself, and at each movement the head grows larger. At -last the outer skin bursts at the upper part of the chest, and the grub -wriggles and tugs and bends about, determined to throw off its overall. -Finally the legs and the long antennæ are freed, and a few shakes -complete the operation. - -It is a striking sight to see a hundred young Mantes coming from the -nest at once. Hardly does one tiny creature show its black eyes under a -scale before a swarm of others appears. It is as though a signal passed -from one to the other, so swiftly does the hatching spread. Almost in a -moment the middle zone of the nest is covered with grubs, who run about -feverishly, stripping themselves of their torn garments. Then they drop -off, or clamber into the nearest foliage. A few days later a fresh -swarm appears, and so on till all the eggs are hatched. - -But alas! the poor grubs are hatched into a world of dangers. I have -seen them hatching many times, both out of doors in my enclosure, and -in the seclusion of a greenhouse, where I hoped I should be better able -to protect them. Twenty times at least I have watched the scene, and -every time the slaughter of the grubs has been terrible. The Mantis -lays many eggs, but she will never lay enough to cope with the hungry -murderers who lie in wait until the grubs appear. - -The Ants, above all, are their enemies. Every day I find them visiting -my nests. It is in vain for me to interfere; they always get the better -of me. They seldom succeed in entering the nest; its hard walls form -too strong a fortress. But they wait outside for their prey. - -The moment that the young grubs appear they are grabbed by the Ants, -pulled out of their sheaths, and cut in pieces. You see piteous -struggles between the little creatures who can only protest with wild -wrigglings and the ferocious brigands who are carrying them off. In a -moment the massacre is over; all that is left of the flourishing family -is a few scattered survivors who have escaped by accident. - -It is curious that the Mantis, the scourge of the insect race, should -be herself so often devoured at this early stage of her life, by one of -the least of that race, the Ant. The ogress sees her family eaten by -the dwarf. But this does not continue long. So soon as she has become -firm and strong from contact with the air the Mantis can hold her own. -She trots about briskly among the Ants, who fall back as she passes, no -longer daring to tackle her: with her fore-legs brought close to her -chest, like arms ready for self-defence, she already strikes awe into -them by her proud bearing. - -But the Mantis has another enemy who is less easily dismayed. The -little Grey Lizard, the lover of sunny walls, pays small heed to -threatening attitudes. With the tip of his slender tongue he picks up, -one by one, the few stray insects that have escaped the Ant. They make -but a small mouthful, but to judge from the Lizard’s expression they -taste very good. Every time he gulps down one of the little creatures -he half-closes his eyelids, a sign of profound satisfaction. - -Moreover, even before the hatching the eggs are in danger. There is a -tiny insect called the Chalcis, who carries a probe sharp enough to -penetrate the nest of solidified foam. So the brood of the Mantis -shares the fate of the Cicada’s. The eggs of a stranger are laid in the -nest, and are hatched before those of the rightful owner. The owner’s -eggs are then eaten by the invaders. The Mantis lays, perhaps, a -thousand eggs. Possibly only one couple of these escapes destruction. - -The Mantis eats the Locust: the Ant eats the Mantis: the Wryneck eats -the Ant. And in the autumn, when the Wryneck has grown fat from eating -many Ants, I eat the Wryneck. - -It may well be that the Mantis, the Locust, the Ant, and even lesser -creatures contribute to the strength of the human brain. In strange and -unseen ways they have all supplied a drop of oil to feed the lamp of -thought. Their energies, slowly developed, stored up, and handed on to -us, pass into our veins and sustain our weakness. We live by their -death. The world is an endless circle. Everything finishes so that -everything may begin again; everything dies so that everything may -live. - -In many ages the Mantis has been regarded with superstitious awe. In -Provence its nest is held to be the best remedy for chilblains. You cut -the thing in two, squeeze it, and rub the afflicted part with the juice -that streams out of it. The peasants declare that it works like a -charm. I have never felt any relief from it myself. - -Further, it is highly praised as a wonderful cure for toothache. As -long as you have it on you, you need never fear that trouble. Our -housewives gather it under a favourable moon; they keep it carefully in -the corner of a cupboard, or sew it into their pocket. The neighbours -borrow it when tortured by a tooth. They call it a tigno. - -“Lend me your tigno; I am in agony,” says the sufferer with the swollen -face. - -The other hastens to unstitch and hand over the precious thing. - -“Don’t lose it, whatever you do,” she says earnestly to her friend. -“It’s the only one I have, and this isn’t the right time of moon.” - -This simplicity of our peasants is surpassed by an English physician -and man of science who lived in the sixteenth century. He tells us -that, in those days, if a child lost his way in the country, he would -ask the Mantis to put him on his road. “The Mantis,” adds the author, -“will stretch out one of her feet and shew him the right way and -seldome or never misse.” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE GLOW-WORM - - -I - -HIS SURGICAL INSTRUMENT - -Few insects enjoy more fame than the Glow-worm, the curious little -animal who celebrates the joy of life by lighting a lantern at its -tail-end. We all know it, at least by name, even if we have not seen it -roaming through the grass, like a spark fallen from the full moon. The -Greeks of old called it the Bright-tailed, and modern science gives it -the name Lampyris. - -As a matter of fact the Lampyris is not a worm at all, not even in -general appearance. He has six short legs, which he well knows how to -use, for he is a real gad-about. The male, when he is full-grown has -wing-cases, like the true Beetle that he is. The female is an -unattractive creature who knows nothing of the delights of flying and -all her life remains in the larva, or incomplete form. Even at this -stage the word “worm” is out of place. We French use the phrase “naked -as a worm” to express the lack of any kind of protection. Now the -Lampyris is clothed, that is to say he wears an outer skin that serves -as a defence; and he is, moreover, rather richly coloured. He is dark -brown, with pale pink on the chest; and each segment, or division, of -his body is ornamented at the edge with two spots of fairly bright red. -A costume like this was never worn by a worm! - -Nevertheless we will continue to call him the Glow-worm, since it is by -that name that he is best known to the world. - -The two most interesting peculiarities about the Glow-worm are, first, -the way he secures his food, and secondly, the lantern at his tail. - -A famous Frenchman, a master of the science of food, once said: - -“Show me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.” - -A similar question should be addressed to every insect whose habits we -propose to study; for the information supplied by food is the chief of -all the documents of animal life. Well, in spite of his innocent -appearance, the Glow-worm is an eater of flesh, a hunter of game; and -he carries on his hunting with rare villainy. His regular prey is the -Snail. This fact has long been known; but what is not so well known is -his curious method of attack, of which I have seen no other example -anywhere. - -Before he begins to feed on his victim he gives it an anæsthetic—he -makes it unconscious, as a person is made unconscious with chloroform -before a surgical operation. His food, as a rule, is a certain small -Snail hardly the size of a cherry, which collects in clusters during -the hot weather, on the stiff stubble and other dry stalks by the -roadside, and there remains motionless, in profound meditation, -throughout the scorching summer days. In some such place as this I have -often seen the Glow-worm feasting on his unconscious prey, which he had -just paralysed on its shaky support. - -But he frequents other places too. At the edge of cool, damp ditches, -where the vegetation is varied, many Snails are to be found; and in -such spots as these the Glow-worm can kill his victim on the ground. I -can reproduce these conditions at home, and can there follow the -operator’s performance down to the smallest detail. - -I will try to describe the strange sight. I place a little grass in a -wide glass jar. In this I install a few Glow-worms and a supply of -Snails of a suitable size, neither too large nor too small. One must be -patient and wait, and above all keep a careful watch, for the events -take place unexpectedly and do not last long. - -For a moment the Glow-worm examines his prey, which, according to its -habit, is completely hidden in the shell, except for the edge of the -“mantle,” which projects slightly. Then the hunter draws his weapon. It -is a very simple weapon, but it cannot be seen without a -magnifying-glass. It consists of two mandibles, bent back into a hook, -very sharp and as thin as a hair. Through the microscope one can see a -slender groove running down the hook. And that is all. - -The insect repeatedly taps the Snail’s mantle with its instrument. It -all happens with such gentleness as to suggest kisses rather than -bites. As children, teasing one another, we used to talk of “tweaks” to -express a slight squeeze of the finger-tips, something more like -tickling than a serious pinch. Let us use that word. In conversation -with animals, language loses nothing by remaining simple. The Glow-worm -gives tweaks to the Snail. - -He doles them out methodically, without hurrying, and takes a brief -rest after each of them, as though to find out what effect has been -produced. The number of tweaks is not great: half a dozen at most, -which are enough to make the Snail motionless, and to rob him of all -feeling. That other pinches are administered later, at the time of -eating, seems very likely, but I cannot say anything for certain on -that subject. The first few, however—there are never many—are enough to -prevent the Snail from feeling anything, thanks to the promptitude of -the Glow-worm, who, at lightning speed, darts some kind of poison into -his victim by means of his grooved hooks. - -There is no doubt at all that the Snail is made insensible to pain. If, -when the Glow-worm has dealt some four or five of his twitches, I take -away the victim and prick it with a fine needle, there is not a quiver -in the wounded flesh, there is not the smallest sign of life. Moreover, -I occasionally chance to see Snails attacked by the Lampyris while they -are creeping along the ground, the foot slowly crawling, the tentacles -swollen to their full extent. A few disordered movements betray a brief -excitement on the part of the Snail, and then everything ceases: the -foot no longer crawls, the front-part loses its graceful curve, the -tentacles become limp and give way under their own weight, dangling -feebly like a broken stick. The Snail, to all appearance, is dead. - -He is not, however, really dead. I can bring him to life again. When he -has been for two or three days in a condition that is neither life nor -death I give him a shower-bath. In about a couple of days my prisoner, -so lately injured by the Glow-worm’s treachery, is restored to his -usual state. He revives, he recovers movement and sensibility. He is -affected by the touch of a needle; he shifts his place, crawls, puts -out his tentacles, as though nothing unusual had occurred. The general -torpor, a sort of deep drunkenness, has vanished outright. The dead -returns to life. - -Human science did not invent the art of making a person insensible to -pain, which is one of the triumphs of surgery. Far back in the -centuries the Glow-worm, and apparently others too, was practising it. -The surgeon makes us breathe the fumes of ether or chloroform: the -insect darts forth from his fangs very tiny doses of a special poison. - -When we consider the harmless and peaceful nature of the Snail it seems -curious that the Glow-worm should require this remarkable talent. But I -think I know the reason. - -When the Snail is on the ground, creeping, or even shrunk into his -shell, the attack never presents any difficulty. The shell possesses no -lid and leaves the hermit’s fore-part to a great extent exposed. But it -very often happens that he is in a raised position, clinging to the tip -of a grass-stalk, or perhaps to the smooth surface of a stone. This -support to which he fastens himself serves very well as a protection; -it acts as a lid, supposing that the shell fits closely on the stone or -stalk. But if the least bit of the Snail be left uncovered the slender -hooks of the Glow-worm can find their way in through the gap, and in a -moment the victim is made unconscious, and can be eaten in comfort. - -Now, a Snail perched on top of a stalk is very easily upset. The -slightest struggle, the most feeble wriggle on his part, would dislodge -him; he would fall to the ground, and the Glow-worm would be left -without food. It is necessary for the Snail to be made instantly -unconscious of pain, or he would escape; and it must be done with a -touch so delicate that it does not shake him from his stalk. And that, -I think, is why the Glow-worm possesses his strange surgical -instrument. - - - - -II - -HIS ROSETTE - -The Glow-worm not only makes his victim insensible while he is poised -on the side of a dry grass-stalk, but he eats him in the same dangerous -position. And his preparations for his meal are by no means simple. - -What is his manner of consuming it? Does he really eat, that is to say, -does he divide his food into pieces, does he carve it into minute -particles, which are afterwards ground by a chewing-apparatus? I think -not. I never see a trace of solid nourishment on my captives’ mouths. -The Glow-worm does not eat in the strict sense of the word; he merely -drinks. He feeds on a thin gruel, into which he transforms his prey. -Like the flesh-eating grub of the Fly, he can digest his food before he -swallows it; he turns his prey into liquid before feeding on it. - -This is how things happen. A Snail has been made insensible by a -Glow-worm, who is nearly always alone, even when the prize is a large -one like the Common Snail. Soon a number of guests hasten up—two, -three, or more—and, without any quarrel with the real owner, all alike -fall to. A couple of days later, if I turn the shell so that the -opening is downwards, the contents flow out like soup from a saucepan. -By the time the meal is finished only insignificant remains are left. - -The matter is obvious. By repeated tiny bites, similar to the tweaks -which we saw administered at the beginning, the flesh of the Snail is -converted into a gruel on which the various guests nourish themselves -each in his own way, each working at the broth by means of some special -pepsine (or digestive fluid), and each taking his own mouthfuls of it. -The use of this method shows that the Glow-worm’s mouth must be very -feebly armed, apart from the two fangs which sting the patient and -inject the poison. No doubt these fangs at the same time inject some -other substance which turns the solid flesh into liquid, in such a -thorough way that every morsel is turned to account. - -And this is done with exquisite delicacy, though sometimes in a -position that is anything but steady. The Snails imprisoned in my -apparatus sometimes crawl up to the top, which is closed with a glass -pane. To this pane they fix themselves with a speck of the sticky -substance they carry with them; but, as they are miserly in their use -of this substance, the merest shake is enough to loosen the shell and -send it to the bottom of the jar. - -Now it is not unusual for the Glow-worm to hoist himself to the top, -with the help of a certain climbing-organ that makes up for the -weakness of his legs. He selects his prey, makes a careful inspection -of it to find a slit, nibbles it a little, makes it insensible, and -then, without delay, proceeds to prepare the gruel which he will go on -eating for days on end. - -When he has finished his meal the shell is found to be absolutely -empty. And yet this shell, which was fixed to the glass only by the -slight smear of stickiness, has not come loose, nor even shifted its -position in the smallest degree. Without any protest from the hermit -who has been gradually converted into broth, it has been drained dry on -the very spot at which the first attack was made. These small details -show us how promptly the anæsthetic bite takes effect, and how very -skilfully the Glow-worm treats his Snail. - -To do all this, poised high in air on a sheet of glass or a grass-stem, -the Glow-worm must have some special limb or organ to keep him from -slipping. It is plain that his short clumsy legs are not enough. - -Through the magnifying-glass we can see that he does indeed possess a -special organ of this kind. Beneath his body, towards the tail, there -is a white spot. The glass shows that this is composed of about a dozen -short, fleshy little tubes, or stumpy fingers, which are sometimes -gathered into a cluster, sometimes spread into a rosette. This bunch of -little fingers helps the Glow-worm to stick to a smooth surface, and -also to climb. If he wishes to fix himself to a pane of glass or a -stalk he opens his rosette, and spreads it wide on the support, to -which it clings by its own natural stickiness. And by opening and -shutting alternately it helps him to creep along and to climb. - -The little fingers that form this rosette are not jointed, but are able -to move in all directions. Indeed they are more like tubes than -fingers, for they cannot seize anything, they can only hold on by their -stickiness. They are very useful, however, for they have a third -purpose, besides their powers of clinging and climbing. They are used -as a sponge and brush. At a moment of rest, after a meal, the Glow-worm -passes and repasses this brush over his head and sides and his whole -body, a performance made possible by the flexibility of his spine. This -is done point by point, from one end of the body to the other, with a -scrupulous care that proves the great interest he takes in the -operation. At first one may wonder why he should dust and polish -himself so carefully. But no doubt, by the time he has turned the Snail -into gruel inside the shell and has then spent several days in eating -the result of his labours, a wash and brush-up is not amiss. - - - - -III - -HIS LAMP - -If the Glow-worm possessed no other talent than that of chloroforming -his prey by means of a few tweaks as gentle as kisses, he would be -unknown to the world in general. But he also knows how to light himself -like a lantern. He shines; which is an excellent manner of becoming -famous. - -In the case of the female Glow-worm the lighting-apparatus occupies the -last three divisions of the body. On each of the first two it takes the -form, on the under surface, of a wide belt of light; on the third -division or segment the bright part is much smaller, and consists only -of two spots, which shine through the back, and are visible both above -and below the animal. From these belts and spots there comes a glorious -white light, delicately tinged with blue. - -The male Glow-worm carries only the smaller of these lamps, the two -spots on the end segment, which are possessed by the entire tribe. -These luminous spots appear upon the young grub, and continue -throughout life unchanged. And they are always visible both on the -upper and lower surface, whereas the two large belts peculiar to the -female shine only below the body. - -I have examined the shining belt under the microscope. On the skin a -sort of whitewash is spread, formed of some very fine grain-like -substance, which is the source of the light. Close beside it is a -curious air-tube, with a short wide stem leading to a kind of bushy -tuft of delicate branches. These branches spread over the sheet of -shining matter, and sometimes dip into it. - -It is plain to me that the brightness is produced by the -breathing-organs of the Glow-worm. There are certain substances which, -when mixed with air, become luminous or even burst into flame. Such -substances are called combustible, and the act of their producing light -or flame by mingling with the air is called oxidisation. The lamp of -the Glow-worm is the result of oxidisation. The substance that looks -like whitewash is the matter that is oxidised, and the air is supplied -by the tube connected with the Glow-worm’s breathing-organs. But as to -the nature of the shining substance, no one as yet knows anything. - -We are better informed as regards another question. We know that the -Glow-worm has complete control of the light he carries. He can turn it -up or down, or out, as he pleases. - -If the flow of air through the tube be increased, the light becomes -more intense: if the same air-tube, influenced by the will of the -animal, stops the passage of air, the light grows fainter or even goes -out. - -Excitement produces an effect upon the air-tube. I am speaking now of -the modest fairy-lamp, the spots on the last segment of the Glow-worm’s -body. These are suddenly and almost completely put out by any kind of -flurry. When I am hunting for young Glow-worms I can plainly see them -glimmering on the blades of grass; but should the least false step -disturb a neighbouring twig, the light goes out at once and the insect -becomes invisible. - -The gorgeous belts of the females, however, are very little, if at all, -affected by even the most violent surprise. I fire a gun, for instance, -beside a wire-gauze cage in which I am rearing a menagerie of female -Glow-worms in the open air. The explosion produces no result: the -illumination continues, as bright and placid as before. I take a spray, -and rain down a slight shower of cold water upon the flock. Not one of -my animals puts out its light; at the very most there is a brief pause -in the radiance, and then only in some cases. I send a puff of smoke -from my pipe into the cage. This time the pause is more marked. There -are even some lamps put out, but they are soon relit. Calm returns, and -the light is as bright as ever. I take some of the captives in my -fingers and tease them a little. Yet the illumination is not much -dimmed, if I do not press too hard with my thumb. Nothing short of very -serious reasons would make the insect put out its signals altogether. - -All things considered, there is not a doubt but that the Glow-worm -himself manages his lighting-apparatus, extinguishing and rekindling it -at will; but there is one circumstance over which the insect has no -control. If I cut off a strip of the skin, showing one of the luminous -belts, and place it in a glass tube, it will shine away merrily, though -not quite as brilliantly as on the living body. The presence of life is -unnecessary, because the luminous skin is in direct contact with the -air, and the flow of oxygen through the air-tube is therefore not -required. In aerated water the skin shines as brightly as in the free -air, but the light is extinguished in water that has been deprived of -its air by boiling. There could be no better proof that the Glow-worm’s -light is the effect of oxidisation. - -The light is white, calm, and soft to the eyes, and suggests a spark -dropped by the full moon. In spite of its splendour it is very feeble. -If we move a Glow-worm along a line of print, in perfect darkness, we -can easily make out the letters one by one, and even words when they -are not too long; but nothing is visible beyond this very narrow zone. -A lantern of this kind soon tires the reader’s patience. - -These brilliant creatures know nothing at all of family affection. They -lay their eggs anywhere, or rather strew them at random, either on the -earth or on a blade of grass. Then they pay no further attention to -them. - -From start to finish the Glow-worm shines. Even the eggs are luminous, -and so are the grubs. At the approach of cold weather the latter go -down into the ground, but not very far. If I dig them up I find them -with their little stern-lights still shining. Even below the soil they -keep their lanterns bravely alight. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -A MASON-WASP - - -I - -HER CHOICE OF A BUILDING-SITE - -Of the various insects that like to make their home in our houses, -certainly the most interesting, for her beautiful shape, her curious -manners, and her wonderful nest, is a certain Wasp called the Pelopæus. -She is very little known, even to the people by whose fireside she -lives. This is owing to her quiet, peaceful ways; she is so very -retiring that her host is nearly always ignorant of her presence. It is -easy for noisy, tiresome, unpleasant persons to make themselves famous. -I will try to rescue this modest creature from her obscurity. - -The Pelopæus is an extremely chilly mortal. She pitches her tent under -the kindly sun that ripens the olive and prompts the Cicada’s song; and -even then she needs for her family the additional warmth to be found in -our dwellings. Her usual refuge is the peasant’s lonely cottage, with -its old fig-tree shading the well in front of the door. She chooses one -exposed to all the heat of summers, and if possible possessing a big -fireplace in which a fire of sticks always burns. The cheerful blaze on -winter evenings has a great influence upon her choice, for she knows by -the blackness of the chimney that the spot is a likely one. A chimney -that is not well glazed by smoke gives her no confidence: people must -shiver with cold in that house. - -During the dog-days in July and August the visitor suddenly appears, -seeking a place for her nest. She is not in the least disturbed by the -bustle and movement of the household: they take no notice of her nor -she of them. She examines—now with her sharp eyes, now with her -sensitive antennæ—the corners of the blackened ceiling, the rafters, -the chimney-piece, the sides of the fireplace especially, and even the -inside of the flue. Having finished her inspection and duly approved of -the site she flies away, soon to return with the pellet of mud which -will form the first layer of the building. - -The spot she chooses varies greatly, and often it is a very curious -one. The temperature of a furnace appears to suit the young Pelopæus: -at least the favourite site is the chimney, on either side of the flue, -up to a height of twenty inches or so. This snug shelter has its -drawbacks. The smoke gets to the nests, and gives them a glaze of brown -or black like that which covers the stonework. They might easily be -taken for inequalities in the mortar. This is not a serious matter, -provided that the flames do not lick against the nests. That would stew -the young Wasps to death in their clay pots. But the mother Wasps seems -to understand this: she only places her family in chimneys that are too -wide for anything but smoke to reach their sides. - -But in spite of all her caution one danger remains. It sometimes -happens, while the Wasp is building, that the approach to the -half-built dwelling is barred to her for a time, or even for the whole -day, by a curtain of steam or smoke. Washing-days are most risky. From -morning till night the housewife keeps the huge cauldron boiling. The -smoke from the hearth, the steam from the cauldron and the wash-tub, -form a dense mist in front of the fireplace. - -It is told of the Water-Ouzel that, to get back to his nest, he will -fly through the cataract under a mill-weir. This Wasp is even more -daring: with her pellet of mud in her teeth she crosses the cloud of -smoke and disappears behind it, where she becomes invisible, so thick -is the screen. An irregular chirring sound, the song she sings at her -work, alone betrays her presence. The building goes on mysteriously -behind the cloud. The song ceases, and the Wasp flies back through the -steam, quite unharmed. She will face this danger repeatedly all day, -until the cell is built, stored with food, and closed. - -Once and once only I was able to observe a Pelopæus at my own fireside; -and, as it happened, it was a washing-day. I had not long been -appointed to the Avignon grammar-school. It was close upon two o’clock, -and in a few minutes the roll of the drum would summon me to give a -scientific lecture to an audience of wool-gatherers. Suddenly I saw a -strange, agile insect dart through the steam that rose from the -wash-tub. The front part of its body was very thin, and the back part -was very plump, and the two parts were joined together by a long -thread. It was the Pelopæus, the first I had seen with observant eyes. - -Being very anxious to become better acquainted with my visitor, I -fervently entreated the household not to disturb her in my absence. -Things went better than I dared hope. On my return she was still -carrying on her mason’s work behind the steam. Being eager to see the -building of the cells, the nature of the provisions, and the evolution -of the young Wasps, I raked the fire so as to decrease the volume of -smoke, and for a good two hours I watched the mother Wasp diving -through the cloud. - -Never again, in the forty years that followed, was my fireplace -honoured with such a visit. All the further information I have gathered -was gleaned on the hearths of my neighbours. - -The Pelopæus, it appears, is of a solitary and vagrant disposition. She -nearly always builds a lonely nest, and unlike many Wasps and Bees, she -seldom founds her family at the spot where she was reared herself. She -is often found in our southern towns, but on the whole she prefers the -peasant’s smoky house to the townsman’s white villa. Nowhere have I -seen her so plentiful as in my village, with its tumble-down cottages -burnt yellow by the sun. - -It is obvious that this Wasp, when she so often chooses the chimney as -her abode, is not seeking her own comfort: the site means work, and -dangerous work. She seeks the welfare of her family. This family, then, -must require a high temperature, such as other Wasps and Bees do not -need. - -I have seen a Pelopæus nest in the engine-room of a silk-factory, fixed -to the ceiling just above the huge boiler. At this spot the thermometer -marked 120 degrees all through the year, except at night and on -holidays. - -In a country distillery I have found many nests, fixed on anything that -came to hand, even a pile of account-books. The temperature of one of -these, quite close to the still, was 113 degrees. It is plain that this -Wasp cheerfully endures a degree of heat that makes the oily palm-tree -sprout. - -A boiler or a furnace she regards as the ideal home, but she is quite -willing to content herself in any snug corner: a conservatory, a -kitchen-ceiling, the recess of a closed window, the wall of a cottage -bedroom. As to the foundation on which she fixes her nest, she is -entirely indifferent. As a rule she builds her groups of cells on -stonework or timber; but at various times I have seen nests inside a -gourd, in a fur cap, in the hollow of a brick, on the side of a bag of -oats, and in a piece of lead tubing. - -Once I saw something more remarkable still, in a farm near Avignon. In -a large room with a very wide fireplace the soup for the farm-hands and -the food for the cattle simmered in a row of pots. The labourers used -to come in from the fields to this room, and devour their meal with the -silent haste that comes from a keen appetite. To enjoy this half-hour -comfortably they would take off their hats and smocks, and hang them on -pegs. Short though this meal was, it was long enough to allow the Wasps -to take possession of their garments. The inside of a straw hat was -recognised as a most useful building-site, the folds of a smock were -looked upon as a capital shelter; and the work of building started at -once. On rising from the table one of the men would shake his smock, -and another his hat, to rid it of the Wasp’s nest, which was already -the size of an acorn. - -The cook in that farmhouse regarded the Wasps with no friendly eye. -They dirtied everything, she said. Dabs of mud on the ceiling, on the -walls, or on the chimney-piece you could put up with; but it was a very -different matter when you found them on the linen and the curtains. She -had to beat the curtains every day with a bamboo. And it was trouble -thrown away. The next morning the Wasps began building as busily as -ever. - - - - -II - -HER BUILDING - -I sympathised with the sorrows of that farm-cook, but greatly regretted -that I could not take her place. How gladly I would have left the Wasps -undisturbed, even if they had covered all the furniture with mud! How I -longed to know what the fate of a nest would be, if perched on the -uncertain support of a coat or a curtain! The nest of the Mason-bee is -made of hard mortar, which surrounds the twig on which it is built, and -becomes firmly fixed to it; but the nest of the Pelopæus Wasp is a mere -blob of mud, without cement or foundations. - -The materials of which it is made are nothing but wet earth or dirt, -picked up wherever the soil is damp enough. The thin clay of a -river-bank is very suitable, but in my stony country streams are rare. -I can, however, watch the builders at my leisure in my own garden, when -a thin trickle of water runs all day, as it does sometimes, through the -little trenches that are cut in my vegetable plots. - -The Pelopæus Wasps of the neighbourhood soon become aware of this glad -event, and come hurrying up to take advantage of the precious layer of -mud, a rare discovery in the dry season. They scrape and skim the -gleaming, shiny surface with their mandibles while standing high on -their legs, with their wings quivering and their black bodies upraised. -No neat little housewife, with skirts carefully tucked up out of the -dirt, could be more skilful in tackling a job likely to soil her -clothes. These mud-gatherers have not an atom of dirt upon them, so -careful are they to tuck up their skirts in their own fashion, that is -to say, to keep their whole body out of the way, all but the tips of -their legs and the busy points of the mandibles with which they work. - -In this way a dab of mud is collected, almost the size of a pea. Taking -the load in its teeth the insect flies off, adds a layer to its -building, and soon returns to collect another pellet. The same method -is pursued as long as the earth remains sufficiently wet, during the -hottest hours of the day. - -But the favourite spot is the great fountain in the village, where the -people come to water their mules. Here there is a constant sheet of -black mud which neither the hottest sunshine nor the strongest wind can -dry. This bed of mire is very unpleasant for the passers-by, but the -Pelopæus loves to gather her pellets here, amid the hoofs of the mules. - -Unlike some builders in clay, such as the Mason-bees, the Wasp does not -improve the mud to make it into mortar, but uses it just as it is. -Consequently her nests are flimsy work, absolutely unfitted to stand -the changes and chances of the open air. A drop of water laid upon -their surface softens the spot touched and reduces it to mud again, -while a sprinkling equal to an average shower turns it to pap. They are -nothing but dried slime, and become slime again as soon as they are -wetted. - -It is plain, then, that even if the young Pelopæus were not so chilly -by nature, a shelter is indispensable for the nests, which would go to -pieces at the first shower of rain. That is why this Wasp is so fond of -human dwellings, and especially of the chimney. - -Before receiving its final coating, which covers up the details of the -building, the nest has a certain beauty of its own. It consists of a -cluster of cells, sometimes arranged side by side in a row—which makes -it look rather like a mouth-organ—but more often grouped in layers -placed one above the other. I have sometimes counted as many as fifteen -cells; some nests contain only ten; others are reduced to three or -four, or even only one. - -In shape the cells are not far from cylinders, slightly larger at the -mouth than at the base. They are a little more than an inch long, and -about half an inch wide. Their delicate surface is carefully polished, -and shows a series of string-like projections, running cross-wise, not -unlike the twisted cords of some kinds of gold-lace. Each of these -strings is a layer of the building; it comes from the clod of mud used -for the coping of the part already built. By counting them you can tell -how many journeys the Wasp has made in the course of her work. There -are usually between fifteen and twenty. For one cell, therefore, the -industrious builder fetches materials something like twenty times. - -The mouth of the cells is, of course, always turned upwards. A pot -cannot hold its contents if it be upside down. And the Wasp’s cell is -nothing but a pot intended to hold the store of food, a pile of small -Spiders. - -The cells—built one by one, stuffed full of Spiders, and closed as the -eggs are laid—preserve their pretty appearance until the cluster is -considered large enough. Then, to strengthen her work, the Wasp covers -the whole with a casing, as a protection and defence. She lays on the -plaster without stint and without art, giving it none of the delicate -finishing-touches which she lavishes on the cells. The mud is applied -just as it is brought, and merely spread with a few careless strokes. -The beauties of the building all disappear under this ugly husk. In -this final state the nest is like a great splash of mud, flung against -the wall by accident. - - - - -III - -HER PROVISIONS - -Now that we know what the provision-jar is like, we must find out what -it contains. - -The young Pelopæus is fed on Spiders. The food does not lack variety, -even in the same nest and the same cell, for any Spider may form a -meal, as long as it is not too large for the jar. The Cross Spider, -with three crosses of white dots on her back, is the dish that occurs -oftenest. I think the reason for this is simply that the Wasp does not -go far from home in her hunting-trips, and the Spider with the crosses -is the easiest to find. - -The Spider, armed with poison-fangs, is a dangerous prey to tackle. -When of fair size, she could only be conquered by a greater amount of -daring and skill than the Wasp possesses. Moreover, the cells are too -small to hold a bulky object. The Wasp, therefore, hunts game of -moderate size. If she meets with a kind of Spider that is apt to become -plump, she always chooses a young one. But, though all are small, the -size of her victims varies enormously, and this variation in size leads -also to variation in number. One cell will contain a dozen Spiders, -while in another there are only five or six. - -Another reason for her choice of small Spiders is that she kills them -before potting them in her cells. She falls suddenly upon her prey, and -carries it off almost without pausing in her flight. The skilful -paralysis practised by some insects is unknown to her. This means that -when the food is stored it soon decays. Fortunately the Spiders are -small enough to be finished at a single meal. If they were large and -could only be nibbled here and there, they would decay, and poison the -grubs in the nest. - -I always find the egg, not on the surface of the heap, but on the first -Spider that was stored. There is no exception to this rule. The Wasp -places a Spider at the bottom of the cell, lays her egg upon it, and -then piles the other Spiders on the top. By this clever plan the grub -is obliged to begin on the oldest of the dead Spiders, and then go on -to the more recent. It always finds in front of it food that has not -had time to decompose. - -The egg is always laid on the same part of the Spider, the end -containing the head being placed on the plumpest spot. This is very -pleasant for the grub, for the moment it is hatched it can begin eating -the tenderest and nicest food in the store. Not a mouthful is wasted, -however, by these economical creatures. When the meal is finished there -is practically nothing left of the whole heap of Spiders. This life of -gluttony lasts for eight or ten days. - -The grub then sets to work to spin its cocoon, a sack of pure, -perfectly white silk, extremely delicate. Something more is required to -make this sack tough enough to be a protection, so the grub produces -from its body a sort of liquid varnish. As soon as it trickles into the -meshes of the silk this varnish hardens, and becomes a lacquer of -exquisite daintiness. The grub then fixes a hard plug at the base of -the cocoon to make all secure. - -When finished, the work is amber-yellow, and rather reminds one of the -outer skin of an onion. It has the same fine texture, the same colour -and transparency; and like the onion skin it rustles when it is -fingered. From it, sooner or later according to temperature, the -perfect insect is hatched. - - - -It is possible, while the Wasp is storing her cell, to play her a trick -which will show how purely mechanical her instincts are. A cell has -just been completed, let us suppose, and the huntress arrives with her -first Spider. She stores it away, and at once fastens her egg on the -plumpest part of its body. She sets out on a second trip. I take -advantage of her absence to remove with my tweezers from the bottom of -the cell both the dead Spider and the egg. - -The disappearance of the egg must be discovered by the Wasp, one would -think, if she possesses the least gleam of intelligence. The egg is -small, it is true, but it lies on a comparatively large object, the -Spider. What will the Wasp do when she finds the cell empty? Will she -act sensibly, and repair her loss by laying a second egg? Not at all; -she behaves most absurdly. - -What she does is to bring a second Spider, which she stores away with -as much cheerful zeal as if nothing unfortunate had occurred. She -brings a third and a fourth, and still others, each of whom I remove -during her absence; so that every time she returns from the chase the -storeroom is found empty. I have seen her persist obstinately for two -days in seeking to fill the insatiable jar, while my patience in -emptying it was equally unflagging. With the twentieth victim—possibly -owing to the fatigue of so many journeys—the huntress considered that -the pot was sufficiently supplied, and began most carefully to close -the cell that contained absolutely nothing. - -The intelligence of insects is limited everywhere in this way. The -accidental difficulty which one insect is powerless to overcome, any -other, no matter what its species, will be equally unable to cope with. -I could give a host of similar examples to show that insects are -absolutely without reasoning power, notwithstanding the wonderful -perfection of their work. A long series of experiments has forced me to -conclude that they are neither free nor conscious in their industry. -They build, weave, hunt, stab, and paralyse their prey, in the same way -as they digest their food, or secrete the poison of their sting, -without the least understanding of the means or the end. They are, I am -convinced, completely ignorant of their own wonderful talents. - -Their instinct cannot be changed. Experience does not teach it; time -does not awaken a glimmer in its unconsciousness. Pure instinct, if it -stood alone, would leave the insect powerless in the face of -circumstances. Yet circumstances are always changing, the unexpected is -always happening. In this confusion some power is needed by the -insect—as by every other creature—to teach it what to accept and what -to refuse. It requires a guide of some kind, and this guide it -certainly possesses. Intelligence is too fine a word for it: I will -call it discernment. - -Is the insect conscious of what it does? Yes, and no. No, if its action -is guided by instinct. Yes, if its action is the result of discernment. - -The Pelopæus, for instance, builds her cells with earth already -softened into mud. This is instinct. She has always built in this way. -Neither the passing ages nor the struggle for life will induce her to -imitate the Mason-bee and make her nest of dry dust and cement. - -This mud nest of hers needs a shelter against the rain. A hiding-place -under a stone, perhaps, sufficed at first. But when she found something -better she took possession of it. She installed herself in the home of -man. This is discernment. - -She supplies her young with food in the form of Spiders. This is -instinct, and nothing will ever persuade her that young Crickets are -just as good. But should there be a lack of her favourite Cross Spider -she will not leave her grubs unfed; she will bring them other Spiders. -This is discernment. - -In this quality of discernment lies the possibility of future -improvement for the insect. - - - - -IV - -HER ORIGIN - -The Pelopæus sets us another problem. She seeks the warmth of our -fireplaces. Her nest, built of soft mud which would be reduced to pulp -by damp, must have a dry shelter. Heat is a necessity to her. - -Is it possible that she is a foreigner? Did she come, perhaps, from the -shores of Africa, from the land of dates to the land of olives? It -would be natural, in that case, that she should find our sunshine not -warm enough for her, and should seek the artificial warmth of the -fireside. This would explain her habits, so unlike those of the other -Wasps, by all of whom mankind is avoided. - -What was her life before she became our guest? Where did she lodge -before there were any houses? Where did she shelter her grubs before -chimneys were thought of? - -Perhaps, when the early inhabitants of the hills near Sérignan were -making weapons out of flints, scraping goatskins for clothes, and -building huts of mud and branches, those huts were already frequented -by the Pelopæus. Perhaps she built her nest in some bulging pot, shaped -out of clay by the thumbs of our ancestors; or in the folds of the -garments, the skins of the Wolf and the Bear. When she made her home on -the rough walls of branches and clay, did she choose the nearest spot, -I wonder, to the hole in the roof by which the smoke was let out? -Though not equal to our chimneys it may have served at a pinch. - -If the Pelopæus really lived here with the earliest human inhabitants, -what improvements she has seen! She too must have profited greatly by -civilisation: she has turned man’s increasing comfort into her own. -When the dwelling with a roof and a ceiling was planned, and the -chimney with a flue was invented, we can imagine the chilly creature -saying to herself: - -“How pleasant this is! Let us pitch our tent here.” - -But we will go back further still. Before huts existed, before the -niche in the rut, before man himself had appeared, where did the -Pelopæus build? The question does not stand alone. Where did the -Swallow and the Sparrow build before there were windows and chimneys to -build in? - -Since the Swallow, the Sparrow, and the Wasp existed before man, their -industry cannot be dependent on the works of man. Each of them must -have had an art of building in the time when man was not here. - -For thirty years and more I asked myself where the Pelopæus lived in -those times. Outside our houses I could find no trace of her nests. At -last chance, which favours the persevering, came to my help. - -The Sérignan quarries are full of broken stones, of refuse that has -been piled there in the course of centuries. Here the Fieldmouse -crunches his olive-stones and acorns, or now and then a Snail. The -empty Snail-shells lie here and there beneath a stone, and within them -different Bees and Wasps build their cells. In searching for these -treasures I found, three times, the nest of a Pelopæus among the broken -stones. - -These three nests were exactly the same as those found in our houses. -The material was mud, as always; the protective covering was the same -mud. The dangers of the site had suggested no improvements to the -builder. We see, then, that sometimes, but very rarely, the Pelopæus -builds in stoneheaps and under flat blocks of stone that do not touch -the ground. It was in such places as these that she must have made her -nest before she invaded our houses. - -The three nests, however, were in a piteous state. The damp and -exposure had ruined them, and the cocoons were in pieces. Unprotected -by their earthen cover the grubs had perished—eaten by a Fieldmouse or -another. - -The sight of these ruins made me wonder if my neighbourhood were really -a suitable place for the Pelopæus to build her nest out of doors. It is -plain that the mother Wasp dislikes doing so, and is hardly ever driven -to such a desperate measure. And if the climate makes it impossible for -her to practise the industry of her forefathers successfully, I think -we may conclude that she is a foreigner. Surely she comes from a hotter -and drier climate, where there is little rain and no snow. - -I believe the Pelopæus is of African origin. Far back in the past she -came to us through Spain and Italy, and she hardly ever goes further -north than the olive-trees. She is an African who has become a -naturalised Provençal. In Africa she is said often to nest under -stones, but in the Malay Archipelago we hear of her kinswoman in -houses. From one end of the world to the other she has the same -tastes—Spiders, mud cells, and the shelter of a man’s roof. If I were -in the Malay Archipelago I should turn over the stone-heaps, and should -most likely discover a nest in the original position, under a flat -stone. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE PSYCHES - - -I - -A WELL-DRESSED CATERPILLAR - -In the springtime, those who have eyes to see may find a surprise on -old walls and dusty roads. Certain tiny faggots, for no apparent -reason, set themselves in motion and make their way along by sudden -jerks. The lifeless comes to life: the immovable moves. This is indeed -amazing. If we look closer, however, we shall solve the riddle. - -Enclosed within the moving bundle is a fair-sized Caterpillar, prettily -striped with black and white. He is seeking for food, and perhaps for -some spot where he can turn into a Moth. He hurries along timidly, -dressed in a queer garment of twigs, which completely covers the whole -of him except his head and the front part of his body, with its six -short legs. At the least alarm he disappears entirely into his case, -and does not budge again. This is the secret of the walking bundle of -sticks. It is a Faggot Caterpillar, belonging to the group known as the -Psyches. - -To protect himself from the weather the chilly, bare-skinned Psyche -builds himself a portable shelter, a travelling cottage which the owner -never leaves until he becomes a Moth. It is, indeed, something better -than a hut on wheels, with a thatched roof to it: it is more like a -hermit’s frock, made of an unusual kind of material. In the valley of -the Danube the peasant wears a goatskin cloak fastened with a belt of -rushes. The Psyche wears even rougher raiment than this: he makes -himself a suit of clothes out of sticks. And since this would be a -regular hair-shirt to a skin so delicate as his, he puts in a thick -lining of silk. - -In April, on the walls of my chief workshop—my stony harmas with its -wealth of insect life—I find the Psyche who will supply me with my most -detailed information. He is in the torpid state which shows he will -soon become a Moth. It is a good opportunity for examining his bundle -of sticks, or case. - -It is a fairly regular object, shaped like a spindle, and about an inch -and a half long. The pieces that compose it are fixed in front and free -at the back. They are arranged anyhow, and would form rather a poor -shelter against the sun and rain if the hermit had no other protection -than this. - -At the first glance it appears like thatch; but thatch is not an exact -description of it, for grain-stems are rarely found in it. The chief -materials are remnants of very small stalks, light, soft, and rich in -pith; next in order come bits of grass-leaves, scaly twigs from the -cypress-tree, and all sorts of little sticks; and lastly, if the -favourite pieces run short, fragments of dry leaves. - -In short the Caterpillar, while preferring pithy pieces, will use -anything he comes across, provided it be light, very dry, softened by -long exposure, and of the right size. All his materials are used just -as they are, without any alterations or sawings to make them the proper -length. He does not cut the laths that form his roof; he gathers them -as he finds them. His work is limited to fixing them at the fore-end. - -In order to lend itself to the movements of the travelling Caterpillar, -and particularly to enable the head and legs to move freely while a new -piece is being fixed in position, the front part of this case or sheath -must be made in a special way. Here a casing of sticks is no longer -suitable, for their length and stiffness would hamper the workman and -even make his work impossible. What is required here is a flexible -neck, able to move in all directions. The collection of stakes, -therefore, ends suddenly at some distance from the fore-part, and is -there replaced by a collar where the silk lining is merely hardened -with very tiny particles of wood, which strengthen the material without -making it less flexible. This collar, which allows of free movement, is -so important that all the Psyches use it, however greatly the rest of -their work may differ. All carry, in front of the bundle of sticks, a -yielding neck, soft to the touch, formed inside of a web of pure silk -and coated outside with a velvety sawdust, which the Caterpillar -obtains by crushing up any sort of dry straw. - -The same kind of velvet, but dull and faded—apparently through -age—finishes the sheath at the back, in the form of a rather long -projection, open at the end. - -When I remove the outside of the straw casing, shredding it piece by -piece, I find a varying number of laths, or tiny sticks. I have counted -as many as eighty, and more. Underneath it I find, from one end of the -Caterpillar to the other, the same kind of inner sheath that was -formerly visible at the front and back only. This inner sheath is -composed everywhere of very strong silk, which resists without breaking -when pulled by the fingers. It is a smooth tissue, beautifully white -inside, drab and wrinkled outside, where it bristles with a crust of -woody particles. - -Later on we shall see how the Caterpillar makes himself this -complicated garment, formed of three layers, one placed upon the other -in a definite order. First comes the extremely fine satin which is in -direct contact with the skin; next, the mixed stuff dusted with woody -matter, which saves the silk and gives strength to the work; and lastly -the outer casing of overlapping sticks. - -Although all the Psyches wear this threefold garment, the different -species make distinct variations in the outer case. There is one kind, -for instance, whom I am apt to meet towards the end of June, hurrying -across some dusty path near the houses. His case surpasses that of the -first species, both in size and in regularity of arrangement. It forms -a thick coverlet of many pieces, in which I recognise fragments of -hollow stalks, bits of fine straw, and perhaps blades of grass. In -front there is never any flounce of dead leaves, a troublesome piece of -finery which is pretty frequent, though not always used, in the costume -of the first species I described. At the back there is no long -projection beyond the outer covering. Save for the indispensable collar -at the neck, the whole Caterpillar is cased in sticks. There is not -much variety about the thing, but, when all is said, there is a certain -beauty in its stern faultlessness. - -There is a smaller and more simply dressed Psyche who is very common at -the end of winter on the walls, as well as in the bark of gnarled old -trees, whether olive-trees or elms, or indeed almost any other. His -case, a modest little bundle, is hardly more than two-fifths of an inch -in length. A dozen rotten straws, picked up at random and fixed close -to one another in a parallel direction, represent, with the silk -sheath, his whole outlay on dress. - -It would be difficult to clothe oneself more economically. - - - - -II - -A DEVOTED MOTHER - -If I gather a number of little Psyches in April and place them in a -wire bell-jar, I can find out more about them. Most of them are in the -chrysalis state, waiting to be turned into Moths, but a few are still -active and clamber to the top of the wire trellis. There they fix -themselves by means of a little silk cushion, and both they and I must -wait for weeks before anything further happens. - -At the end of June the male Psyche comes out of his case, no longer a -Caterpillar, but a Moth. The case, or bundle of sticks, you will -remember, had two openings, one in front and one at the back. The front -one, which is the more regular and carefully made, is permanently -closed by being fastened to the support on which the chrysalis is -fixed; so the Moth, when he is hatched, is obliged to come out by the -opening at the back. The Caterpillar turns round inside the case before -he changes into a Moth. - -Though they wear but a simple pearl-grey dress and have insignificant -wings, hardly larger than those of a Common Fly, these little male -Moths are graceful enough. They have handsome feathery plumes for -antennæ, and their wings are edged with delicate fringes. For the -appearance of the female Psyche, however, little can be said. - -Some days later than the others she comes out of the sheath, and shows -herself in all her wretchedness. Call that little fright a Moth! One -cannot easily get used to the idea of so miserable a sight: as a -Caterpillar she was no worse to look at. There are no wings, none at -all; there is no silky fur either. At the tip of her round, tufty body -she wears a crown of dirty-white velvet; on each segment, in the middle -of the back, is a large, rectangular, dark patch—her sole attempts at -ornament. The mother Psyche renounces all the beauty which her name of -Moth seems to promise. - -As she leaves her chrysalid sheath she lays her eggs within it, thus -bequeathing the maternal cottage (or the maternal garment, if you will) -to her heirs. As she lays a great many eggs the affair takes some -thirty hours. When the laying is finished she closes the door and makes -everything safe against invasion. For this purpose some kind of wadding -is required. The fond mother makes use of the only ornament which, in -her extreme poverty, she possesses. She wedges the door with the -coronet of velvet which she carries at the tip of her body. - -Finally she does even more than this. She makes a rampart of her body -itself. With a convulsive movement she dies on the threshold of her -recent home, her cast chrysalid skin, and there her remains dry up. -Even after death she stays at her post. - -If the outer case be now opened it will be found to contain the -chrysalid wrapper, uninjured except for the opening in front, by which -the Psyche came out. The male Moth, when obliged to make his way -through the narrow pass, would find his wings and his plumes very -cumbersome articles. For this reason he makes a start for the door -while he is still in the chrysalis state, and comes half-way out. Then, -as he bursts his amber-coloured tunic, he finds, right in front of him, -an open space where flight is possible. - -But the mother Moth, being unprovided with wings and plumes, is not -compelled to take any such precautions. Her cylinder-like form is bare, -and differs very little from that of the Caterpillar. It allows her to -crawl, to slip into the narrow passage, and to come forth without -difficulty. So she leaves her cast skin behind her, right at the back -of the case, well covered by the thatched roof. - -And this is an act of prudence, showing her deep concern for the fate -of her eggs. They are, in fact, packed as though in a barrel, in the -parchment-like bag formed by the cast skin. The Moth has methodically -gone on laying eggs in that receptacle till it is full. Not satisfied -with bequeathing her house and her velvet coronet to her offspring, as -the last act of her life she leaves them her skin. - -Wishing to observe the course of events at my ease I once took one of -these chrysalid bags, stuffed with eggs, from its outer casing of -sticks, and placed it by itself, beside its case, in a glass tube. In -the first week of July I suddenly found myself in possession of a large -family. The hatching took place so quickly that the new-born -Caterpillars, about forty in number, had already clothed themselves in -my absence. - -They wore a garment like a sort of Persian head-dress, in dazzling -white plush. Or, to be more commonplace, a white cotton night-cap -without a tassel. Strange to say, however, instead of wearing their -caps on their heads, they wore them standing up from their -hind-quarters, almost perpendicularly. They roamed about gaily inside -the tube, which was a spacious dwelling for such mites. I was quite -determined to find out with what materials and in what manner the first -outlines of the cap were woven. - -Fortunately the chrysalid bag was far from being empty. I found within -the rumpled wrapper a second family as numerous as those already out of -the case. Altogether there must have been five or six dozen eggs. I -transferred to another place the little Caterpillars who were already -dressed, keeping only the naked new-comers in the tube. They had bright -red heads; the rest of their bodies was dirty-white; and they measured -hardly a twenty-fifth of an inch in length. - -I had not long to wait. The next day, little by little, singly or in -groups, the little laggards left the chrysalid bag. They came out -without breaking that frail object, through the opening in front made -by their mother. Not one of them used it as a dress-material, though it -had the delicacy and amber colouring of an onion-skin; nor did any of -them make use of a certain fine quilting that lines the inside of the -bag and forms an exquisitely soft bed for the eggs. One would have -thought this downy stuff would make an excellent blanket for the chilly -creatures, but not a single one used it. There would not be enough to -go round. - -They all went straight to the coarse outer casing of sticks, which I -had left in contact with the chrysalid skin containing the eggs. The -matter was urgent, they evidently felt. Before making your entrance -into the world and going a-hunting, you must first be clad. All -therefore, with equal fury, attacked the old sheath and hastily dressed -themselves in their mother’s old clothes. - -Some turned their attention to bits that happened to be opened -lengthwise, scraping the soft white inner layer; others, greatly -daring, penetrated into the tunnel of a hollow stalk and collected -their materials in the dark. The courage of these was rewarded; they -secured first-rate materials and wove garments of dazzling white. There -were others who bit deeply into the piece they chose, and made -themselves a motley covering, in which the snowy whiteness was marred -by darker particles. - -The tools the little Caterpillars use for this purpose are their -mandibles, which are shaped like wide shears and have five strong teeth -apiece. The two blades fit into each other, and form an instrument -capable of seizing and slicing any fibre, however small. Under the -microscope it is seen to be a wonderful specimen of mechanical -precision and power. If the Sheep had a similar tool in proportion to -her size, she could browse on the stems of trees instead of the grass. - -It is very instructive to watch these Psyche-grubs toiling to make -themselves a cotton night-cap. There are numbers of things to remark, -both in the finish of the work and the skill of the methods they -employ. They are so tiny that while I observe them through my -magnifying glass I must be careful not to breathe, lest I should -overturn them or puff them away. Yet this speck is expert in the art of -blanket-making. An orphan, born but a moment ago, it knows how to cut -itself a garment out of its mother’s old clothes. Of its methods I will -tell you more presently, but first I must say another word with regard -to its dead mother. - -I have spoken of the downy quilting that covers the inside of the -chrysalid bag. It is like a bed of eiderdown, on which the little -Caterpillars rest for a while after leaving the egg. Warmly nestling in -this soft rug they prepare themselves for their plunge into the outer -world of work. - -The Eider robs herself of her down to make a luxurious bed for her -brood; the mother Rabbit shears from her own body the softest part of -her fur to provide a mattress for her new-born family. And the same -thing is done by the Psyche. - -The mass of soft wadding that makes a warm coverlet for the baby -Caterpillar is a material of incomparable delicacy. Through the -microscope it can be recognised as the scaly dust, the intensely fine -down in which every Moth is clad. To give a snug shelter to the little -grubs who will soon be swarming in the case, to provide them with a -refuge in which they can play about and gather strength before entering -the wide world, the Psyche strips herself of her fur like the mother -Rabbit. - -This may possibly be done mechanically; it may be the unintentional -effect of rubbing repeatedly against the low-roofed walls; but there is -nothing to tell us so. Even the humblest mother has her foresight. It -is quite likely that the hairy Moth twists about, and goes to and fro -in the narrow passage, in order to get rid of her fleece and prepare -bedding for her family. - -I have read in books that the young Psyches begin life by eating up -their mother. I have seen nothing of the sort, and I do not even -understand how the idea arose. Indeed, she has given up so much for her -family that there is nothing left of her but some thin, dry strips—not -enough to provide a meal for so numerous a brood. No, my little -Psyches, you do not eat your mother. In vain do I watch you: never, -either to clothe or to feed himself, does any one of you lay a tooth -upon the remains of the deceased. - - - - -III - -A CLEVER TAILOR - -I will now describe in greater detail the dressing of the grubs. - -The hatching of the eggs takes place in the first fortnight of July. -The head and upper part of the little grubs are of a glossy black, the -next two segments are brownish, and the rest of the body is a pale -amber. They are sharp, lively little creatures, who run about with -short, quick steps. - -For a time, after they are out of the bag where they are hatched, they -remain in the heap of fluff that was stripped from their mother. Here -there is more room, and more comfort too, than in the bag whence they -came; and while some take a rest, others bustle about and exercise -themselves in walking. They are all picking up strength before leaving -the outer case. - -They do not stay long amid this luxury. Gradually, as they gain vigour, -they come out and spread over the surface of the case. Work begins at -once, a very urgent work—that of dressing themselves. By and by they -will think of food: at present nothing is of any importance but -clothes. - -Montaigne, when putting on a cloak which his father had worn before -him, used to say, “I dress myself in my father.” Well, the young -Psyches in the same way dress themselves in their mother. (In the same -way, it must be remembered; not in her skin, but in her clothes.) From -the outer case of sticks, which I have sometimes described as a house -and sometimes as a garment, they scrape the material to make themselves -a frock. The stuff they use is the pith of the little stalks, -especially of the pieces that are split lengthwise, because the -contents are more easily taken from these. - -The manner of beginning the garment is worth noting. The tiny creature -employs a method as ingenious as any that we could hope to discover. -The wadding is collected in pellets of infinitesimal size. How are -these little pellets to be fixed and joined together? The manufacturer -needs a support, a base; and this support cannot be obtained on the -Caterpillar’s own body. The difficulty is overcome very cleverly. The -pellets are gathered together, and by degrees fastened to one another -with threads of silk—for the Caterpillar, as you know, can spin silk -from his own body as the Spider spins her web. In this way a sort of -garland is formed, with the pellets or particles swinging in a row from -the same rope. When it is long enough this garland is passed round the -waist of the little creature, in such a way as to leave its six legs -free. Then it ties the ends together with a bit of silk, so that it -forms a girdle round the grub’s body. - -This girdle is the starting-point and support of the whole work. To -lengthen it, and enlarge it into a complete garment, the grub has only -to fix to it the scraps of pith which the mandibles never cease tearing -from the case. These scraps or pellets are sometimes placed at the top, -sometimes at the bottom or side, but they are always fixed at the -fore-edge. No device could be better contrived than this garland, first -laid out flat and then buckled like a belt round the body. - -Once this start is made the weaving goes on well. Gradually the girdle -grows into a scarf, a waistcoat, a short jacket, and lastly a sack, and -in a few hours it is complete—a conical hood or cloak of magnificent -whiteness. - -Thanks to his mother’s care the little grub is spared the perils of -roaming about in a state of nakedness. If she did not place her family -in her old case they might have great difficulty in clothing -themselves, for straws and stalks rich in pith are not found -everywhere. And yet, unless they died of exposure, it appears that -sooner or later they would find some kind of garment, since they seem -ready to use any material that comes to hand. I have made many -experiments with new-born grubs in a glass tube. - -From the stalks of a sort of dandelion they scraped, without the least -hesitation, a superb white pith, and made it into a delicious white -cloak, much finer than any they would have obtained from the remains of -their mother’s clothes. An even better garment was woven from some pith -taken from the kitchen-broom. This time the work glittered with little -sparks, like specks of crystal or grains of sugar. It was my -manufacturers’ masterpiece. - -The next material I offered them was a piece of blotting-paper. Here -again my grubs did not hesitate: they lustily scraped the surface and -made themselves a paper coat. Indeed, they were so much pleased with -this that when I gave them their native case they scorned it, -preferring the blotting-paper. - -To others I gave nothing at all. Not to be baffled, however, they -hastened to scrape the cork of the tube and break it into atoms. Out of -these they made themselves a frock of cork-grains, as faultless as -though they and their ancestors had always made use of this material. -The novelty of the stuff, which perhaps no Caterpillar had ever used -before, made no difference in the cut of the garment. - -Finding them ready to accept any vegetable matter that was dry and -light, I next tried them with animal and mineral substances. I cut a -strip from the wing of a Great Peacock Moth, and placed two little -naked Caterpillars upon it. For a long time they both hesitated. Then -one of them resolved to use the strange carpet. Before the day was over -he had clothed himself in grey velvet made of the Great Peacock’s -scales. - -I next took some soft, flaky stones, such as will break at the merest -touch into atoms nearly as fine as the dust on a Butterfly’s wing. On a -bed of this powdery stuff, which glittered like steel filings, I placed -four Caterpillars in need of clothes. One, and one alone, decided to -dress himself. His metallic garment, from which the light drew flashes -of every colour of the rainbow, was very rich and sumptuous, but -mightily heavy and cumbrous. Walking became laborious under that load -of metal. Even so must a Byzantine Emperor have walked at ceremonies of -State. - -In cases of necessity, then, the young Caterpillar does not shrink from -acts of sheer madness. So urgent is his need to clothe himself that he -will weave mineral matter rather than go naked. Food means less to him -than clothes. If I make him fast for a couple of days, and then, having -robbed him of his garment, place him on his favourite food, a leaf of -very hairy hawkweed, he will make himself a new coat before satisfying -his hunger. - -This devotion to dress is due, not to any special sensitiveness to -cold, but to the young Caterpillar’s foresight. Other Caterpillars take -shelter among the leaves, in underground cells, or in the cracked bark -of trees, but the Psyche spends his winter exposed to the weather. He -therefore prepares himself, from his birth, for the perils of the cold -season. - -As soon as he is threatened with the rains of autumn he begins to work -upon his outer case. It is very rough at first. Straws of uneven length -and bits of dry leaves are fastened, with no attempt at order, behind -the neck of the sack or undergarment, which must remain flexible so as -to allow the Caterpillar to bend freely in every direction. These -untidy first logs of the outer case will not interfere with the final -regularity of the building: they will be pushed back and driven out as -the sack grows longer in front. - -After a time the pieces are longer and more carefully chosen, and are -all laid on lengthwise. The placing of a straw is done with surprising -speed and skill. The Caterpillar turns it round and round between his -legs, and then, gripping it in his mandibles, removes a few morsels -from one end, and immediately fixes them to the end of the sack. He -probably does this in order that the silk may obtain a firmer hold, as -a plumber gives a touch of the file to a point that is to be soldered. - -Then, by sheer strength of jaw, he lifts and brandishes his straw in -the air before laying it on his back. At once the spinneret sets to -work and fixes it in place. Without any groping about or correcting, -the thing is done. By the time the cold weather arrives the warm case -is complete. - -But the silky felt of the interior is never thick enough to please the -Caterpillar. When spring comes he spends all his spare time in -improving his quilt, in making it ever thicker and softer. Even if I -take off his outer case he refuses to rebuild it: he persists in adding -new layers to the lining, even when there is nothing to be lined. The -sack is lamentably flabby; it sags and rumples. He has no protection -nor shelter. No matter. The hour for carpentry has passed. The hour has -come for upholstering; and he upholsters obstinately, padding a -house—or lining a garment—that no longer exists. He will perish -miserably, cut up by the Ants, as the result of his too-rigid instinct. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE SELF-DENIAL OF THE SPANISH COPRIS - - -You remember, I hope, the Sacred Beetle, who spends her time in making -balls, both to serve as food and also to be the foundation of her -pear-shaped nest. I pointed out the advantages of this shape for the -young Beetles, since the globe is the best form that could be invented -to keep their provisions from becoming dry and hard. - -After watching this Beetle at work for a long time I began to wonder if -I had not perhaps been mistaken in admiring her instinct so greatly. -Was it really care for her grubs, I asked myself, that taught her to -provide them with the tenderest and most suitable food? It is the trade -of the Sacred Beetle to make balls. Is it wonderful that she should -continue her ball-making underground? A creature built with long curved -legs, very useful for rolling balls across the fields, will go on with -her favourite occupation wherever she may be, without regard to her -grubs. Perhaps the shape of the pear is mere chance. - -To settle this question satisfactorily in my own mind I should need to -be shown a Scavenger Beetle who was utterly unfamiliar with the -ball-making business in everyday life, and who yet, when laying-time -was at hand, made an abrupt change in her habits and stored her -provisions in the form of a round lump. That would show me that it was -not merely custom, but care for her grubs, that made her choose the -globular shape for her nest. - -Now in my neighbourhood there is a Beetle of this very kind. She is one -of the handsomest and largest, though not so imposing as the Sacred -Beetle. Her name is the Spanish Copris, and she is remarkable for the -sharp slope of her chest and the size of the horn surmounting her head. - -Being round and squat, the Spanish Copris is certainly incapable of -such gymnastics as are performed by the Sacred Beetle. Her legs, which -are insignificant in length, and which she folds under her body at the -slightest alarm, are not in the least like the stilts of the -pill-rollers. Their stunted form and their lack of flexibility are -enough in themselves to tell us that their owner would not care to roam -about burdened with a rolling ball. - -The Copris, indeed, is not of an active nature. Once she has found her -provisions, at night or in the evening twilight, she begins to dig a -burrow on the spot. It is a rough cavern, large enough to hold an -apple. Here is introduced, bit by bit, the stuff that is just overhead, -or at any rate lying on the threshold of the cave. An enormous supply -of food is stored in a shapeless mass, plain evidence of the insect’s -gluttony. As long as the hoard lasts the Copris remains underground. -When the larder is empty the insect searches out a fresh supply of -food, and scoops out another burrow. - -For the time being the Copris is merely a scavenger, a gatherer of -manure. She is evidently quite ignorant, at present, of the art of -kneading and modelling a round loaf. Besides, her short clumsy legs -seem utterly unsuited for any such art. - -In May or June, however, comes laying-time. The insect becomes very -particular about choosing the softest materials for her family’s food. -Having found what pleases her, she buries it on the spot, carrying it -down by armfuls, bit by bit. There is no travelling, no carting, no -preparation. I observe, too, that the burrow is larger and better built -than the temporary abodes in which the Copris takes her own meals. - -Finding it difficult to observe the insect closely in its wild state, I -resolved to place it in my insect-house, and there watch it at my ease. - -The poor creature was at first a little nervous in captivity, and when -she had made her burrow was very cautious about entering it. By -degrees, however, she was reassured, and in a single night she stored a -supply of the food I had provided for her. - -Before a week was out I dug up the soil in my insect-house, and brought -to light the burrow I had seen her storing with provisions. It was a -spacious hall, with an irregular roof and an almost level floor. In a -corner was a round hole leading to a slanting gallery, which ran up to -the surface of the soil. The walls of this dwelling, which was hollowed -out of fresh earth, had been carefully compressed, and were strong -enough to resist the earthquake caused by my experiments. It was easy -to see that the insect had put forth all her skill, all her -digging-powers, in the making of this permanent home, whereas her own -dining-room had been a mere cave, with walls that were none too safe. - -I suspect she is helped, in the building of this architectural -masterpiece, by her mate: at least I often see him with her in the -burrows. I also believe that he lends his partner a hand with the -collecting and storing of the provisions. It is a quicker job when -there are two to work. But once the home is well stocked he retires: he -makes his way back to the surface and settles down elsewhere. His part -in the family mansion is ended. - -Now what do I find in this mansion, into which I have seen so many tiny -loads of provisions lowered? A mass of small pieces, heaped together -anyhow? Not a bit of it. I always find a simple lump, a huge mass which -fills the dwelling except for a narrow passage. - -This lump has no fixed shape. I come across some that are like a -Turkey’s egg in form and size; some the shape of a common onion; I find -some that are almost round, and remind me of a Dutch cheese; I see some -that are circular, with a slight swelling on the upper surface. In -every case the surface is smooth and nicely curved. - -There is no mistaking what has happened. The mother has collected and -kneaded into one lump the numerous fragments brought down one after the -other. Out of all those particles she has made a single lump, by -mashing them, working them together, and treading on them. Time after -time I have seen her on top of the colossal loaf which is so much -larger than the ball of the Sacred Beetle—a mere pill in comparison. -She strolls about on the convex surface, which sometimes measures as -much as four inches across; she pats the mass, and makes it firm and -level. I only catch a sight of the curious scene, for the moment she -sees me she slips down the curved slope and hides away. - -With the help of a row of glass jars, all enclosed in opaque sheaths of -cardboard, I can find out a good many interesting things. In the first -place I have found that the big loaf does not owe its curve—which is -always regular, no matter how much the slope may vary—to any rolling -process. Indeed I already knew that so large a mess could not have been -rolled into a hole that it nearly fills. Besides, the strength of the -insect would be unequal to moving so great a load. - -Every time I go to the jar the evidence is the same. I always see the -mother Beetle twisted on top of the lump, feeling here and feeling -there, giving little taps, and making the thing smooth. Never do I -catch her looking as if she wanted to turn the block. It is clear as -daylight that rolling has nothing to do with the matter. - -At last it is ready. The baker divides his lump of dough into smaller -lumps, each of which will become a loaf. The Copris does the same -thing. By making a circular cut with the sharp edge of her forehead, -and at the same time using the saw of her fore-legs, she detaches from -the mass a piece of the size she requires. In giving this stroke she -has no hesitation: there are no after-touches, adding a bit here and -taking off a bit there. Straight away, with one sharp, decisive cut, -she obtains the proper-sized lump. - -Next comes the question of shaping it. Clasping it as best she can in -her short arms, so little adapted, one would think, for work of this -kind, the Copris rounds her lump of food by pressure, and pressure -only. Solemnly she moves about on the still shapeless mass, climbs up, -climbs down, turns to right and left, above and below, touching and -re-touching with unvarying patience. Finally, after twenty-four hours -of this work, the piece that was all corners has become a perfect -sphere, the size of a plum. There in her cramped studio, with scarcely -room to move, the podgy artist has completed her work without once -shaking it on its base: by dint of time and patience she has obtained -the exact sphere which her clumsy tools and her confined space seemed -to render impossible. - -For a long time she continues to polish up the globe with affectionate -touches of her foot, but at last she is satisfied. She climbs to the -top, and by simple pressure hollows out a shallow cavity. In this basin -she lays an egg. - -Then, with extreme caution and delicacy, she brings together the sides -of the basin so as to cover the egg, and carefully scrapes the sides -towards the top, which begins to taper a little and lengthen out. In -the end the ball has become ovoid, or egg-shaped. - -The insect next helps herself to a second piece of the cut loaf, which -she treats in the same way. The remainder serves for a third ovoid, or -even a fourth. The Sacred Beetle, you remember, made a single -pear-shaped nest in a way that was familiar to her, and then left her -egg underground while she engaged in fresh enterprises. The Copris -behaves very differently. - -Her burrow is almost filled by three or four ovoid nests, standing one -against the other, with the pointed end upwards. After her long fast -one would expect her to go away, like the Sacred Beetle, in search of -food. On the contrary, however, she stays where she is. And yet she has -eaten nothing since she came underground, for she has taken good care -not to touch the food prepared for her family. She will go hungry -rather than let her grubs suffer. - -Her object in staying is to mount guard over the cradles. The pear of -the Sacred Beetle suffers from the mother’s desertion. It soon shows -cracks, and becomes scaly and swollen. After a time it loses its shape. -But the nest of the Copris remains perfect, owing to the mother’s care. -She goes from one to the other, feels them, listens to them, and -touches them up at points where my eye can detect no flaw. Her clumsy -horn-shod foot is more sensitive in the darkness than my sight in broad -daylight: she feels the least threatening of a crack and attends to it -at once, lest the air should enter and dry up her eggs. She slips in -and out of the narrow spaces between the cradles, inspecting them with -the utmost care. If I disturb her she sometimes rubs the tip of her -body against the edge of her wing-cases, making a soft rustling sound, -like a murmur of complaint. In this way, caring industriously for her -cradles, and sometimes snatching a brief sleep beside them the mother -waits. - -The Copris enjoys in her underground home a rare privilege for an -insect: the pleasure of knowing her family. She hears her grubs -scratching at the shell to obtain their liberty; she is present at the -bursting of the nest which she has made so carefully. And when the -little captive, stiffening his legs and humping his back, tries to -split the ceiling that presses down on him, it is quite possible that -the mother comes to his assistance by making an assault on the nest -from the outside. Being fitted by instinct for repairing and building, -why should she not also be fitted for demolishing? However, I will make -no assertions, for I have been unable to see. - -Now it is possible to say that the mother Copris, being imprisoned in -an enclosure from which she cannot escape, stays in the midst of her -nest because she has no choice in the matter. Yet, if this were so, -would she trouble about her work of polishing and constant inspection? -These cares evidently are natural to her: they form part of her habits. -If she were anxious to regain her liberty, she would surely roam -restlessly round the enclosure, whereas I always see her very quiet and -absorbed. - -To make certain, I have inspected my glass jars at different times. She -could go lower down in the sand and hide anywhere she pleased, if rest -were what she wanted; she could climb outside and sit down to fresh -food, if refreshment became necessary. Neither the prospect of rest in -a deeper cave nor the thought of the sun and of food makes her leave -her family. Until the last of them has burst his shell she sticks to -her post. I always find her beside her cradles. - -For four months she is without food of any kind. She was no better than -a glutton at first, when there was no family to consider, but now she -becomes self-denying to the point of prolonged fasting. The Hen sitting -on her eggs forgets to eat for some weeks; the watchful Copris mother -forgets food for a third part of the year. - -The summer is over. The rains so greatly desired by man and beast have -come at last, soaking the ground to some depth. After the torrid and -dusty days of our Provençal summer, when life is in suspense, we have -the coolness that revives it. The heath puts out its first pink bells; -the autumnal squill lifts its little spike of lilac flowers; the -strawberry-tree’s coral bells begin to soften; the Sacred Beetle and -the Copris burst their shells, and come to the surface in time to enjoy -the last fine weather of the year. - -The newly released Copris family, accompanied by their mother, -gradually emerge from underground. There are three or four of them, -five at most. The sons are easily recognised by the greater length of -their horns; but there is nothing to distinguish the daughters from the -mother. For that matter, the same confusion exists among themselves. An -abrupt change has taken place. The mother whose devotion was lately so -remarkable is now utterly indifferent to the welfare of her family. -Henceforward each looks after his own home and his own interests. They -no longer have anything to do with one another. - -The present indifference of the mother Beetle must not make us forget -the wonderful care she has lavished for four months on end. Except -among the Bees, Wasps, and Ants, who spoon-feed their young and bring -them up with every attention to their health, I know of no other such -case of maternal self-denial. Alone and unaided she provides each of -her children with a cake of food, whose crust she constantly repairs, -so that it becomes the safest of cradles. So intense is her affection -that she loses all desire and need of food. In the darkness of the -burrow she watches over her brood for four months, attending to the -wants of the egg, the grub, the undeveloped Beetle, and the full-grown -insect. She does not return to the glad outer life till all her family -are free. Thus we see one of the most brilliant examples of maternal -instinct in a humble scavenger of the fields. The Spirit breatheth -where He will. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -TWO STRANGE GRASSHOPPERS - - -I - -THE EMPUSA - -The sea, where life first appeared, still preserves in its depths many -of those curious shapes which were the earliest specimens of the animal -kingdom. But the land has almost entirely lost the strange forms of -other days. The few that remain are mostly insects. One of these is the -Praying Mantis, whose remarkable shape and habits I have already -described to you. Another is the Empusa. - -This insect, in its undeveloped or larval state, is certainly the -strangest creature in all Provence: a slim, swaying thing of so -fantastic an appearance that unaccustomed fingers dare not lay hold of -it. The children of my neighbourhood are so much impressed by its -startling shape that they call it “the Devilkin.” They imagine it to be -in some way connected with witchcraft. One comes across it, though -never in great numbers, in the spring up to May; in autumn; and -sometimes in winter if the sun be strong. The tough grasses of the -waste-lands, the stunted bushes which catch the sunshine and are -sheltered from the wind by a few heaps of stones, are the chilly -Empusa’s favourite dwelling. - -I will tell you, as well as I can, what she looks like. The tail-end of -her body is always twisted and curved up over her back so as to form a -crook, and the lower surface of her body (that is to say, of course, -the upper surface of the crook) is covered with pointed, leaf-shaped -scales, arranged in three rows. The crook is propped on four long, thin -legs, like stilts; and on each of these legs, at the point where the -thigh joins the shin, is a curved, projecting blade not unlike that of -a cleaver. - -In front of this crook on stilts, this four-legged stool, there rises -suddenly—very long and almost perpendicular—the stiff corselet or bust. -It is round and slender as a straw, and at the end of it is the -hunting-trap, copied from that of the Mantis. This consists of a -harpoon sharper than a needle, and a cruel vice with jaws toothed like -a saw. The jaw, or blade formed by the upper arm, is hollowed into a -groove and carries five long spikes on each side, with smaller -indentations in between. The jaw formed by the fore-arm is grooved in -the same way, but the teeth are finer, closer, and more regular. When -at rest, the saw of the fore-arm fits into the groove of the upper arm. -If the machine were only larger it would be a fearful instrument of -torture. - -The head is in keeping with this arsenal. What a queer head it is! A -pointed face, with curled moustaches; large goggle eyes; between them -the blade of a dirk; and on the forehead a mad, unheard-of thing—a sort -of tall mitre, an extravagant head-dress that juts forward, spreading -right and left into peaked wings. What does the Devilkin want with that -monstrous pointed cap, as magnificent as any ever worn by astrologer of -old? The use of it will appear presently. - -The creature’s colouring at this time is commonplace—chiefly grey. As -it develops it becomes faintly striped with pale green, white, and -pink. - -If you come across this fantastic object in the bramble-bushes, it -sways upon its four stilts, it wags its head at you knowingly, it -twists its mitre round and peers over its shoulder. You seem to see -mischief in its pointed face. But if you try to take hold of it this -threatening attitude disappears at once; the raised corselet is -lowered, and the creature makes off with mighty strides, helping itself -along with its weapons, with which it clutches the twigs. If you have a -practiced eye, however, the Empusa is easily caught, and penned in a -cage of wire-gauze. - -At first I was uncertain how to feed them. My Devilkins were very -little, a month or two old at most. I gave them Locusts suited to their -size, the smallest I could find. They not only refused them, but were -afraid of them. Any thoughtless Locust that meekly approached an Empusa -met with a bad reception. The pointed mitre was lowered, and an angry -thrust sent the Locust rolling. The wizard’s cap, then, is a defensive -weapon. As the Ram charges with his forehead, so the Empusa butts with -her mitre. - -I next offered her a live House-fly, and this time the dinner was -accepted at once. The moment the Fly came within reach the watchful -Devilkin turned her head, bent her corselet slantwise, harpooned the -Fly, and gripped it between her two saws. No Cat could pounce more -quickly on a Mouse. - -To my surprise I found that the Fly was not only enough for a meal, but -enough for the whole day, and often for several days. These -fierce-looking insects are extremely abstemious. I was expecting them -to be ogres, and found them with the delicate appetites of invalids. -After a time even a Midge failed to tempt them, and through the winter -months they fasted altogether. When the spring came, however, they were -ready to indulge in a small piece of Cabbage Butterfly or Locust; -attacking their prey invariably in the neck, like the Mantis. - -The young Empusa has one very curious habit when in captivity. In its -cage of wire-gauze its attitude is the same from first to last, and a -most strange attitude it is. It grips the wire by the claws of its four -hind-legs, and hangs motionless, back downwards, with the whole of its -body suspended from those four points. If it wishes to move, its -harpoons open in front, stretch out, grasp a mesh of the wire, and -pull. This process naturally draws the insect along the wire, still -upside down. Then the jaws close back against the chest. - -And this upside-down position, which seems to us so trying, lasts for -no short while. It continues, in my cages, for ten months without a -break. The Fly on the ceiling, it is true, adopts the same position; -but she has her moments of rest. She flies, she walks in the usual way, -she spreads herself flat in the sun. The Empusa, on the other hand, -remains in her curious attitude for ten months on end, without a pause. -Hanging from the wire netting, back downwards, she hunts, eats, -digests, dozes, gets through all the experiences of an insect’s life, -and finally dies. She clambers up while she is still quite young; she -falls down in her old age, a corpse. - -This custom is all the more remarkable in that it is practised only in -captivity. It is not an instinctive habit of the race; for out of doors -the insect, except at rare intervals, stands on the bushes back -upwards. - -Strange as the performance is, I know of a similar case that is even -more peculiar: the attitude of certain Wasps and Bees during the -night’s rest. A particular Wasp, an Ammophila with red fore-legs, is -plentiful in my enclosure towards the end of August, and likes to sleep -in one of the lavender borders. At dusk, especially after a stifling -day when a storm is brewing, I am sure to find the strange sleeper -settled there. Never was a more eccentric attitude chosen for a night’s -rest. The jaws bite right into the lavender-stem. Its square shape -supplies a firmer hold than a round stalk would give. With this one and -only prop the Wasp’s body juts out stiffly at full length, with legs -folded. It forms a right angle with the stalk, so that the whole weight -of the insect rests upon the mandibles. - -The Ammophila is enabled by its mighty jaws to sleep in this way, -extended in space. It takes an animal to think of a thing like that, -which upsets all our previous ideas of rest. Should the threatening -storm burst and the stalk sway in the wind, the sleeper is not troubled -by her swinging hammock; at most, she presses her fore-legs for a -moment against the tossing stem. Perhaps the Wasp’s jaws, like the -Bird’s toes, possess the power of gripping more tightly in proportion -to the violence of the wind. However that may be, there are several -kinds of Wasps and Bees who adopt this strange position,—gripping a -stalk with their mandibles, and sleeping with their bodies outstretched -and their legs folded back. This state of things makes us wonder what -it is that really constitutes rest. - -About the middle of May the Empusa is transformed into her full-grown -condition. She is even more remarkable in figure and attire than the -Praying Mantis. She still keeps some of her youthful eccentricities—the -bust, the weapons on her knees, and the three rows of scales on the -lower surface of her body. But she is now no longer twisted into a -crook, and is comelier to look upon. Large pale-green wings, pink at -the shoulder and swift in flight, cover the white and green stripes -that ornament the body below. The male Empusa, who is a dandy, adorns -himself, like some of the Moths, with feathery antennæ. - -When, in the spring, the peasant meets the Empusa, he thinks he sees -the common Praying Mantis, who is a daughter of the autumn. They are so -much alike that one would expect them to have the same habits. In fact, -any one might be tempted, led away by the extraordinary armour, to -suspect the Empusa of a mode of life even more atrocious than that of -the Mantis. This would be a mistake: for all their war-like aspect the -Empusæ are peaceful creatures. - -Imprisoned in their wire-gauze bell-jar, either in groups of half a -dozen or in separate couples, they at no time lose their placidity. -Even in their full-grown state they are very small eaters, and content -themselves with a fly or two as their daily ration. - -Big eaters are naturally quarrelsome. The Mantis, gorged with Locusts, -soon becomes irritated and shows fight. The Empusa, with her frugal -meals, is a lover of peace. She indulges in no quarrels with her -neighbours, nor does she pretend to be a ghost, with a view to -frightening them, after the manner of the Mantis. She never unfurls her -wings suddenly nor puffs like a startled Adder. She has never the least -inclination for the cannibal banquets at which a sister, after being -worsted in a fight, is eaten up. Nor does she, like the Mantis, devour -her husband. Such atrocities are here unknown. - -The organs of the two insects are the same. These profound moral -differences, therefore, are not due to any difference in the bodily -form. Possibly they may arise from the difference in food. Simple -living, as a matter of fact, softens character, in animals as in men; -over-feeding brutalises it. The glutton, gorged with meat and strong -drink—a very common cause of savage outbursts—could never be as gentle -as the self-denying hermit who lives on bread dipped into a cup of -milk. The Mantis is a glutton: the Empusa lives the simple life. - -And yet, even when this is granted, one is forced to ask a further -question. Why, when the two insects are almost exactly the same in -form, and might be expected to have the same needs, should the one have -an enormous appetite and the other such temperate ways? They tell us, -in their own fashion, what many insects have told us already: that -inclinations and habits do not depend entirely upon anatomy. High above -the laws that govern matter rise other laws that govern instincts. - - - - -II - -THE WHITE-FACED DECTICUS - -The White-faced Decticus stands at the head of the Grasshopper clan in -my district, both as a singer and as an insect of imposing presence. He -has a grey body, a pair of powerful mandibles, and a broad ivory face. -Without being plentiful, he is neither difficult nor wearisome to hunt. -In the height of summer we find him hopping in the long grass, -especially at the foot of the sunny rocks where the turpentine-tree -takes root. - -The Greek word dectikos means biting, fond of biting. The Decticus is -well named. It is eminently an insect given to biting. Mind your finger -if this sturdy Grasshopper gets hold of it: he will rip it till the -blood comes. His powerful jaw, of which I have to beware when I handle -him, and the large muscles that swell out his cheeks, are evidently -intended for cutting up leathery prey. - -I find, when the Decticus is imprisoned in my menagerie, that any fresh -meat tasting of Locust or Grasshopper suits his needs. The blue-winged -Locust is the most frequent victim. As soon as the food is introduced -into the cage there is an uproar, especially if the Dectici are hungry. -They stamp about, and dart forward clumsily, being hampered by their -long shanks. Some of the Locusts are caught at once, but others with -desperate bounds rush to the top of the cage, and there hang on out of -the reach of the Grasshopper, who is too stout to climb so high. But -they have only postponed their fate. Either because they are tired, or -because they are tempted by the green stuff below, they will come down, -and the Dectici will be after them immediately. - -This Grasshopper, though his intellect is dull, possesses the art of -scientific killing of which we have seen instances elsewhere. He always -spears his prey in the neck, and, to make it helpless as quickly as -possible, begins by biting the nerves that enable it to move. It is a -very wise method, for the Locust is hard to kill. Even when beheaded he -goes on hopping. I have seen some who, though half-eaten, kicked out so -desperately that they succeeded in escaping. - -With his weakness for Locusts, and also for certain seeds that are -harmful to unripe corn, these Grasshoppers might be of some service to -agriculture if only there were more of them. But nowadays his -assistance in preserving the fruits of the earth is very feeble. His -chief interest in our eyes is the fact that he is a memorial of the -remotest times. He gives us a vague glimpse of habits now out of use. - -It was thanks to the Decticus that I first learnt one or two things -about young Grasshoppers. - -Instead of packing their eggs in casks of hardened foam, like the -Locust and the Mantis, or laying them in a twig like the Cicada, -Grasshoppers plant them like seeds in the earth. - -The mother Decticus has a tool at the end of her body with which she -scrapes out a little hole in the soil. In this hole she lays a certain -number of eggs, then loosens the dust round the side of the hole and -rams it down with her tool, very much as we should pack the earth in a -hole with a stick. In this way she covers up the well, and then sweeps -and smooths the ground above it. - -She then goes for a little walk in the neighbourhood, by way of -recreation. Soon she comes back to the place where she has already laid -her eggs, and, very near the original spot, which she recognises quite -well, begins the work afresh. If I watch her for an hour I see her go -through this whole performance, including the short stroll in the -neighbourhood, no less than five times. The points where she lays the -eggs are always very close together. - -When everything is finished I examine the little pits. The eggs lie -singly, without any cell or sheath to protect them. There are about -sixty of them altogether, pale lilac-grey in colour, and shaped like a -shuttle. - -When I began to observe the ways of the Decticus I was anxious to watch -the hatching, so at the end of August I gathered plenty of eggs, and -placed them in a small glass jar with a layer of sand. Without -suffering any apparent change they spent eight months there under -cover, sheltered from the frosts, the showers, and the overpowering -heat of the sun, which they would be obliged to endure out of doors. - -When June came, the eggs in my jar showed no sign of being about to -hatch. They were just as I had gathered them nine months before, -neither wrinkled nor tarnished, but on the contrary wearing a most -healthy look. Yet in June young Dectici are often to be met in the -fields, and sometimes even those of larger growth. What was the reason -of this delay, I wondered. - -Then an idea came to me. The eggs of the Grasshopper are planted like -seeds in the earth, where they are exposed, without any protection, to -snow and rain. Those in my jar had spent two-thirds of the year in a -state of comparative dryness. Since they were sown like seeds, perhaps -they needed, to make them hatch, the moisture that seeds require to -make them sprout. I resolved to try. - -I placed at the bottom of some glass tubes a pinch of backward eggs -taken from my collection, and on the top I heaped lightly a layer of -fine, damp sand. I closed the tubes with plugs of wet cotton, to keep -the air in them constantly moist. Any one seeing my preparations would -have supposed me to be a botanist experimenting with seeds. - -My hopes were fulfilled. In the warmth and moisture the eggs soon -showed signs of hatching. They began to swell, and the bursting of the -shell was evidently close at hand. I spent a fortnight in keeping a -tedious watch at every hour of the day, for I had to surprise the young -Decticus actually leaving the egg, in order to solve a question that -had long been in my mind. - -The question was this. The Grasshopper is buried, as a rule, about an -inch below the surface of the soil. Now the new-born Decticus, hopping -awkwardly in the grass at the approach of summer, has, like the -full-grown insect, a pair of very long tentacles, as slender as hairs; -while he carries behind him two extraordinary legs, two enormous hinged -jumping-poles that would be very inconvenient for ordinary walking. I -wished to find out how the feeble little creature set to work, with -this cumbrous luggage, to make its way to the surface of the earth. By -what means could it clear a passage through the rough soil? With its -feathery antennæ, which an atom of sand can break, and its immense -shanks, which are disjointed by the least effort, this mite is plainly -incapable of freeing itself. - -As I have already told you, the Cicada and the Praying Mantis, when -issuing, the one from his twig, and the other from his nest, wear a -protective covering like an overall. It seemed to me that the little -Grasshopper, too, must come out through the sand in a simpler, more -compact form than he wears when he hops about the lawn on the day after -his birth. - -Nor was I mistaken. The Decticus, like the others, wears an overall for -the occasion. The tiny, flesh-white creature is cased in a scabbard -which keeps the six legs flattened against the body, stretching -backwards, inert. In order to slip more easily through the soil his -shanks are tied up beside him; while the antennæ, those other -inconvenient appendages, are pressed motionless against the parcel. - -The head is very much bent against the chest. With the big black specks -that are going to be its eyes, and its inexpressive, rather swollen -mask, it suggests a diver’s helmet. The neck opens wide at the back, -and, with a slow throbbing, by turns swells and sinks. It is by means -of this throbbing protrusion through the opening at the back of the -head that the new-born insect moves. When the lump is flat, the head -pushes back the damp sand a little way and slips into it by digging a -tiny pit. Then the swelling is blown out and becomes a knob which -sticks firmly in the hole. This supplies the resistance necessary for -the grub to draw up its back and push. Thus a step forward is made. -Each thrust of the motor-blister helps the little Decticus upon the -upward path. - -It is pitiful to see this tender creature, still almost colourless, -knocking with its swollen neck and ramming the rough soil. With flesh -that is not yet hardened it is painfully fighting stone; and fighting -it so successfully that in the space of a morning it makes a gallery, -either straight or winding, an inch long and as wide as an average -straw. In this way the harassed insect reaches the surface. - -Before it is altogether freed from the soil the struggler halts for a -moment, to recover from the effects of the journey. Then, with renewed -strength, it makes a last effort: it swells the protrusion at the back -of its head as far as it will go, and bursts the sheath that has -protected it so far. The creature throws off its overall. - -Here, then, is the Decticus in his youthful shape, quite pale still, -but darker the next day, and a regular blackamoor compared with the -full-grown insect. As a prelude to the ivory face of his riper age he -wears a narrow white stripe under his hinder thighs. - -Little Decticus, hatched before my eyes, life opens for you very -harshly! Many of your relatives must die of exhaustion before winning -their freedom. In my tubes I see numbers who, being stopped by a grain -of sand, give up the struggle half-way and become furred with a sort of -silky fluff. Mildew soon absorbs their poor little remains. And when -carried out without my help, their journey to the surface must be even -more dangerous, for the soil out of doors is coarse and baked by the -sun. - -The little white-striped nigger nibbles at the lettuce-leaf I give him, -and leaps about gaily in the cage where I have housed him. I could -easily rear him, but he would not teach me much more. So I restore him -to liberty. In return for what he has taught me I give him the grass -and the Locusts in the garden. - -For he taught me that Grasshoppers, in order to leave the ground where -the eggs are laid, wear a temporary form which keeps those too cumbrous -parts, the long legs and antennæ, swathed together in a sheath. He -taught me, too, that this mummy-like creature, fit only to lengthen and -shorten itself a little, has for its means of travelling a hernia in -the neck, a throbbing blister—an original piece of mechanism which, -when I first observed the Decticus, I had never seen used as an aid to -progression. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER X - -COMMON WASPS - - -I - -THEIR CLEVERNESS AND STUPIDITY - -Wishing to observe a Wasp’s nest I go out, one day in September, with -my little son Paul, who helps me with his good sight and his undivided -attention. We look with interest at the edges of the footpaths. - -Suddenly Paul cries: “A Wasp’s nest! A Wasp’s nest, as sure as -anything!” For, twenty yards away, he has seen rising from the ground, -shooting up and flying away, now one and then another swiftly moving -object, as though some tiny crater in the grass were hurling them -forth. - -We approach the spot with caution, fearing to attract the attention of -the fierce creatures. At the entrance-door of their dwelling, a round -opening large enough to admit a man’s thumb, the inmates come and go, -busily passing one another as they fly in opposite directions. Burr! A -shudder runs through me at the thought of the unpleasant time we should -have, did we incite these irritable warriors to attack us by inspecting -them too closely. Without further investigation, which might cost us -too dear, we mark the spot, and resolve to return at nightfall. By that -time all the inhabitants of the nest will have come home from the -fields. - -The conquest of a nest of Common Wasps would be rather a serious -undertaking if one did not act with a certain amount of prudence. Half -a pint of petrol, a reed-stump nine inches long, and a good-sized lump -of clay or loam, kneaded to the right consistency—such are my weapons, -which I have come to consider the best and simplest, after various -trials with less successful means. - -The suffocating method is necessary, unless I use costly measures which -I cannot afford. When Réaumur wanted to place a live Wasp’s nest in a -glass case with a view to observing the habits of the inmates, he -employed helpers who were used to the painful job, and were willing, -for a handsome reward, to serve the man of science at the cost of their -skins. But I, who should have to pay with my own skin, think twice -before digging up the nest I desire. I begin by suffocating the -inhabitants. Dead Wasps do not sting. It is a brutal method, but -perfectly safe. - -I use petrol because its effects are not too violent, and in order to -make my observations I wish to leave a small number of survivors. The -question is how to introduce it into the cavity containing the Wasp’s -nest. A vestibule, or entrance-passage, about nine inches long, and -very nearly horizontal, leads to the underground cells. To pour the -petrol straight into the mouths of this tunnel would be a blunder that -might have serious consequences later on. For so small a quantity of -petrol would be absorbed by the soil and would never reach the nest; -and next day, when we might think we were digging safely, we should -find an infuriated swarm under the spade. - -The bit of reed prevents this mishap. When inserted into the passage it -forms a water-tight funnel, and carries the petrol to the cavern -without the loss of a drop, and as quickly as possible. Then we fix the -lump of kneaded clay into the entrance-hole, like a stopper. We have -nothing to do now but wait. - -When we are going to perform this operation Paul and I set out, -carrying a lantern and a basket with the implements, at nine o’clock on -some mild, moonlit evening. While the farmhouse Dogs are yelping at -each other in the distance, and the Screech Owl is hooting in the -olive-trees, and the Italian Crickets are performing their symphony in -the bushes, Paul and I chat about insects. He asks questions, eager to -learn, and I tell him the little that I know. So delightful are our -nights of Wasp-hunting that we think little of the loss of sleep or the -chance of being stung! - -The pushing of the reed into the hole is the most delicate matter. -Since the direction of the passage is unknown there is some hesitation, -and sometimes sentries come flying out of the Wasp’s guard-house to -attack the operator’s hand. To prevent this one of us keeps watch, and -drives away the enemy with a handkerchief. And after all, a swelling on -one’s hand, even if it does smart, is not much to pay for an idea. - -As the petrol streams into the cavern we hear the threatening buzz of -the population underground. Then quick!—the door must be closed with -the wet clay, and the clod kicked once or twice with the heel to make -the stopper solid. There is nothing more to be done for the present. -Off we go to bed. - -With a spade and a trowel we are back on the spot at dawn. It is wise -to be early, because many Wasps will have been out all night, and will -want to get into their home while we are digging. The chill of the -morning will make them less fierce. - -In front of the entrance-passage, in which the reed is still sticking, -we dig a trench wide enough to allow us free movement. Then the side of -this ditch is carefully cut away, slice after slice, until, at a depth -of about twenty inches, the Wasp’s nest is revealed, uninjured, slung -from the roof of a spacious cavity. - -It is indeed a superb achievement, as large as a fair-sized pumpkin. It -hangs free on every side except at the top, where various roots, mostly -of couch-grass, penetrate the thickness of the wall and fasten the nest -firmly. Its shape is round wherever the ground has been soft, and of -the same consistency all through. In stony soil, where the Wasps meet -with obstacles in their digging, the sphere becomes more or less -misshapen. - -A space of a hand’s-breadth is always left open between the paper nest -and the sides of the underground vault. This space is the wide street -along which the builders move unhindered at their continual task of -enlarging and strengthening the nest, and the passage that leads to the -outer world opens into it. Underneath the nest is a much larger -unoccupied space, rounded into a big basin, so that the wrapper of the -nest can be enlarged as fresh cells are added. This cavity also serves -as a dust-bin for refuse. - -The cavity was dug by the Wasps themselves. Of that there is no doubt; -for holes so large and so regular do not exist ready-made. The original -foundress of the nest may have seized on some cavity made by a Mole, to -help her at the beginning; but the greater part of the enormous vault -was the work of the Wasps. Yet there is not a scrap of rubbish outside -the entrance. Where is the mass of earth that has been removed? - -It has been spread over such a large surface of ground that it is -unnoticed. Thousands and thousands of Wasps work at digging the cellar, -and enlarging it as that becomes necessary. They fly up to the outer -world, each carrying a particle of earth, which they drop on the ground -at some distance from the nest, in all directions. Being scattered in -this way the earth leaves no visible trace. - -The Wasp’s nest is made of a thin, flexible material like brown paper, -formed of particles of wood. It is streaked with bands, of which the -colour varies according to the wood used. If it were made in a single -continuous sheet it would give little protection against the cold. But -the Common Wasp, like the ballon-maker, knows that heat may be -preserved by means of a cushion of air contained by several wrappers. -So she makes her paper-pulp into broad scales, which overlap loosely -and are laid on in numerous layers. The whole forms a coarse blanket, -thick and spongy in texture and well filled with stagnant air. The -temperature under this shelter must be truly tropical in hot weather. - -The fierce Hornet, chief of the Wasps, builds her nest on the same -principle. In the hollow of a willow, or within some empty granary, she -makes, out of fragments of wood, a very brittle kind of striped yellow -cardboard. Her nest is wrapped round with many layers of this -substance, laid on in the form of broad convex scales which are welded -to one another. Between them are wide intervals in which air is held -motionless. - -The Wasp, then, often acts in accordance with the laws of physics and -geometry. She employs air, a non-conductor of heat, to keep her home -warm; she made blankets before man thought of it; she builds the outer -walls of the nest in the shape that gives her the largest amount of -room in the smallest wrapper; and in the form of her cell, too, she -economises space and material. - -And yet, clever as these wonderful architects are, they amaze us by -their stupidity in the face of the smallest difficulty. On the one hand -their instincts teach them to behave like men of science; but on the -other it is plain that they are entirely without the power of -reflection. I have convinced myself of this fact by various -experiments. - -The Common Wasp has chanced to set up house beside one of the walks in -my enclosure, which enables me to experiment with a bell-glass. In the -open fields I could not use this appliance, because the boys of the -countryside would soon smash it. One night, when all was dark and the -Wasps had gone home, I placed the glass over the entrance of the -burrow, after first flattening the soil. When the Wasps began work -again next morning and found themselves checked in their flight, would -they succeed in making a passage under the rim of the glass? Would -these sturdy creatures, who were capable of digging a spacious cavern, -realise that a very short underground tunnel would set them free? That -was the question. - -The next morning I found the bright sunlight falling on the bell-glass, -and the workers ascending in crowds from underground, eager to go in -search of provisions. They butted against the transparent wall, tumbled -down, picked themselves up again, and whirled round and round in a -crazy swarm. Some, weary of dancing, wandered peevishly at random and -then re-entered their dwelling. Others took their places as the sun -grew hotter. But not one of them, not a single one, scratched with her -feet at the base of the glass circle. This means of escape was beyond -them. - -Meanwhile a few Wasps who had spent the night out of doors were coming -in from the fields. Round and round the bell-glass they flew; and at -last, after much hesitation, one of them decided to dig under the edge. -Others followed her example, a passage was easily opened, and the Wasps -went in. Then I closed the passage with some earth. The narrow opening, -if seen from within, might help the Wasps to escape, and I wished to -leave the prisoners the honour of winning their liberty. - -However poor the Wasps’ power of reasoning, I thought their escape was -now probable. Those who had just entered would surely show the way; -they would teach the others to dig below the wall of glass. - -I was too hasty. Of learning by experience or example there was not a -sign. Inside the glass not an attempt was made to dig a tunnel. The -insect population whirled round and round, but showed no enterprise. -They floundered about, while every day numbers died from famine and -heat. At the end of a week not one was left alive. A heap of corpses -covered the ground. - -The Wasps returning from the field could find their way in, because the -power of scenting their house through the soil, and searching for it, -is one of their natural instincts, one of the means of defence given to -them. There is no need for thought or reasoning here: the earthy -obstacle has been familiar to every Wasp since Wasps first came into -the world. - -But those who are within the bell-glass have no such instinct to help -them. Their aim is to get into the light, and finding daylight in their -transparent prison they think their aim is accomplished. In spite of -constant collisions with the glass they spend themselves in vainly -trying to fly farther in the direction of the sunshine. There is -nothing in the past to teach them what to do. They keep blindly to -their familiar habits, and die. - - - - -II - -SOME OF THEIR HABITS - -If we open the thick envelope of the nest we shall find, inside, a -number of combs, or layers of cells, lying one below the other and -fastened together by solid pillars. The number of these layers varies. -Towards the end of the season there may be ten, or even more. The -opening of the cells is on the lower surface. In this strange world the -young grow, sleep, and receive their food head downwards. - -The various storeys, or layers of combs, are divided by open spaces; -and between the outer envelope and the stack of combs there are -doorways through which every part can be easily reached. There is a -continual coming and going of nurses, attending to the grubs in the -cells. On one side of the outer wrapper is the gate of the city, a -modest unadorned opening, lost among the thin scales of the envelope. -Facing it is the entrance to the tunnel that leads from the cavity to -the world at large. - -In a Wasp community there is a large number of Wasps whose whole life -is spent in work. It is their business to enlarge the nest as the -population grows; and though they have no grubs of their own, they -nurse the grubs in the cells with the greatest care and industry. -Wishing to watch their operations, and also to see what would take -place at the approach of winter, I placed under cover one October a few -fragments of a nest, containing a large number of eggs and grubs, with -about a hundred workers to take care of them. - -To make my inspection easier I separated the combs and placed them side -by side, with the openings of the cells turned upwards. This -arrangement, the reverse of the usual position, did not seem to annoy -my prisoners, who soon recovered from the disturbance and set to work -as if nothing had happened. In case they should wish to build I gave -them a slip of soft wood; and I fed them with honey. The underground -cave in which the nest hangs out of doors was represented by a large -earthen pan under a wire-gauze cover. A removable cardboard dome -provided darkness for the Wasps, and—when removed—light for me. - -The Wasps’ work went on as if it had never been interrupted. The -worker-Wasps attended to the grubs and the building at the same time. -They began to raise a wall round the most thickly populated combs; and -it seemed as though they might intend to build a new envelope, to -replace the one ruined by my spade. But they were not repairing; they -were simply carrying on the work from the point at which I interrupted -it. Over about a third of the comb they made an arched roof of paper -scales, which would have been joined to the envelope of the nest if it -had been intact. The tent they made sheltered only a small part of the -disk of cells. - -As for the wood I provided for them, they did not touch it. To this raw -material, which would have been troublesome to work, they preferred the -old cells that were no longer in use. In these the fibres were already -prepared; and, with a little saliva and a little grinding in their -mandibles, they turned them into pulp of the highest quality. The -uninhabited cells were nibbled into pieces, and out of the ruins a sort -of canopy was built. New cells could be made in the same way if -necessary. - -Even more interesting than this roofing-work is the feeding of the -grubs. One could never weary of the sight of the rough fighters turned -into tender nurses. The barracks become a crêche. With what care those -grubs are reared! If we watch one of the busy Wasps we shall see her, -with her crop swollen with honey, halt in front of a cell. With a -thoughtful air she bends her head into the opening, and touches the -grub with the tip of her antenna. The grub wakes and gapes at her, like -a fledgling when the mother-bird returns to the nest with food. - -For a moment the awakened larva swings its head to and fro: it is -blind, and is trying to feel the food brought to it. The two mouths -meet; a drop of syrup passes from the nurse’s mouth to the nurseling’s. -That is enough for the moment: now for the next Wasp-baby. The nurse -moves on, to continue her duties elsewhere. - -Meanwhile the grub is licking the base of its own neck. For, while it -is being fed, there appears a temporary swelling on its chest, which -acts as a bib, and catches whatever trickles down from the mouth. After -swallowing the chief part of the meal the grub gathers up the crumbs -that have fallen on its bib. Then the swelling disappears; and the -grub, withdrawing a little way into its cell, resumes its sweet -slumbers. - -When fed in my cage the Wasp-grubs have their heads up, and what falls -from their mouths collects naturally on their bibs. When fed in the -nest they have their heads down. But I have no doubt that even in this -position the bib serves its purpose. - -By slightly bending its head the grub can always deposit on the -projecting bib a portion of the overflowing mouthful, which is sticky -enough to remain there. Moreover, it is quite possible that the nurse -herself places a portion of her helping on this spot. Whether it be -above or below the mouth, right way up or upside down, the bib fulfils -its office because of the sticky nature of the food. It is a temporary -saucer which shortens the work of serving out the rations, and enables -the grub to feed in a more or less leisurely fashion and without too -much gluttony. - -In the open country, late in the year when fruit is scarce, the grubs -are mostly fed upon minced Fly; but in my cages everything is refused -but honey. Both nurses and nurselings seem to thrive on this diet, and -if any intruder ventures too near to the combs he is doomed. Wasps, it -appears, are far from hospitable. Even the Polistes, an insect who is -absolutely like a Wasp in shape and colour, is at once recognised and -mobbed if she approaches the honey the Wasps are sipping. Her -appearance takes nobody in for a moment, and unless she hastily retires -she will meet with a violent death. No, it is not a good thing to enter -a Wasps’ nest, even when the stranger wears the same uniform, pursues -the same industry, and is almost a member of the same corporation. - -Again and again I have seen the savage reception given to strangers. If -the stranger be of sufficient importance he is stabbed, and his body is -dragged from the nest and flung into the refuse-heap below. But the -poisoned dagger seems to be reserved for great occasions. If I throw -the grub of a Saw-fly among the Wasps they show great surprise at the -black-and-green dragon; they snap at it boldly, and wound it, but -without stinging it. They try to haul it away. The dragon resists, -anchoring itself to the comb by its hooks, holding on now by its -fore-legs and now by its hind-legs. At last the grub, however, weakened -by its wounds, is torn from the comb and dragged bleeding to the -refuse-pit. It has taken a couple of hours to dislodge it. - -Supposing, on the other hand, I throw on to the combs a certain -imposing grub that lives under the bark of cherry-trees, five or six -Wasps will at once prick it with their stings. In a couple of minutes -it is dead. But the huge dead body is much too heavy to be carried out -of the nest. So the Wasps, finding they cannot move the grub, eat it -where it lies, or at least reduce its weight till they can drag the -remains outside the walls. - - - - -III - -THEIR SAD END - -Protected in this fierce way against the invasion of intruders, and fed -with excellent honey, the grubs in my cage prosper greatly. But of -course there are exceptions. In the Wasps’ nest, as everywhere, there -are weaklings who are cut down before their time. - -I see these puny sufferers refuse their food and slowly pine away. The -nurses perceive it even more clearly. They bend their heads over the -invalid, sound it with their antennæ, and pronounce it incurable. Then -the creature at the point of death is torn ruthlessly from its cell and -dragged outside the nest. In the brutal commonwealth of the Wasps the -invalid is merely a piece of rubbish, to be got rid of as soon as -possible for fear of contagion. Nor indeed is this the worst. As winter -draws near the Wasps foresee their fate. They know their end is at -hand. - -The first cold nights of November bring a change in the nest. The -building proceeds with diminished enthusiasm; the visits to the pool of -honey are less constant. Household duties are relaxed. Grubs gaping -with hunger receive tardy relief, or are even neglected. Profound -uneasiness seizes upon the nurses. Their former devotion is succeeded -by indifference, which soon turns to dislike. What is the good of -continuing attentions which soon will be impossible? A time of famine -is coming; the nurselings in any case must die a tragic death. So the -tender nurses become savage executioners. - -“Let us leave no orphans,” they say to themselves; “no one would care -for them after we are gone. Let us kill everything, eggs and grubs -alike. A violent end is better than a slow death by starvation.” - -A massacre follows. The grubs are seized by the scruff of the neck, -brutally torn from their cells, dragged out of the nest, and thrown -into the refuse-heap at the bottom of the cave. The nurses, or workers, -root them out of their cells as violently as though they were strangers -or dead bodies. They tug at them savagely and tear them. Then the eggs -are ripped open and devoured. - -Before much longer the nurses themselves, the executioners, are -languidly dragging what remains of their lives. Day by day, with a -curiosity mingled with emotion, I watch the end of my insects. The -workers die suddenly. They come to the surface, slip down, fall on -their backs and rise no more, as if they were struck by lightning. They -have had their day; they are slain by age, that merciless poison. Even -so does a piece of clockwork become motionless when its mainspring has -unwound its last spiral. - -The workers are old: but the mothers are the last to be born into the -nest, and have all the vigour of youth. And so, when winter sickness -seizes them, they are capable of a certain resistance. Those whose end -is near are easily distinguished from the others by the disorder of -their appearance. Their backs are dusty. While they are well they dust -themselves without ceasing, and their black-and-yellow coats are kept -perfectly glossy. Those who are ailing are careless of cleanliness; -they stand motionless in the sun or wander languidly about. They no -longer brush their clothes. - -This indifference to dress is a bad sign. Two or three days later the -dusty female leaves the nest for the last time. She goes outside, to -enjoy yet a little of the sunlight; presently she slides quietly to the -ground and does not get up again. She declines to die in her beloved -paper home, where the code of the Wasps ordains absolute cleanliness. -The dying Wasp performs her own funeral rites by dropping herself into -the pit at the bottom of the cavern. For reasons of health these stoics -refuse to die in the actual house, among the combs. The last survivors -retain this repugnance to the very end. It is a law that never falls -into disuse, however greatly reduced the population may be. - -My cage becomes emptier day by day, notwithstanding the mildness of the -room, and notwithstanding the saucer of honey at which the able-bodied -come to sip. At Christmas I have only a dozen females left. On the -sixth of January the last of them perishes. - -Whence arises this mortality, which mows down the whole of my wasps? -They have not suffered from famine: they have not suffered from cold: -they have not suffered from home-sickness. Then what have they died of? - -We must not blame their captivity. The same thing happens in the open -country. Various nests I have inspected at the end of December all show -the same condition. The vast majority of Wasps must die, apparently, -not by accident, nor illness, nor the inclemency of the season, but by -an inevitable destiny, which destroys them as energetically as it -brings them into life. And it is well for us that it is so. One female -Wasp is enough to found a city of thirty thousand inhabitants. If all -were to survive, what a scourge they would be! The Wasps would -tyrannise over the countryside. - -In the end the nest itself perishes. A certain Caterpillar which later -on becomes a mean-looking Moth; a tiny reddish Beetle; and a scaly grub -clad in gold velvet, are the creatures that demolish it. They gnaw the -floors of the various storeys, and crumble the whole dwelling. A few -pinches of dust, a few shreds of brown paper are all that remain, by -the return of spring, of the Wasps’ city and its thirty thousand -inhabitants. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE ADVENTURES OF A GRUB - - -I - -THE YOUNG SITARIS - -The high banks of sandy clay in the country round about Carpentras are -the favourite haunts of a host of Bees and Wasps, those lovers of a -sunny aspect and of soil that is easy to dig in. Here, in the month of -May, two Bees, both of them Mason-bees, builders of subterranean cells, -are especially abundant. One of them builds at the entrance of her -dwelling an advanced fortification, an earthly cylinder, wrought in -open work and curved, of the width and length of a man’s finger. When -it is peopled with many Bees one stands amazed at the elaborate -ornamentation formed by all these hanging fingers of clay. - -The other Bee, who is very much more frequently seen and is called -Anthophora pilipes, leaves the opening of her corridor bare. The chinks -between the stones in old walls and abandoned hovels, or exposed -surfaces of sand stone or marl, are found suitable for her labours; but -the favourite spots, those to which the greatest number of swarms -resort, are straight stretches of ground exposed to the south, such as -occur in the cuttings of deeply-sunken roads. Here, over areas many -yards in width, the wall is drilled with a multitude of holes, which -give to the earthy mass the look of some enormous sponge. These round -holes might have been made with a gimlet, so regular are they. Each is -the entrance to a winding corridor, which runs to the depth of four or -five inches. The cells are at the far end. If we wish to watch the -labours of the industrious Bee we must visit her workshop during the -latter half of May. Then—but at a respectful distance—we may see, in -all its bewildering activity, the tumultuous, buzzing swarm, busied -with the building and provisioning of the cells. - -But it has been most often during the months of August and September, -the happy months of the summer holidays, that I have visited the banks -inhabited by the Anthophora. At this season all is silent near the -nests: the work has long been completed: and numbers of Spiders’ webs -line the crevices or plunge their silken tubes into the Bees’ -corridors. That is no reason, however, for hastily abandoning the city -that was once so full of life and bustle, and now appears deserted. A -few inches below the surface, thousands of grubs are imprisoned in -their cells of clay, resting until the coming spring. Surely these -grubs, which are paralysed and incapable of self-defence, must be a -temptation—fat little morsels as they are—to some kind of parasite, -some kind of insect stranger in search of prey. The matter is worth -inquiring into. - -Two facts are at once noticeable. Some dismal-looking Flies, half black -and half white, are flying indolently from gallery to gallery, -evidently with the object of laying their eggs there. Many of them are -hanging dry and lifeless in the Spiders’ webs. At other places the -entire surface of a bank is hung with the dried corpses of a certain -Beetle, called the Sitaris. Among the corpses, however, are a few live -Beetles, both male and female. The female Beetle invariably disappears -into the Bees’ dwelling. Without a doubt she, too, lays her eggs there. - -If we give a few blows of the pick to the surface of the bank we shall -find out something more about these things. During the early days of -August this is what we shall see: the cells forming the top layer are -unlike those at a greater depth. The difference is owing to the fact -that the same establishment is used by two kinds of Bee, the Anthophora -and the Osmia. - -The Anthophoræ are the actual pioneers. The work of boring the -galleries is wholly theirs, and their cells are right at the end. If -they, for any reason, leave the outer cells, the Osmia comes in and -takes possession of them. She divides the corridors into unequal and -inartistic cells by means of rough earthen partitions, her only idea of -masonry. - -The cells of the Anthophora are faultlessly regular and perfectly -finished. They are works of art, cut out of the very substance of the -earth, well out of reach of all ordinary enemies; and for this reason -the larva of this Bee has no means of spinning a cocoon. It lies naked -in the cell, whose inner surface is polished like stucco. - -In the Osmia’s cells, however, means of defence are required, because -they are at the surface of the soil, are roughly made, and are badly -protected by their thin partitions. So the Osmia’s grubs enclose -themselves in a very strong cocoon, which preserves them both from the -rough sides of their shapeless cells and from the jaws of various -enemies who prowl about the galleries. It is easy, then, in a bank -inhabited by these two Bees, to recognise the cells belonging to each. -The Anthophora’s cells contain a naked grub: those of the Osmia contain -a grub enclosed in a cocoon. - -Now each of these two Bees has its own especial parasite, or uninvited -guest. The parasite of the Osmia is the black-and-white Fly who is to -be seen so often at the entrance to the galleries, intent on laying her -eggs within them. The parasite of the Anthophora is the Sitaris, the -Beetle whose corpses appear in such quantities on the surface of the -bank. - -If the layer of Osmia-cells be removed from the nest we can observe the -cells of the Anthophora. Some will be occupied by larvæ, some by the -perfect insect, and some—indeed many—will contain a singular egg-shaped -shell, divided into segments with projecting breathing-pores. This -shell is extremely thin and fragile; it is amber-coloured, and so -transparent that one can distinguish quite plainly through its sides a -full-grown Sitaris, struggling as though to set herself at liberty. - -What is this curious shell, which does not appear to be a Beetle’s -shell at all? And how can this parasite reach a cell which seems to be -inaccessible because of its position, and in which the most careful -examination under the magnifying-glass reveals no sign of violence? -Three years of close observation enabled me to answer these questions, -and to add one of its most astonishing chapters to the story of insect -life. Here is the result of my inquiries. - -The Sitaris in the full-grown state lives only for a day or two, and -its whole life is passed at the entrance to the Anthophora’s galleries. -It has no concern but the reproduction of the species. It is provided -with the usual digestive organs, but I have grave reasons to doubt -whether it actually takes any nourishment whatever. The female’s only -thought is to lay her eggs. This done, she dies. The male, after -cowering in a crevice for a day or two, also perishes. This is the -origin of all those corpses swinging in the Spiders’ web, with which -the neighbourhood of the Anthophora’s dwelling is upholstered. - -At first sight one would expect that the Sitaris, when laying her eggs, -would go from cell to cell, confiding an egg to each of the Bee-grubs. -But when, in the course of my observations, I searched the Bees’ -galleries, I invariably found the eggs of the Sitaris gathered in a -heap inside the entrance, at a distance of an inch or two from the -opening. They are white, oval, and very small, and they stick together -slightly. As for their number, I do not believe I am exaggerating when -I estimate it at two thousand at least. - -Thus, contrary to what one was to some extent entitled to suppose, the -eggs are not laid in the cells of the Bee; they are simply dumped in a -heap inside the doorway of her dwelling. Nay more, the mother does not -make any protective structure for them; she takes no pains to shield -them from the rigours of winter; she does not even attempt to stop up -the entrance-lobby in which she has placed them, and so protect them -from the thousand enemies that threaten them. For as long as the frosts -of winter have not arrived these open galleries are trodden by Spiders -and other plunderers, for whom the eggs would make an agreeable meal. - -The better to observe them, I placed a number of the eggs in boxes; and -when they hatched out about the end of September I imagined they would -at once start off in search of an Anthophora-cell. I was entirely -wrong. The young grubs—little black creatures no more than the -twenty-fifth of an inch long—did not move away, though provided with -vigorous legs. They remained higgledy-piggledy, mixed up with the skins -of the eggs whence they came. In vain I placed within their reach lumps -of earth containing open Bee-cells: nothing would tempt them to move. -If I forcibly removed a few from the common heap they at once hurried -back to it in order to hide themselves among the rest. - -At last, to assure myself that the Sitaris-grubs, in the free state, do -not disperse after they are hatched, I went in the winter to Carpentras -and inspected the banks inhabited by the Anthophoræ. There, as in my -boxes, I found the grubs all piled up in heaps, all mixed up with the -skins of the eggs. - -I was no nearer answering the question: how does the Sitaris get into -the Bees’ cells, and into a shell that does not belong to it? - - - - -II - -THE FIRST ADVENTURE - -The appearance of the young Sitaris showed me at once that its habits -must be peculiar. It could not, I saw, be called on to move on an -ordinary surface. The spot where this larva has to live evidently -exposes it to the risk of many dangerous falls, since, in order to -prevent them, it is equipped with a pair of powerful mandibles, curved -and sharp; robust legs which end in a long and very mobile claw; a -variety of bristles and probes; and a couple of strong spikes with -sharp, hard points—an elaborate mechanism, like a sort of ploughshare, -capable of biting into the most highly polished surface. Nor is this -all. It is further provided with a sticky liquid, sufficiently adhesive -to hold it in position without the help of other appliances. In vain I -racked my brains to guess what the substance might be, so shifting, so -uncertain, and so perilous, which the young Sitaris is destined to -inhabit. I waited with eager impatience for the return of the warm -weather. - -At the end of April the young grubs imprisoned in my cages, hitherto -lying motionless and hidden in the spongy heap of egg-skins, suddenly -began to move. They scattered, and ran about in all directions through -the boxes and jars in which they have passed the winter. Their hurried -movements and untiring energy showed they were in search of something, -and the natural thing for them to seek was food. For these grubs were -hatched at the end of September, and since then, that is to say for -seven long months, they had taken no nourishment, although they were by -no means in a state of torpor. From the moment of their hatching they -are doomed, though full of life, to an absolute fast lasting for seven -months; and when I saw their excitement I naturally supposed that an -imperious hunger had set them bustling in that fashion. - -The food they desired could only be the contents of the Anthophora’s -cells, since at a later stage the Sitaris is found in those cells. Now -these contents are limited to honey and Bee-grubs. - -I offered them some cells containing larvæ: I even slipped the Sitares -into the cells, and did all sorts of things to tempt their appetite. My -efforts were fruitless. Then I tried honey. In hunting for cells -provisioned with honey I lost a good part of the month of May. Having -found them I removed the Bee-grub from some of them, and laid the -Sitaris-grub on the surface of the honey. Never did experiment break -down so completely! Far from eating the honey, the grubs became -entangled in the sticky mass and perished in it, suffocated. “I have -offered you larvæ, cells, honey!” I cried in despair. “Then what do you -want, you fiendish little creatures?” - -Well, in the end I found out what they wanted. They wanted the -Anthophora herself to carry them into the cells! - -When April comes, as I said before, the heap of grubs at the entrance -to the Bees’ cells begins to show signs of activity. A few days later -they are no longer there. Strange as it may appear, they are all -careering about the country, sometimes at a great distance, clinging -like grim death to the fleece of a Bee! - -When the Anthophoræ pass by the entrance to their cells, on their way -either in or out, the young Sitaris-grub, who is lying in wait there, -attaches himself to one of the Bees. He wriggles into the fur and -clutches it so firmly that he need not fear a fall during the long -journeys of the insect that carries him. By thus attaching himself to -the Bee the Sitaris intends to get himself carried, at the right -moment, into a cell supplied with honey. - -One might at first sight believe that these adventurous grubs derive -food for a time from the Bee’s body. But not at all. The young Sitares, -embedded in the fleece, at right angles to the body of the Anthophora, -head inwards, tail outwards, do not stir from the spot they have -selected, a point near the Bee’s shoulders. We do not see them -wandering from spot to spot, exploring the Bee’s body, seeking the part -where the skin is most delicate, as they would certainly do if they -were really feeding on the insect. On the contrary, they are always -fixed on the toughest and hardest part of the Bee’s body, a little -below the insertion of the wings, or sometimes on the head; and they -remain absolutely motionless, clinging to a single hair. It seems to me -undeniable that the young Sitares settle on the Bee merely to make her -carry them into the cells that she will soon be building. - -But in the meantime the future parasites must hold tight to the fleece -of their hostess, in spite of her rapid flights among the flowers, in -spite of her rubbing against the walls of the galleries when she enters -to take shelter, and in spite, above all, of the brushing which she -must often give herself with her feet, to dust herself and keep spick -and span. We were wondering a little time ago what the dangerous, -shifting thing could be on which the grub would have to establish -itself. That thing is the hair of a Bee who makes a thousand rapid -journeys, now diving into her narrow galleries, now forcing her way -down the tight throat of a flower. - -We can now quite understand the use of the two spikes, which close -together and are able to take hold of hair more easily than the most -delicate tweezers. We can see the full value of the sticky liquid that -helps the tiny creature to hold fast; and we can realise that the -elastic probes and bristles on the legs serve to penetrate the Bee’s -down and anchor the grub in position. The more one considers this -arrangement, which seems so useless as the grub drags itself -laboriously over a smooth surface, the more does one marvel at all the -machinery which this fragile creature carries about to save it from -falling during its adventurous rides. - - - - -III - -THE SECOND ADVENTURE - -One 21st of May I went to Carpentras, determined to see, if possible, -the entrance of the Sitaris into the Bee’s cells. - -The works were in full swing. In front of a high expanse of earth a -swarm of Bees, stimulated by the sun, was dancing a crazy ballet. From -the tumultuous heart of the cloud rose a monotonous, threatening -murmur, while my bewildered eye tried to follow the movements of the -throng. Quick as a lightning-flash thousands of Anthophoræ were flying -hither and thither in search of booty: thousands of others, also, were -arriving, laden with honey, or with mortar for their building. - -At that time I knew comparatively little about these insects. It seemed -to me that any one who ventured into the swarm, or—above all—who laid a -rash hand on the Bees’ dwellings, would instantly be stabbed by a -thousand stings. I had once observed the combs of the Hornet too -closely; and a shiver of fear passed through me. - -Yet, to find out what I wished to know, I must needs penetrate that -fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching -the works I intended to upset; lens in hand, I must examine, unmoved -amid the whirl, the things that were happening in the cells. Moreover, -the use of a mask, of gloves, of a covering of any kind, was out of the -question, for my fingers and eyes must be absolutely free. No matter: -even though I should leave the Bee’s nest with my face swollen beyond -recognition, I was determined that day to solve the problem that had -puzzled me too long. - -Having caught a few stray Anthophoræ with my net, I satisfied myself -that the Sitaris-larvae were perched, as I expected, on the Bees. - -I buttoned my coat tightly and entered the heart of the swarm. With a -few blows of the mattock I secured a lump of earth, and to my great -surprise found myself uninjured. A second expedition, longer than the -first, had the same result: not a Bee touched me with her sting. After -this I remained permanently in front of the nest, removing lumps of -earth, spilling the honey, and crushing the Bees, without arousing -anything worse than a louder hum. For the Anthophora is a pacific -creature. When disturbed in the cells it leaves them hastily and -escapes, sometimes even mortally wounded, without using its venomous -sting except when it is seized and handled. - -Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was able -for hours to investigate her cells at my leisure, seated on a stone in -the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receiving a -single sting, though I took no precautions whatever. Country folk, -happening to pass and seeing me seated thus calmly amid the Bees, -stopped aghast to ask me if I had bewitched them. - -In this way I examined the cells. Some were still open, and contained -only a more or less complete store of honey. Others were closely sealed -with an earthen lid. The contents of these varied greatly. Sometimes I -found the larva of a Bee; sometimes another, fatter kind of larva; at -other times honey with an egg floating on the surface. The egg was of a -beautiful white, and was shaped like a cylinder with a slight curve, a -fifth or sixth of an inch in length—the egg of the Anthophora. - -In a few cells I found this egg floating all alone on the surface of -the honey: in others, very many others, I saw, lying on the Bee’s egg -as though on a sort of raft, a young Sitaris-grub. Its shape and size -were those of the creature when it is hatched. Here, then, was the -enemy within the gates. - -When and how did it get in? In none of the cells was I able to detect -any chink by which it could have entered: they were all sealed quite -tightly. The parasite must have established itself in the -honey-warehouse before the warehouse was closed. On the other hand, the -open cells, full of honey but as yet without an egg, never contain a -Sitaris. The grub must therefore gain admittance either while the Bee -is laying the egg, or else afterwards, while she is busy plastering up -the door. My experiments have convinced me that the Sitaris enters the -cell in the very second when the egg is laid on the surface of the -honey. - -If I take a cell full of honey, with an egg floating in it, and place -it in a glass tube with some Sitaris-grubs, they very rarely venture -inside it. They cannot reach the raft in safety: the honey that -surrounds it is too dangerous. If one of them by chance approaches the -honey it tries to escape as soon as it sees the sticky nature of the -stuff under its feet. It often ends by falling back into the cell, -where it dies of suffocation. It is therefore certain that the grub -does not leave the fleece of the Bee when the latter is in her cell or -near it, in order to make a rush for the honey; for this honey would -inevitably cause its death, if it so much as touched the surface. - -We must remember that the young Sitaris which is found in a closed cell -is always placed on the egg of the Bee. This egg not only serves as a -raft for the tiny creature floating on a very treacherous lake, but -also provides it with its first meal. To get at this egg, in the centre -of the lake of honey, to reach this raft which is also its first food, -the young grub must somehow contrive to avoid the fatal touch of the -honey. - -There is only one way in which this can be done. The clever grub, at -the very moment when the Bee is laying her egg, slips off the Bee and -on to the egg, and with it reaches the surface of the honey. The egg is -too small to hold more than one grub, and that is why we never find -more than one Sitaris in a cell. Such a performance on the part of a -grub seems extraordinarily inspired—but then the study of insects -constantly gives us examples of such inspiration. - -When dropping her egg upon the honey, then, the Anthophora at the same -time drops into her cell the mortal enemy of her race. She carefully -plasters the lid which closes the entrance to the cell, and all is -done. A second cell is built beside it, probably to suffer the same -fate; and so on until all the parasites sheltered by her fleece are -comfortably housed. Let us leave the unhappy mother to continue her -fruitless task, and turn our attention to the young larva which has so -cleverly secured for itself board and lodging. - -Let us suppose that we remove the lid from a cell in which the egg, -recently laid, supports a Sitaris-grub. The egg is intact and in -perfect condition. But now the work of destruction begins. The grub, a -tiny black speck which we see running over the white surface of the -egg, at last stops and balances itself firmly on its six legs; then, -seizing the delicate skin of the egg with the sharp hooks of its -mandibles, it tugs at it violently till it breaks and spills the -contents. These contents the grub eagerly drinks up. Thus the first -stroke of the parasite’s mandibles is aimed at the destruction of the -Bee’s egg. - -This is a very wise precaution on the part of the Sitaris-grub! It will -have to feed on the honey in the cell: the Bee’s grub which would come -out of the egg would also require the honey: there is not enough for -two. So—quick!—a bite at the egg, and the difficulty is removed. - -Moreover, another reason for the destruction of the egg is that special -tastes compel the young Sitaris to make its first meals of it. The tiny -creature begins by greedily drinking the juices which the torn wrapper -of the egg allows to escape. For several days it continues to rip the -envelope gradually open, and to feed on the liquid that trickles from -it. Meanwhile it never touches the honey that surrounds it. The Bee’s -egg is absolutely necessary to the Sitaris-grub, not merely as a boat, -but also as nourishment. - -At the end of a week the egg is nothing but a dry skin. The first meal -is finished. The Sitaris-grub, which is now twice as large as before, -splits open along the back, and through this slit the second form of -this singular Beetle falls on the surface of the honey. Its cast skin -remains on the raft, and will presently disappear with it beneath the -waves of honey. - -Here ends the history of the first form adopted by the Sitaris. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE CRICKET - - -I - -THE HOUSEHOLDER - -The Field Cricket, the inhabitant of the meadows, is almost as famous -as the Cicada, and figures among the limited but glorious number of the -classic insects. He owes this honour to his song and his house. One -thing alone is lacking to complete his renown. The master of the art of -making animals talk, La Fontaine, gives him hardly two lines. - -Florian, the other French writer of fables, gives us a story of a -Cricket, but it lacks the simplicity of truth and the saving salt of -humour. Besides, it represents the Cricket as discontented, bewailing -his condition! This is a preposterous idea, for all who have studied -him know, on the contrary, that he is very well pleased with his own -talent and his own burrow. And indeed, at the end of the story, Florian -makes him admit: - - - “My snug little home is a place of delight; - If you want to live happy, live hidden from sight!” - - -I find more force and truth in some verses by a friend of mine, of -which these are a translation: - - - Among the beasts a tale is told - How a poor Cricket ventured nigh - His door to catch the sun’s warm gold - And saw a radiant Butterfly. - - She passed with tails thrown proudly back - And long gay rows of crescents blue, - Brave yellow stars and bands of black, - The lordliest Fly that ever flew. - - “Ah, fly away,” the hermit said, - “Daylong among your flowers to roam; - Nor daisies white nor roses red - Will compensate my lowly home.” - - True, all too true! There came a storm - And caught the Fly within its flood, - Staining her broken velvet form - And covering her wings with mud. - - The Cricket, sheltered from the rain, - Chirped, and looked on with tranquil eye; - For him the thunder pealed in vain, - The gale and torrent passed him by. - - Then shun the world, nor take your fill - Of any of its joys or flowers; - A lowly fireside, calm and still, - At least will grant you tearless hours! [2] - - -There I recognise my Cricket. I see him curling his antennæ on the -threshold of his burrow, keeping himself cool in front and warm at the -back. He is not jealous of the Butterfly; on the contrary, he pities -her, with that air of mocking commiseration we often see in those who -have houses of their own when they are talking to those who have none. -Far from complaining, he is very well satisfied both with his house and -his violin. He is a true philosopher: he knows the vanity of things and -feels the charm of a modest retreat away from the riot of -pleasure-seekers. - -Yes, the description is about right, as far as it goes. But the Cricket -is still waiting for the few lines needed to bring his merits before -the public; and since La Fontaine neglected him, he will have to go on -waiting a long time. - -To me, as a naturalist, the important point in the two fables is the -burrow on which the moral is founded. Florian speaks of the snug -retreat; the other praises his lowly home. It is the dwelling, -therefore, that above all compels attention, even that of the poet, who -as a rule cares little for realities. - -In this matter, indeed, the Cricket is extraordinary. Of all our -insects he is the only one who, when full-grown, possesses a fixed -home, the reward of his own industry. During the bad season of the -year, most of the others burrow or skulk in some temporary refuge, a -refuge obtained free of cost and abandoned without regret. Several of -them create marvels with a view to settling their family: cotton -satchels, baskets made of leaves, towers of cement. Some live -permanently in ambush, lying in wait for their prey. The Tiger-beetle, -for instance, digs himself a perpendicular hole, which he stops up with -his flat, bronze head. If any other insect steps on this deceptive -trap-door it immediately tips up, and the unhappy wayfarer disappears -into the gulf. The Ant-lion makes a slanting funnel in the sand. Its -victim, the Ant, slides down the slant and is then stoned, from the -bottom of the funnel, by the hunter, who turns his neck into a -catapult. But these are all temporary refuges or traps. - -The laboriously constructed home, in which the insect settles down with -no intention of moving, either in the happy spring or in the woeful -winter season; the real manor-house, built for peace and comfort, and -not as a hunting-box or a nursery—this is known to the Cricket alone. -On some sunny, grassy slope he is the owner of a hermitage. While all -the others lead vagabond lives, sleeping in the open air or under the -casual shelter of a dead leaf or a stone, or the pealing bark of an old -tree, he is a privileged person with a permanent address. - -The making of a home is a serious problem. It has been solved by the -Cricket, by the Rabbit, and lastly by man. In my neighbourhood the Fox -and the Badger have holes, which are largely formed by the -irregularities of the rock. A few repairs, and the dug-out is -completed. The Rabbit is cleverer than these, for he builds his house -by burrowing wherever he pleases, when there is no natural passage that -allows him to settle down free of all trouble. - -The Cricket is cleverer than any of them. He scorns chance refuges, and -always chooses the site of his home carefully, in well-drained ground, -with a pleasant sunny aspect. He refuses to make use of ready-made -caves that are inconvenient and rough: he digs every bit of his villa, -from the entrance-hall to the back-room. - -I see no one above him, in the art of house-building, except man; and -even man, before mixing mortar to hold stones together, or kneading -clay to coat his hut of branches, fought with wild beasts for a refuge -in the rocks. Why is it that a special instinct is bestowed on one -particular creature? Here is one of the humblest of creatures able to -lodge himself to perfection. He has a home, an advantage unknown to -many civilised beings; he has a peaceful retreat, the first condition -of comfort; and no one around him is capable of settling down. He has -no rivals but ourselves. - -Whence does he derive this gift? Is he favoured with special tools? No, -the Cricket is not an expert in the art of digging; in fact, one is -rather surprised at the result when one considers the feebleness of his -means. - -Is a home a necessity to him, on account of an exceptionally delicate -skin? No, his near kinsmen have skins as sensitive as his, yet do not -dread the open air at all. - -Is the house-building talent the result of his anatomy? Has he any -special organ that suggests it? No: in my neighbourhood there are three -other Crickets who are so much like the Field Cricket in appearance, -colour, and structure, that at the first glance one would take them for -him. Of these faithful copies, not one knows how to dig himself a -burrow. The Double-spotted Cricket inhabits the heaps of grass that are -left to rot in damp places; the Solitary Cricket roams about the dry -clods turned up by the gardener’s spade; the Bordeaux Cricket is not -afraid to make his way into our houses, where he sings discreetly, -during August and September, in some cool, dark spot. - -There is no object in continuing these questions: the answer would -always be No. Instinct never tells us its causes. It depends so little -on an insect’s stock of tools that no detail of anatomy, nothing in the -creature’s formation, can explain it to us or make us foresee it. These -four similar Crickets, of whom only one can burrow, are enough to show -us our ignorance of the origin of instinct. - -Who does not know the Cricket’s house? Who has not, as a child playing -in the fields, stopped in front of the hermit’s cabin? However light -your footfall, he has heard you coming, and has abruptly withdrawn to -the very bottom of his hiding-place. When you arrive, the threshold of -the house is deserted. - -Every one knows the way to bring out the skulker. You insert a straw -and move it gently about the burrow. Surprised at what is happening -above, the tickled and teased Cricket ascends from his back room; he -stops in the passage, hesitates, and waves his delicate antennæ -inquiringly. He comes to the light, and, once outside, he is easy to -catch, since these events have puzzled his poor head. Should he be -missed at the first attempt he may become suspicious and refuse to -appear. In that case he can be flooded out with a glass of water. - -Those were adorable times when we were children, and hunted Crickets -along the grassy paths, and put them in cages, and fed them on a leaf -of lettuce. They all come back to me to-day, those times, as I search -the burrows for subjects to study. They seem like yesterday when my -companion, little Paul, an expert in the use of the straw, springs up -suddenly after a long trial of skill and patience, and cries excitedly: -“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” - -Quick, here’s a bag! In you go, my little Cricket! You shall be petted -and pampered, but you must teach us something, and first of all you -must show us your house. - - - - -II - -HIS HOUSE - -It is a slanting gallery in the grass, on some sunny bank which soon -dries after a shower. It is nine inches long at most, hardly as thick -as one’s finger, and straight or bent according to the nature of the -ground. As a rule, a tuft of grass half conceals the home, serving as a -porch and throwing the entrance discreetly into shadow. When the -Cricket goes out to browse upon the surrounding turf he does not touch -this tuft. The gently sloping threshold, carefully raked and swept, -extends for some distance; and this is the terrace on which, when -everything is peaceful round about, the Cricket sits and scrapes his -fiddle. - -The inside of the house is devoid of luxury, with bare and yet not -coarse walls. The inhabitant has plenty of leisure to do away with any -unpleasant roughness. At the end of the passage is the bedroom, a -little more carefully smoothed than the rest, and slightly wider. All -said, it is a very simple abode, exceedingly clean, free from damp, and -conforming to the rules of hygiene. On the other hand, it is an -enormous undertaking, a gigantic tunnel, when we consider the modest -tools with which the Cricket has to dig. If we wish to know how he does -it, and when he sets to work, we must go back to the time when the egg -is laid. - -The Cricket lays her eggs singly in the soil, like the Decticus, at a -depth of three-quarters of an inch. She arranges them in groups, and -lays altogether about five or six hundred. The egg is a little marvel -of mechanism. After the hatching it appears as an opaque white -cylinder, with a round and very regular hole at the top. To the edge of -this hole is fastened a cap, like a lid. Instead of bursting open -anyhow under the thrusts of the larva within, it opens of its own -accord along a circular line—a specially prepared line of least -resistance. - -About a fortnight after the egg is laid, two large, round, rusty-black -dots darken the front end. A little way above these two dots, right at -the top of the cylinder, you see the outline of a thin circular -swelling. This is the line where the shell is preparing to break open. -Soon the transparency of the egg allows one to see the delicate -markings of the tiny creature’s segments. Now is the time to be on the -watch, especially in the morning. - -Fortune loves the persevering, and if we pay constant visits to the -eggs we shall be rewarded. All round the swelling, where the resistance -of the shell has gradually been overcome, the end of the egg becomes -detached. Being pushed back by the forehead of the little creature -within, it rises and falls to one side like the top of a tiny -scent-bottle. The Cricket pops out like a Jack-in-the-box. - -When he is gone the shell remains distended, smooth, intact, pure -white, with the cap or lid hanging from the opening. A bird’s egg -breaks clumsily under the blows of a wart that grows for the purpose at -the end of the Chick’s beak; the Cricket’s egg is more ingeniously -made, and opens like an ivory case. The thrust of the creature’s head -is enough to work the hinge. - -I said above that, when the lid is lifted, a young Cricket pops out; -but this is not quite accurate. What appears is the swaddled grub, as -yet unrecognisable in a tight-fitting sheath. The Decticus, you will -remember, who is hatched in the same way under the soil, wears a -protective covering during his journey to the surface. The Cricket is -related to the Decticus, and therefore wears the same livery, although -in point of fact he does not need it. The egg of the Decticus remains -underground for eight months, so the poor grub has to fight its way -through soil that has grown hard, and it therefore needs a covering for -its long shanks. But the Cricket is shorter and stouter, and since its -egg is only in the ground for a few days it has nothing worse than a -powdery layer of earth to pass through. For these reasons it requires -no overall, and leaves it behind in the shell. - -As soon as he is rid of his swaddling-clothes the young Cricket, pale -all over, almost white, begins to battle with the soil overhead. He -hits out with his mandibles; he sweeps aside and kicks behind him the -powdery earth, which offers no resistance. Very soon he is on the -surface, amidst the joys of the sunlight and the perils of conflict -with his fellow-creatures—poor feeble mite that he is, hardly larger -than a Flea. - -By the end of twenty-four hours he has turned into a magnificent -blackamoor, whose ebon hue vies with that of the full-grown insect. All -that remains of his original pallor is a white sash that girds his -chest. Very nimble and alert, he sounds the surrounding air with his -long, quivering antennæ, and runs and jumps about with great -impetuosity. Some day he will be too fat to indulge in such antics. - -And now we see why the mother Cricket lays so many eggs. It is because -most of the young ones are doomed to death. They are massacred in huge -numbers by other insects, and especially by the little Grey Lizard and -the Ant. The latter, loathsome freebooter that she is, hardly leaves me -a Cricket in my garden. She snaps up the poor little creatures and -gobbles them down at frantic speed. - -Oh, the execrable wretch! And to think that we place the Ant in the -front rank of insects! Books are written in her honour, and the stream -of praise never runs dry. The naturalists hold her in great esteem; and -add daily to her fame. It would seem that with animals, as with men, -the surest way to attract attention is to do harm to others. - -Nobody asks about the Beetles who do such valuable work as scavengers, -whereas everybody knows the Gnat, that drinker of men’s blood; the -Wasp, that hot-tempered swashbuckler, with her poisoned dagger; and the -Ant, that notorious evil-doer who, in our southern villages, saps and -imperils the rafters of a dwelling as cheerfully as she eats a fig. - -The Ant massacres the Crickets in my garden so thoroughly that I am -driven to look for them outside the enclosure. In August, among the -fallen leaves, where the grass has not been wholly scorched by the sun, -I find the young Cricket, already rather big, and now black all over, -with not a vestige of his white girdle remaining. At this period of his -life he is a vagabond: the shelter of a dead leaf or a flat stone is -enough for him. - -Many of those who survived the raids of the Ants now fall victims to -the Wasp, who hunts down the wanderers and stores them underground. If -they would but dig their dwellings a few weeks before the usual time -they would be saved; but they never think of it. They are faithful to -their ancient customs. - -It is at the close of October, when the first cold weather threatens, -that the burrow is taken in hand. The work is very simple, if I may -judge by my observation of the caged insect. The digging is never done -at a bare point in the pan, but always under the shelter of some -withered lettuce-leaf, a remnant of the food provided. This takes the -place of the grass tuft that seems indispensable to the secrecy of the -home. - -The miner scrapes with his fore-legs, and uses the pincers of his -mandibles to pull out the larger bits of gravel. I see him stamping -with his powerful hind-legs, furnished with a double row of spikes; I -see him raking the rubbish, sweeping it backwards and spreading it -slantwise. There you have the whole process. - -The work proceeds pretty quickly at first. In the yielding soil of my -cages the digger disappears underground after a spell that lasts a -couple of hours. He returns to the entrance at intervals, always -backwards and always sweeping. Should he be overcome with fatigue he -takes a rest on the threshold of his half-finished home, with his head -outside and his antennæ waving feebly. He goes in again, and resumes -work with pincers and rakes. Soon the periods of rest become longer, -and wear out my patience. - -The most urgent part of the work is done. Once the hole is a couple of -inches deep, it suffices for the needs of the moment. The rest will be -a long affair, carried out in a leisurely way, a little one day and a -little the next: the hole will be made deeper and wider as the weather -grows colder and the insect larger. Even in winter, if the temperature -be mild and the sun shining on the entrance to the dwelling, it is not -unusual to see the Cricket shooting out rubbish. Amid the joys of -spring the upkeep of the building still continues. It is constantly -undergoing improvements and repairs until the owner’s death. - -When April ends the Cricket’s song begins; at first in rare and shy -solos, but soon in a general symphony in which each clod of turf boasts -its performer. I am more than inclined to place the Cricket at the head -of the spring choristers. In our waste-lands, when the thyme and -lavender are gaily flowering, the Crested Lark rises like a lyrical -rocket, his throat swelling with notes, and from the sky sheds his -sweet music upon the fallows. Down below the Crickets chant the -responses. Their song is monotonous and artless, but well suited in its -very lack of art to the simple gladness of reviving life. It is the -hosanna of the awakening, the sacred alleluia understood by swelling -seed and sprouting blade. In this duet I should award the palm to the -Cricket. His numbers and his unceasing note deserve it. Were the Lark -to fall silent, the fields blue-grey with lavender, swinging its -fragrant censors before the sun, would still receive from this humble -chorister a solemn hymn of praise. - - - - -III - -HIS MUSICAL-BOX - -In steps Science, and says to the Cricket bluntly: - -“Show us your musical-box.” - -Like all things of real value, it is very simple. It is based on the -same principle as that of the Grasshoppers: a bow with a hook to it, -and a vibrating membrane. The right wing-case overlaps the left and -covers it almost completely, except where it folds back sharply and -encases the insect’s side. It is the opposite arrangement to that which -we find in the Green Grasshopper, the Decticus, and their kinsmen. The -Cricket is right-handed, the others left-handed. - -The two wing-cases are made in exactly the same way. To know one is to -know the other. They lie flat on the insect’s back, and slant suddenly -at the side in a right-angled fold, encircling the body with a -delicately veined pinion. - -If you hold one of these wing-cases up to the light you will see that -is it a very pale red, save for two large adjoining spaces; a larger, -triangular one in front, and a smaller, oval one at the back. They are -crossed by faint wrinkles. These two spaces are the sounding-boards, or -drums. The skin is finer here than elsewhere, and transparent, though -of a somewhat smoky tint. - -At the hinder edge of the front part are two curved, parallel veins, -with a cavity between them. This cavity contains five or six little -black wrinkles that look like the rungs of a tiny ladder. They supply -friction: they intensify the vibration by increasing the number of -points touched by the bow. - -On the lower surface one of the two veins that surround the cavity of -the rungs becomes a rib cut into the shape of a hook. This is the bow. -It is provided with about a hundred and fifty triangular teeth of -exquisite geometrical regularity. - -It is a fine instrument indeed. The hundred and fifty teeth of the bow, -biting into the rungs of the opposite wing-case, set the four drums in -motion at one and the same time, the lower pair by direct friction, the -upper pair by the shaking of the friction-apparatus. What a rush of -sound! The Cricket with his four drums throws his music to a distance -of some hundreds of yards. - -He vies with the Cicada in shrillness, without having the latter’s -disagreeable harshness. And better still: this favoured creature knows -how to modulate his song. The wing-cases, as I said, extend over each -side in a wide fold. These are the dampers which, lowered to a greater -or less depth, alter the intensity of the sound. According to the -extent of their contact with the soft body of the Cricket they allow -him to sing gently at one time and fortissimo at another. - -The exact similarity of the two wing-cases is worthy of attention. I -can see clearly the function of the upper bow, and the four -sounding-spaces which sets it in motion; but what is the good of the -lower one, the bow on the left wing? Not resting on anything, it has -nothing to strike with its hook, which is as carefully toothed as the -other. It is absolutely useless, unless the apparatus can invert the -order of its two parts, and place that above which is below. If that -could be done, the perfect symmetry of the instrument is such that the -mechanism would be the same as before, and the insect would be able to -play with the bow that is at present useless. The lower fiddlestick -would become the upper, and the tune would be the same. - -I suspected at first that the Cricket could use both bows, or at least -that there were some who were permanently left-handed. But observation -has convinced me of the contrary. All the Crickets I have examined—and -they are many—without a single exception carried the right wing-case -above the left. - -I even tried to bring about by artificial means what Nature refused to -show me. Using my forceps, very gently of course, and without straining -the wing-cases, I made these overlap the opposite way. It is easily -done with a little skill and patience. Everything went well: there was -no dislocation of the shoulders, the membranes were not creased. - -I almost expected the Cricket to sing, but I was soon undeceived. He -submitted for a few moments; but then, finding himself uncomfortable, -he made an effort and restored his instrument to its usual position. In -vain I repeated the operation: the Cricket’s obstinacy triumphed over -mine. - -Then I thought I would make the attempt while the wing-cases were quite -new and plastic, at the moment when the larva casts its skin. I secured -one at the point of being transformed. At this stage the future wings -and wing-cases form four tiny flaps, which, by their shape and -scantiness, and by the way they stick out in different directions, -remind me of the short jackets worn by the Auvergne cheesemakers. The -larva cast off these garments before my eyes. - -The wing-cases developed bit by bit, and opened out. There was no sign -to tell me which would overlap the other. Then the edges touched: a few -moments longer and the right would be over the left. This was the time -to intervene. - -With a straw I gently changed the position, bringing the left edge over -the right. In spite of some protest from the insect I was quite -successful: the left wing-case pushed forward, though only very little. -Then I left it alone, and gradually the wing-cases matured in the -inverted position. The Cricket was left-handed. I expected soon to see -him wield the fiddlestick which the members of his family never employ. - -On the third day he made a start. A few brief grating sounds were -heard—the noise of a machine out of gear shifting its parts back into -their proper order. Then the tune began, with its accustomed tone and -rhythm. - -Alas, I had been over-confident in my mischievous straw! I thought I -had created a new type of instrumentalist, and I had obtained nothing -at all! The Cricket was scraping with his right fiddlestick, and always -would. With a painful effort he had dislocated his shoulders, which I -had forced to harden in the wrong way. He had put back on top that -which ought to be on top, and underneath that which ought to be -underneath. My sorry science tried to make a left-handed player of him. -He laughed at my devices, and settled down to be right-handed for the -rest of his life. - -Enough of the instrument; let us listen to the music. The Cricket sings -on the threshold of his house, in the cheerful sunshine, never indoors. -The wing-cases utter their cri-cri in a soft tremolo. It is full, -sonorous, nicely cadenced, and lasts indefinitely. Thus are the -leisures of solitude beguiled all through the spring. The hermit at -first sings for his own pleasure. Glad to be alive, he chants the -praises of the sun that shines upon him, the grass that feeds him, the -peaceful retreat that harbours him. The first object of his bow is to -hymn the pleasures of life. - -Later on he plays to his mate. But, to tell the truth, his attention is -rewarded with little gratitude; for in the end she quarrels with him -ferociously, and unless he takes to flight she cripples him—and even -eats him more or less. But indeed, in any case he soon dies. Even if he -escapes his pugnacious mate, he perishes in June. We are told that the -music-loving Greeks used to keep Cicadæ in cages, the better to enjoy -their singing. I venture to disbelieve the story. In the first place -the harsh clicking of the Cicadæ, when long continued at close -quarters, is a torture to ears that are at all delicate. The Greeks’ -sense of hearing was too well trained to take pleasure in such raucous -sounds away from the general concert of the fields, which is heard at a -distance. - -In the second place it is absolutely impossible to bring up Cicadæ in -captivity, unless we cover over a whole olive-tree or plane-tree. A -single day spent in a cramped enclosure would make the high-flying -insect die of boredom. - -Is it not possible that people have confused the Cricket with the -Cicada, as they also do the Green Grasshopper? With the Cricket they -would be quite right. He is one who bears captivity gaily: his -stay-at-home ways predispose him to it. He lives happily and whirrs -without ceasing in a cage no larger than a man’s fist, provided that he -has his lettuce-leaf every day. Was it not he whom the small boys of -Athens reared in little wire cages hanging on a window-frame? - -The small boys of Provence, and all the South, have the same tastes. In -the towns a Cricket becomes the child’s treasured possession. The -insect, petted and pampered, sings to him of the simple joys of the -country. Its death throws the whole household into a sort of mourning. - -The three other Crickets of my neighbourhood all carry the same musical -instrument as the Field Cricket, with slight variation of detail. Their -song is much alike in all cases, allowing for differences of size. The -smallest of the family, the Bordeaux Cricket, sometimes ventures into -the dark corners of my kitchen, but his song is so faint that it takes -a very attentive ear to hear it. - -The Field Cricket sings during the sunniest hours of the spring: during -the still summer nights we have the Italian Cricket. He is a slender, -feeble insect, quite pale, almost white, as beseems his nocturnal -habits. You are afraid of crushing him, if you so much as take him in -your fingers. He lives high in air, on shrubs of every kind, or on the -taller grasses; and he rarely descends to earth. His song, the sweet -music of the still, hot evenings from July to October; begins at sunset -and continues for the best part of the night. - -This song is known to everybody here in Provence, for the smallest -clump of bushes has its orchestra. The soft, slow gri-i-i gri-i-i is -made more expressive by a slight tremolo. If nothing happens to disturb -the insect the sound remains unaltered; but at the least noise the -musician becomes a ventriloquist. You hear him quite close, in front of -you; and then, all of a sudden, you hear him fifteen yards away. You -move towards the sound. It is not there: it comes from the original -place. No, it doesn’t after all. Is it over there on the left, or does -it come from behind? One is absolutely at a loss, quite unable to find -the spot where the music is chirping. - -This illusion of varying distance is produced in two ways. The sounds -become loud or soft, open or muffled, according to the exact part of -the lower wing-case that is pressed by the bow. And they are also -modified by the position of the wing-cases. For the loud sounds these -are raised to their full height: for the muffled sounds they are -lowered more or less. The pale Cricket misleads those who hunt for him -by pressing the edges of his vibrating flaps against his soft body. - -I know no prettier or more limpid insect-song than his, heard in the -deep stillness of an August evening. How often have I lain down on the -ground among the rosemary bushes of my harmas, to listen to the -delightful concert! - -The Italian Cricket swarms in my enclosure. Every tuft of red-flowering -rock-rose has its chorister; so has every clump of lavender. The bushy -arbutus-shrubs, the turpentine-trees, all become orchestras. And in its -clear voice, so full of charm, the whole of this little world, from -every shrub and every branch, sings of the gladness of life. - -High up above my head the Swan stretches its great cross along the -Milky Way: below, all round me, the insect’s symphony rises and falls. -Infinitesimal life telling its joys makes me forget the pageant of the -stars. Those celestial eyes look down upon me, placid and cold, but do -not stir a fibre within me. Why? They lack the great secret—life. Our -reason tells us, it is true, that those suns warm worlds like ours; but -when all is said, this belief is no more than a guess, it is not a -certainty. - -In your company, on the contrary, O my Cricket, I feel the throbbing of -life, which is the soul of our lump of clay; and that is why, under my -rosemary-hedge, I give but an absent glance at the constellation of the -Swan and devote all my attention to your serenade! A living speck—the -merest dab of life—capable of pleasure and pain, is far more -interesting to me than all the immensities of mere matter. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE SISYPHUS - - -You are not tired, I hope, of hearing about the Scavenger Beetles with -a talent for making balls. I have told you of the Sacred Beetle and of -the Spanish Copris, and now I wish to say a few words of yet another of -these creatures. In the insect world we meet with a great many model -mothers: it is only fair, for once to draw attention to a good father. - -Now a good father is rarely seen except among the higher animals. The -bird is excellent in this respect, and the furred folk perform their -duties honourably. Lower in the scale of living creatures the father is -generally indifferent to his family. Very few insects are exceptions to -this rule. This heartlessness, which would be detestable in the higher -ranks of the animal kingdom, where the weakness of the young demands -prolonged care, is excusable among insect fathers. For the robustness -of the new-born insect enables it to gather its food unaided, provided -it be in a suitable place. When all that the Pieris need do for the -safety of the race is to lay her eggs on the leaves of a cabbage, of -what use would a father’s care be? The mother’s botanical instinct -needs no assistance. At laying-time the other parent would be in the -way. - -Most insects adopt this simple method of upbringing. They merely choose -a dining-room which will be the home of the family once it is hatched, -or else a place that will allow the young ones to find suitable fare -for themselves. There is no need for the father in such cases. He -generally dies without lending the least assistance in the work of -setting up his offspring in life. - -Things do not always happen, however, in quite such a primitive -fashion. There are tribes that provide a dowry for their families, that -prepare board and lodging for them in advance. The Bees and Wasps in -particular are masters in the industry of making cellars, jars, and -satchels, in which the ration of honey is hoarded: they are perfect in -the art of creating burrows stocked with the game that forms the food -of their grubs. - -Well, this enormous labour, which is one of building and provisioning -combined, this toil in which the insect’s whole life is spent, is done -by the mother alone. It wears her out; it utterly exhausts her. The -father drunk with sunlight, stands idle at the edge of the workyard, -watching his plucky helpmate at her job. - -Why does he not lend the mother a helping hand? It is now or never. Why -does he not follow the example of the Swallow couple, both of whom -bring their bit of straw, their blob of mortar to the building and -their Midge to the young ones? He does nothing of the kind. Possibly he -puts forward his comparative weakness as an excuse. It is a poor -argument; for to cut a disk out of a leaf, to scrape some cotton from a -downy plant, to collect a little bit of cement in muddy places would -not overtax his strength. He could very easily help, at any rate as a -labourer; he is quite fit to gather materials for the mother, with her -greater intelligence, to fit in place. The real reason of his -inactivity is sheer incapability. - -It is strange that the most gifted of the industrial insects should -know nothing of a father’s duties. One would expect the highest talents -to be developed in him by the needs of the young; but he remains as -dull-witted as a Butterfly, whose family is reared at so small a cost. -We are baffled at every turn by the question: Why is a particular -instinct given to one insect and denied to another? - -It baffles us so thoroughly that we are extremely surprised when we -find in the scavenger the noble qualities that are denied to the -honey-gatherer. Various Scavenger Beetles are accustomed to help in the -burden of housekeeping, and know the value of working in double -harness. The Geotrupes couple, for instance, prepare their larva’s food -together: the father lends his mate the assistance of his powerful -press in the manufacture of the tightly packed sausage-shaped ration. -He is a splendid example of domestic habits, and one extremely -surprising amid the general egoism. - -To this example my constant studies of the subject have enabled me to -add three others, all furnished by the Guild of Scavengers. - -One of them is the Sisyphus, the smallest and most zealous of all our -pill-rollers. He is the liveliest and most agile of them all, and recks -nothing of awkward somersaults and headlong falls on the impossible -roads to which his obstinacy brings him back again and again. It was in -reference to these wild gymnastics that Latreille gave him the name of -Sisyphus. - -As you know, that unhappy wretch of classical fame had a terrible task. -He was forced to roll a huge stone uphill; and each time he succeeded -in toiling to the top of the mountain the stone slipped from his grasp -and rolled to the bottom. I like this myth. It is the history of a good -many of us. So far as I am concerned, for half a century and more I -have painfully climbed the steep ascent, spending my strength -recklessly in the struggle to hoist up to safety that crushing burden, -my daily bread. Hardly is the loaf balanced when it slips off, slides -down, and is lost in the abyss. - -The Sisyphus with whom we are now concerned knows none of these bitter -trials. Untroubled by the steep slopes he gaily trundles his load, at -one time bread for himself, at another bread for his children. He is -very scarce in these parts; and I should never have managed to secure a -suitable number of subjects for my studies had it not been for an -assistant whom I have already mentioned more than once. - -I speak of my little son Paul, aged seven. He is my enthusiastic -companion on my hunting expeditions, and knows better than any one of -his age the secrets of the Cicada, the Locust, the Cricket, and -especially the Scavenger Beetle. Twenty paces away his sharp eyes will -distinguish the real mound that marks a burrow from casual heaps of -earth. His delicate ears catch the Grasshopper’s faint song, which is -quite unheard by me. He lends me his sight and hearing; and I, in -exchange, present him with ideas, which he receives attentively. - -Little Paul has his own insect-cages, in which the Sacred Beetle makes -pears for him; his own little garden, no larger than a -pocket-handkerchief, where he grows beans, often digging them up to see -if the tiny roots are any longer; his forest plantation, in which stand -four oaks a hand’s-breadth high, still furnished on one side with the -acorn that feeds them. It all makes a welcome change from grammar, -which gets on none the worse for it. - -When the month of May is near at hand Paul and I get up early one -morning—so early that we start without our breakfast—and we explore, at -the foot of the mountain, the meadows where the flocks have been. Here -we find the Sisyphus. Paul is so zealous in his search that we soon -have a sufficient number of couples. - -All that is needed for their well-being is a wire-gauze cover, with a -bed of sand and a supply of their food—to obtain which we too turn -scavengers. These creatures are so small, hardly the size of a -cherry-stone! And so curious in shape withal! A dumpy body, the hinder -end of which is pointed, and very long legs, resembling a Spider’s when -outspread. The hind-legs are of amazing length, and are curved, which -is most useful for clasping and squeezing the pellet. - -Soon the time comes for establishing the family. With equal zeal father -and mother alike take part in kneading, carting, and stowing away the -provisions for the young ones. With the cleaver of the fore-legs a -morsel of the right size is cut from the food placed at their disposal. -The two insects work at the piece together, giving it little pats, -pressing it, and shaping it into a ball as large as a big pea. - -As in the Sacred Beetle’s workshop, the accurately round shape is -obtained without the mechanical trick of rolling the ball. The material -is modelled into a sphere before it is moved, before it is even -loosened from its support. Here, once more, we have an expert in -geometry familiar with the best form for preserving food. - -The ball is soon ready. It must now, by vigorous rolling, be given the -crust which will protect the soft stuff within from becoming too dry. -The mother, who can be recognised by her slightly larger size, -harnesses herself in the place of honour, in front. With her long -hind-legs on the ground and her fore-legs on the ball, she hauls it -towards her, backwards. The father pushes behind in the reverse -position, head downwards. It is precisely the same method as that of -the Sacred Beetle when working in twos, but it has another object. The -Sisyphus team conveys a store of food for the grubs, whereas the big -pill-rollers trundle a banquet which they themselves will eat up -underground. - -The couple start off along the ground. They have no definite goal, but -walk in a direct line, without regard to the obstacles that lie in the -way. In this backward march the obstacles could not be avoided; but -even if they were seen the Sisyphus would not try to go round them. For -she even makes obstinate attempts to climb the wire-work of my cage. -This is an arduous and impossible task. Clawing the meshes of the gauze -with her hind-legs the mother pulls the load towards her; then, putting -her fore-legs round it, she holds it suspended in air. The father, -finding nothing to stand upon, clings to the ball—encrusts himself in -it, so to speak, thus adding his weight to that of the lump, and taking -no further pains. The effort is too great to last. The ball and its -rider, forming one mass, fall to the floor. The mother, from above, -looks down for a moment in surprise, and then drops to recover the load -and renew her impossible attempt to scale the side. After repeated -falls the climb is abandoned. - -Even on level ground the carting is not carried on without difficulty. -At every moment the load swerves on some mound made by a bit of gravel; -and the team topple over and kick about, upside down. This is a trifle, -the merest trifle. These tumbles, which so often fling the Sisyphus on -his back, cause him no concern; one would even think he liked them. -After all, the ball has to be hardened and made of the right -consistency. And this being the case, bumps falls, and jolts are all -part of the programme. This mad steeple-chasing goes on for hours. - -At last the mother, regarding the work as completed, goes off a little -way in search of a suitable spot. The father mounts guard, squatting on -the treasure. If his companion’s absence be unduly long, he relieves -his boredom by spinning the ball nimbly between his uplifted hind legs. -He treats his precious pellet as a juggler treats his ball. He tests -its perfect shape with his curved legs, the branches of his compasses. -No one who sees him frisking in that jubilant attitude can doubt his -lively satisfaction—the satisfaction of a father assured of his -children’s future. - -“It is I,” he seems to say, “I who kneaded this round loaf, I who made -this bread for my sons!” - -And he lifts on high, for all to see, this magnificent testimony to his -industry. - -Meanwhile the mother has chosen a site for the burrow. A shallow pit is -made, a mere beginning of the work. The ball is rolled near it. The -father, that vigilant guardian, does not let go, while the mother digs -with her legs and forehead. Soon the hollow is big enough to hold the -pellet. She insists on having it quite close to her; she must feel it -bobbing up and down behind her, on her back, safe from parasites, -before she decides to go farther. She is afraid of what might happen to -it if it were left on the edge of the burrow until the home were -completed. There are plenty of Midges and other such insects to grab -it. One cannot be too careful. - -The ball therefore is inserted, half in and half out of the -partly-formed basin. The mother, underneath, gets her legs round it and -pulls: the father above, lets it down gently, and sees that the hole is -not choked up with falling earth. All goes well. The digging is resumed -and the descent continues, always with the same caution; one of the -insects pulling the load, the other regulating the drop and clearing -away anything that might hinder the operation. A few more efforts, and -the ball disappears underground with the two miners. What follows for -some time to come can only be a repetition of what has already been -done. We must wait half a day or so. - -If we keep careful watch we shall see the father come up again to the -surface by himself, and crouch in the sand near the burrow. Detained -below by duties in which her companion can be of no assistance to her, -the mother usually postpones her appearance till the morrow. At last -she shows herself. The father leaves the place where he was snoozing, -and joins her. The reunited couple go back to the spot where their -food-stuffs are to be found, and having refreshed themselves they -gather up more materials. The two then set to work again. Once more -they model, cart, and store the ball together. - -I am delighted with this constancy. That it is really the rule I dare -not declare. There must, no doubt, be flighty, fickle Beetles. No -matter: the little I have seen gives me a high opinion of the domestic -habits of the Sisyphus. - -It is time to inspect the burrow. At no great depth we find a tiny -niche, just large enough to allow the mother to move round her work. -The smallness of the chamber tells us that the father cannot remain -there for long. When the studio is ready, he must go away to leave the -sculptress room to turn. - -The contents of the cellar consist of a single ball, a masterpiece of -art. It is a copy of the Sacred Beetle’s pear on a very much reduced -scale, its smallness making the polish of the surface and the elegance -of the curves all the more striking. Its diameter, at the broadest -point, measures one-half to three-quarters of an inch. - -One more observation about the Sisyphus. Six couples under the -wire-gauze cover gave me fifty-seven pears containing one egg each—an -average of over nine grubs to each couple. The Sacred Beetle is far -from reaching this figure. To what cause are we to attribute this large -brood? I can see but one: the fact that the father works as well as the -mother. Family burdens that would exceed the strength of one are not -too heavy when there are two to bear them. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE CAPRICORN - - -I - -THE GRUB’S HOME - -An eighteenth-century philosopher, Condillac, describes an imaginary -statue, organised like a man, but with none of a man’s senses. He then -pictures the effect of endowing it with the five senses, one by one, -and the first sense he gives it is that of smell. The statue, having no -sense but smell, inhales the scent of a rose, and out of that single -impression creates a whole world of ideas. In my youth I owed some -happy moments to that statue. I seemed to see it come to life in that -action of the nostrils, acquiring memory, concentration, judgment, and -other mental qualities, even as still waters are aroused and rippled by -the impact of a grain of sand. I recovered from my illusion under the -teaching of my abler master the animal. The Capricorn taught me that -the problem is more obscure than the Abbé Condillac led me to suppose. - -When my winter supply of firewood is being prepared for me with wedge -and mallet, the woodman selects, by my express orders, the oldest and -most ravaged trunks in his stack. My tastes bring a smile to his lips; -he wonders by what whimsy I prefer wood that is worm-eaten to sound -wood, which burns so much better. I have my views on the subject, and -the worthy man submits to them. - -A fine oak-trunk, seamed with scars and gashed with wounds, contains -many treasures for my studies. The mallet drives home, the wedges bite, -the wood splits; and within, in the dry and hollow parts, are revealed -groups of various insects who are capable of living through the cold -season, and have here taken up their winter quarters. In the low-roofed -galleries built by some Beetle the Osmia Bee has piled her cells one -above the other. In the deserted chambers and vestibules Megachiles -have arranged their leafy jars. In the live wood, filled with juicy -sap, the larva of the Capricorn, the chief author of the oak’s undoing, -has set up its home. - -Truly they are strange creatures, these grubs: bits of intestines -crawling about! In the middle of Autumn I find them of two different -ages. The older are almost as thick as one’s finger; the others hardly -attain the diameter of a pencil. I find, in addition, the pupa or nymph -more or less fully coloured, and the perfect insect ready to leave the -trunk when the hot weather comes again. Life inside the wood, -therefore, lasts for three years. - -How is this long period of solitude and captivity spent? In wandering -lazily through the thickness of the oak, in making roads whose rubbish -serves as food. The horse in the book of Job “swallows the ground” in a -figure of speech: the Capricorn’s grub eats its way literally. With its -carpenter’s-gouge—a strong black mandible, short and without notches, -but scooped into a sharp-edged spoon—it digs the opening of its tunnel. -From the piece cut out the grub extracts the scanty juices, while the -refuse accumulates behind him in heaps. The path is devoured as it is -made; it is blocked behind as it makes way ahead. - -Since this harsh work is done with the two gouges, the two curved -chisels of the mandibles, the Capricorn-grub requires much strength in -the front part of its body, which therefore swells into a sort of -pestle. The Buprestis-grub, that other industrious carpenter, adopts a -similar form, and even exaggerates its pestle. The part that toils and -carves hard wood requires to be robust; the rest of the body, which has -but to follow after, continues slim. The essential thing is that the -implement of the jaws should possess a solid support and powerful -machinery. The Capricorn larva strengthens its chisels with a stout, -black, horny armour that surrounds the mouth; yet, apart from its skull -and its equipment of tools, this grub has a skin as fine as satin and -as white as ivory. This dead white is caused by a thick layer of -grease, which one would not expect a diet of wood to produce in the -animal. True, it has nothing to do, at every hour of the day and night, -but gnaw. The quantity of wood that passes into its stomach makes up -for the lack of nourishing qualities. - -The grub’s legs can hardly be called legs at all; they are mere -suggestions of the legs the full-grown insect will have by and by. They -are infinitesimal in size, and of no use whatever for walking. They do -not even touch the supporting surface, being kept off it by the -plumpness of the chest. The organs by means of which the animal -progresses are something altogether different. - -The grub of the Rose-chafer, with the aid of the hairs and pad-like -projections upon its spine, manages to reverse the usual method of -walking, and to wriggle along on its back. The grub of the Capricorn is -even more ingenious: it moves at the same time on its back and its -stomach. To take the place of its useless legs it has a walking -apparatus almost like feet, which appear, contrary to every rule, on -the surface of its back. - -On the middle part of its body, both above and below, there is a row of -seven four-sided pads, which the grub can either expand or contract, -making them stick out or lie flat at will. It is by means of these pads -that it walks. When it wishes to move forwards it expands the hinder -pads, those on the back as well as those on the stomach, and contracts -its front pads. The swelling of the hind pads in the narrow gallery -fills up the space, and gives the grub something to push against. At -the same time the flattening of the front pads, by decreasing the size -of the grub, allows it to slip forward and take half a step. Then, to -complete the step, the hind-quarters must be brought up the same -distance. With this object the front pads fill out and provide support, -while those behind shrink and leave room for the grub to draw up its -hind-quarters. - -With the double support of its back and stomach, with alternate -swellings and shrinkings, the animal easily advances or retreats along -its gallery, a sort of mould which the contents fill without a gap. But -if the pads grip only on one side progress becomes impossible. When -placed on the smooth wood of my table the animal wriggles slowly; it -lengthens and shortens without progressing by a hair’s breadth. Laid on -the surface of a piece of split oak, a rough, uneven surface due to the -gash made by the wedge, it twists and writhes, moves the front part of -its body very slowly from left to right and right to left, lifts it a -little, lowers it, and begins again. This is all it can do. The -rudimentary legs remain inert and absolutely useless. - - - - -II - -THE GRUB’S SENSATIONS - -Though the Capricorn-grub possesses these useless legs, the germs of -future limbs, there is no sign of the eyes with which the -fully-developed insect will be richly gifted. The larva has not the -least trace of any organs of sight. What would it do with sight, in the -murky thickness of a tree-trunk? Hearing is likewise absent. In the -untroubled silence of the oak’s inmost heart the sense of hearing would -be superfluous. Where sounds are lacking, of what use is the faculty of -discerning them? - -To make the matter certain I carried out some experiments. If split -lengthwise the grub’s abode becomes a half-tunnel, in which I can watch -the occupant’s doings. When left alone it alternately works for a -while, gnawing at its gallery, and rests for awhile, fixed by its pads -to the two sides of the tunnel. I took advantage of these moments of -rest to inquire into its power of hearing. The banging of hard bodies, -the ring of metallic objects, the grating of a file upon a saw, were -tried in vain. The animal remained impassive: not a wince, not a -movement of the skin, no sign of awakened attention. I succeeded no -better when I scratched the wood near it with a hard point, to imitate -the sound of some other grub at work in its neighbourhood. The -indifference to my noisy tricks could be no greater in a lifeless -object. The animal is deaf. - -Can it smell? Everything tells us that it cannot. Scent is of -assistance in the search for food. But the Capricorn-grub need not go -in quest of eatables. It feeds on its home; it lives on the wood that -gives it shelter. Nevertheless I tested it. In a log of fresh cypress -wood I made a groove of the same width as that of the natural -galleries, and I placed the grub inside it. Cypress wood is strongly -scented; it has the smell characteristic of most of the pine family. -This resinous scent, so strange to a grub that lives always in oak, -ought to vex it, to trouble it; and it should show its displeasure by -some kind of commotion, some attempt to get away. It did nothing of the -kind: once it had found the right position in the groove it went to the -end, as far as it could go, and made no further movement. Then I set -before it, in its usual channel, a piece of camphor. Again no effect. -Camphor was followed by naphthaline. Still no result. I do not think I -am going too far when I deny the creature a sense of smell. - -Taste is there no doubt. But such taste! The food is without variety: -oak, for three years at a stretch, and nothing else. What can the -grub’s palate find to enjoy in this monotonous fare? The agreeable -sensation of a fresh piece, oozing with sap; the uninteresting flavour -of an over-dry piece. These, probably, are the only changes in the -meal. - -There remains the sense of touch, the universal passive sense common to -all live flesh that quivers under the goad of pain. The Capricorn-grub, -therefore, is limited to two senses, those of taste and touch, and both -of these it possesses only in a very small degree. It is very little -better off than Condillac’s statue. The imaginary being created by the -philosopher had one sense only, that of smell, equal in delicacy to our -own; the real being, the oak-eater has two, which are inferior even -when put together to the one sense of the statue. The latter plainly -perceived the scent of a rose, and clearly distinguished it from any -other. - -A vain wish has often come to me in my dreams: to be able to think, for -a few minutes, with the brain of my Dog, or to see the world with the -eyes of a Gnat. How things would change in appearance! But they would -change much more if understood only with the intellect of the grub. -What has that incomplete creature learnt through its senses of touch -and taste? Very little; almost nothing. It knows that the best bits of -wood have a special kind of flavour, and that the sides of a passage, -when not carefully smoothed, are painful to the skin. This is the limit -of its wisdom. In comparison with this, the statue with the sensitive -nostrils was a marvel of knowledge. It remembered, compared, judged, -and reasoned. Can the Capricorn-grub remember? Can it reason? I -described it a little time ago as a bit of intestine that crawls about. -This description gives an answer to these questions. The grub has the -sensations of a bit of intestine, no more and no less. - - - - -III - -THE GRUB’S FORESIGHT - -And this half-alive object, this nothing-at-all, is capable of -marvellous foresight. It knows hardly anything of the present, but it -sees very clearly into the future. - -For three years on end the larva wanders about in the heart of the -trunk. It goes up, goes down, turns to this side and that; it leaves -one vein for another of better flavour, but without ever going too far -from the inner depths, where the temperature is milder than near the -surface, and greater safety reigns. But a day is at hand when the -hermit must leave its safe retreat and face the perils of the outer -world. Eating is not everything, after all; we have to get out of this. - -But how? For the grub, before leaving the trunk, must turn into a -long-horned Beetle. And though the grub, being well equipped with tools -and muscular strength, finds no difficulty in boring through the wood -and going where it pleases, it by no means follows that the coming -Capricorn has the same powers. The Beetle’s short spell of life must be -spent in the open air. Will it be able to clear itself a way of escape? - -It is quite plain, at all events, that the Capricorn will be absolutely -unable to make use of the tunnel bored by the grub. This tunnel is a -very long and very irregular maze, blocked with great heaps of wormed -wood. It grows constantly smaller and smaller as it approaches the -starting-point, because the larva entered the trunk as slim as a tiny -bit of straw, whereas to-day it is as thick as one’s finger. In its -three years’ wanderings it always dug its gallery to fit the size of -its body. Evidently the road of the larva cannot be the Capricorn’s way -out. His overgrown antennæ, his long legs, his inflexible armour-plates -would find the narrow, winding corridor impassable. The passage would -have to be cleared of its wormed wood, and, moreover, greatly enlarged. -It would be easier to attack the untouched timber and dig straight -ahead. Is the insect capable of doing so? I determined to find out. - -I made some cavities of suitable size in some oak logs that had been -chopped in two, and in each of these cells I placed a Capricorn that -had just been transformed from the grub. I then joined the two sides of -the logs, fastening them together with wire. When June came I heard a -sound of scraping inside the logs, and waited anxiously to see if the -Capricorns would appear. They had hardly three-quarters of an inch to -pierce. Yet not one came out. On opening the logs I found all my -captives dead. A pinch of sawdust represented all they had done. - -I had expected more from their sturdy mandibles. In spite of their -boring-tools the hermits died for lack of skill. I tried enclosing some -in reed-stumps, but even this comparatively easy work was too much for -them. Some freed themselves, but others failed. - -Notwithstanding his stalwart appearance the Capricorn cannot leave the -tree-trunk by his own unaided efforts. The truth is that his way is -prepared for him by the grub—that bit of intestine. - -Some presentiment—to us an unfathomable mystery—causes the -Capricorn-grub to leave its peaceful stronghold in the very heart of -the oak and wriggle towards the outside, where its foe the Woodpecker -is quite likely to gobble it up. At the risk of its life it stubbornly -digs and gnaws to the very bark. It leaves only the thinnest film, the -slenderest screen, between itself and the world at large. Sometimes, -even, the rash one opens the doorway wide. - -This is the Capricorn’s way out. The insect has but to file the screen -a little with his mandibles, to bump against it with his forehead, in -order to bring it down. He will even have nothing at all to do when the -doorway is open, as often happens. The unskilled carpenter, burdened -with his extravagant head-dress, will come out from the darkness -through this opening when the summer heat arrives. - -As soon as the grub has attended to the important business of making a -doorway into the world, it begins to busy itself with its -transformation into a Beetle. First, it requires space for the purpose. -So it retreats some distance down its gallery, and in the side of the -passage digs itself a transformation-chamber more sumptuously furnished -and barricaded than any I have ever seen. It is a roomy hollow with -curved walls, three to four inches in length and wider than it is high. -The width of the cell gives the insect a certain degree of freedom of -movement when the time comes for forcing the barricade, which is more -than a close-fitting case would do. - -The barricade—a door which the larva builds as a protection from -danger—is twofold, and often threefold. Outside, it is a stack of woody -refuse, of particles of chopped timber; inside, a mineral lid, a -concave cover, all in one piece, of a chalky white. Pretty often, but -not always, there is added to these two layers an inner casing of -shavings. - -Behind this threefold door the larva makes its arrangements for its -transformation. The sides of the chamber are scraped, thus providing a -sort of down formed of ravelled woody fibres, broken into tiny shreds. -This velvety stuff is fixed on the wall, in a thick coating, as fast as -it is made. The chamber is thus padded throughout with a fine -swan’s-down, a delicate precaution taken by the rough grub out of -kindness for the tender creature it will become when it has cast its -skin. - -Let us now go back to the most curious part of the furnishing, the -cover or inner door of the entrance. It is like an oval skull-cap, -white and hard as chalk, smooth within and rough without, with some -resemblance to an acorn-cup. The rough knots show that the material is -supplied in small, pasty mouthfuls, which become solid outside in -little lumps. The animal does not remove them, because it is unable to -get at them; but the inside surface is polished, being within the -grub’s reach. This singular lid is as hard and brittle as a flake of -limestone. It is, as a matter of fact, composed solely of carbonate of -lime, and a sort of cement which gives consistency to the chalky paste. - -I am convinced that this stony deposit comes from a particular part of -the grub’s stomach, called the chylific ventricle. The chalk is kept -separate from the food, and is held in reserve until the right time -comes to discharge it. This freestone factory causes me no -astonishment. It serves for various chemical works in different grubs -when undergoing transformation. Certain Oil-beetles keep refuse in it, -and several kinds of Wasps use it to manufacture the shellac with which -they varnish the silk of their cocoons. - -When the exit way is prepared, and the cell upholstered in velvet and -closed with a threefold barricade, the industrious grub has finished -its task. It lays aside its tools, sheds its skin, and becomes a -pupa—weakness personified, in the swaddling-clothes of a cocoon. The -head is always turned towards the door. This is a trifling detail in -appearance; but in reality it is everything. To lie this way or that in -the long cell is a matter of great indifference to the grub, which is -very supple, turning easily in its narrow lodging and adopting whatever -position it pleases. The coming Capricorn will not enjoy the same -privileges. Stiffly encased in his horny armour, he will not be able to -turn from end to end; he will not even be capable of bending, if some -sudden curve should make the passage difficult. He must, without fail, -find the door in front of him, or he will perish in the -transformation-room. If the grub should forget this little matter, and -lie down to sleep with its head at the back of the cell, the Capricorn -would be infallibly lost. His cradle would become a hopeless dungeon. - -But there is no fear of this danger. The “bit of intestine” knows too -much about the future to neglect the formality of keeping its head at -the door. At the end of spring the Capricorn, now in possession of his -full strength, dreams of the joys of the sun, of the festivals of -light. He wants to get out. - -What does he find before him? First, a heap of filings easily dispersed -with his claws; next, a stone lid which he need not even break into -fragments, for it comes undone in one piece. It is removed from its -frame with a few pushes of the forehead, a few tugs of the claws. In -fact, I find the lid intact on the threshold of the abandoned cell. -Last comes a second mass of woody remnants as easy to scatter as the -first. The road is now free: the Capricorn has but to follow the wide -vestibule, which will lead him, without any possibility of mistake, to -the outer exit. Should the doorway not be open, all that he has to do -is to gnaw through a thin screen, an easy task. Behold him outside, his -long antennæ quivering with excitement. - -What have we learnt from him? Nothing from him, but much from his grub. -This grub, so poor in organs of sensation, gives us much to think -about. It knows that the coming Beetle will not be able to cut himself -a road through the oak, and it therefore opens one for him at its own -risk and peril. It knows that the Capricorn, in his stiff armour, will -never be able to turn round and make for the opening of the cell; and -it takes care to fall into its sleep of transformation with its head -towards the door. It knows how soft the pupa’s flesh will be, and it -upholsters the bedroom with velvet. It knows that the enemy is likely -to break in during the slow work of the transformation, and so, to make -a protection against attack, it stores lime inside its stomach. It -knows the future with a clear vision, or, to be accurate, it behaves as -if it knew the future. - -What makes it act in this way? It is certainly not taught by the -experiences of its senses. What does it know of the outside world? I -repeat—as much as a bit of intestine can know. And this senseless -creature astounds us! I regret that the philosopher Condillac, instead -of creating a statue that could smell a rose, did not gift it with an -instinct. How soon he would have seen that the animals—including -man—have powers quite apart from the senses; inspirations that are born -with them, and are not the result of learning. - -This curious life and this marvellous foresight are not confined to one -kind of grub. Besides the Capricorn of the Oak there is the Capricorn -of the Cherry-tree. In appearance the latter is an exact copy of the -former, on a much smaller scale; but the little Capricorn has different -tastes from its large kinsman’s. If we search the heart of the -cherry-tree it does not show us a single grub anywhere: the entire -population lives between the bark and the wood. This habit is only -varied when transformation is at hand. Then the grub of the cherry-tree -leaves the surface, and scoops out a cavity at a depth of about two -inches. Here the walls are bare: they are not lined with the velvety -fibres dear to the Capricorn of the Oak. The entrance is blocked, -however, by sawdust, and a chalky lid similar to the other except in -point of size. Need I add that the grub lies down and goes to sleep -with his head against the door? Not one forgets to take this -precaution. - -There is also a Saperda of the Poplar and a Saperda of the Cherry-tree. -They have the same organisation and the same tools; but the former -follows the methods of the Capricorn of the Oak, while the latter -imitates the Capricorn of the Cherry-tree. - -The poplar-tree is also inhabited by the Bronze Buprestis, which takes -no defensive measures before going to sleep. It makes no barricade, no -heap of shavings. And in the apricot-tree the Nine-spotted Buprestis -behaves in the same way. In this case the grub is inspired by its -intuitions to alter its plan of work to suit the coming Beetle. The -perfect insect is a cylinder; the grub is a strap, a ribbon. The -former, which wears unyielding armour, needs a cylindrical passage; the -latter needs a very low tunnel, with a roof that it can reach with the -pads on its back. The grub therefore changes its manner of boring: -yesterday the gallery, suited to a wandering life in the thickness of -the wood, was a wide burrow with a very low ceiling, almost a slot; -to-day the passage is cylindrical. A gimlet could not bore it more -accurately. This sudden change in the system of roadmaking on behalf of -the coming insect once more shows us the foresight of this “bit of -intestine.” - -I could tell you of many other wood-eaters. Their tools are the same; -yet each species displays special methods, tricks of the trade that -have nothing to do with the tools. These grubs, then, like so many -insects, show us that instinct is not made by the tools, so to speak, -but that the same tools may be used in various ways. - -To continue the subject would be monotonous. The general rule stands -out very clearly from these facts: the wood-eating grubs prepare the -path of deliverance for the perfect insect, which will merely have to -pass a barricade of shavings or pierce a screen of bark. By a curious -reversal of the usual state of things, infancy is here the season of -energy, of strong tools, of stubborn work; mature age is the season of -leisure, of industrial ignorance, of idle diversions, without trade or -profession. The providence of the human infant is the mother; here the -baby grub is the mother’s providence. With its patient tooth, which -neither the peril of the outside world nor the difficult task of boring -through hard wood is able to discourage, it clears away for her to the -supreme delights of the sun. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -LOCUSTS - - -I - -THEIR VALUE - -“Mind you’re ready, children, to-morrow morning before the sun gets too -hot. We’re going Locust-hunting.” - -This announcement throws the household into great excitement at -bed-time. What do my little helpers see in their dreams? Blue wings, -red wings, suddenly flung out like fans; long saw-toothed legs, pale -blue or pink, which kick out when we hold their owners in our fingers; -great shanks that act like springs, and make the insect leap forward as -though shot from a catapult. - -If there be one peaceful and safe form of hunting, one in which both -old age and childhood can share, it is Locust-hunting. What delicious -mornings we owe to it! How delightful, when the mulberries are ripe, to -pick them from the bushes! What excursions we have had, on the slopes -covered with thin, tough grass, burnt yellow by the sun! I have vivid -memories of such mornings, and my children will have them too. - -Little Paul has nimble legs, a ready hand, and a piercing eye. He -inspects the clumps of everlastings, and peers closely into the bushes. -Suddenly a big Grey Locust flies out like a little bird. The hunter -first makes off at full speed, then stops and gazes in wonder at this -mock Swallow flying far away. He will have better luck another time. We -shall not go home without a few of those magnificent prizes. - -Marie Pauline, who is younger than her brother, watches patiently for -the Italian Locust, with his pink wings and carmine hind-legs; but she -really prefers another, the most ornamented of them all. Her favourite -wears a St. Andrew’s cross on the small of his back, which is marked by -four white, slanting stripes. He wears, too, patches of green, the -colour of verdigris on bronze. With her hand raised in the air, ready -to swoop down, she approaches very softly, stooping low. Whoosh! That’s -done it! The treasure is quickly thrust head-first into a paper funnel, -and plunges with one bound to the bottom of it. - -One by one our boxes are filled. Before the heat becomes too great to -bear we are in possession of a number of specimens. Imprisoned in my -cages, perhaps they will teach us something. In any case the Locusts -have given pleasure to three people at a small cost. - -Locusts have a bad reputation, I know. The textbooks describe them as -noxious. I take the liberty of doubting whether they deserve this -reproach, except, of course, in the case of the terrible ravagers who -are the scourge of Africa and the East. Their ill repute has been -fastened on all Locusts, though they are, I consider, more useful than -harmful. As far as I know, our peasants have never complained of them. -What damage do they do? - -They nibble the tops of the tough grasses which the Sheep refuses to -touch; they prefer the thin, poor grass to the fat pastures; they -browse on barren land that can support none but them; they live on food -that no stomach but theirs could use. - -Besides, by the time they frequent the fields the green wheat—the only -thing that might tempt them—has long ago yielded its grain and -disappeared. If they happen to get into the kitchen-gardens and take a -few bites, it is not a crime. A man can console himself for a piece -bitten out of a leaf or two of salad. - -To measure the importance of things by one’s own turnip-patch is a -horrible method. The short-sighted man would upset the order of the -universe rather than sacrifice a dozen plums. If he thinks of the -insect at all, it is only to kill it. - -And yet, think what the consequences would be if all the Locusts were -killed. In September and October the Turkeys are driven into the -stubble, under charge of a child armed with two long reeds. The expanse -over which the gobbling flock slowly spreads is bare, dry, and burnt by -the sun. At the most, a few ragged thistles raise their heads. What do -the birds do in this famine-stricken desert? They cram themselves, that -they may do honour to the Christmas table; they wax fat; their flesh -becomes firm and good to eat. And pray, what do they cram themselves -with? With Locusts. They snap them up, one here one there, till their -greedy crops are filled with the delicious stuffing, which costs -nothing, though its rich flavour will greatly improve the Christmas -Turkey. - -When the Guinea-fowl roams about the farm, uttering her rasping cry, -what is it she seeks? Seeds, no doubt; but above all Locusts, which -puff her out under the wings with a pad of fat, and give a better -flavour to her flesh. The Hen, too, much to our advantage, is just as -fond of them. She well knows the virtues of that dainty dish, which -acts as a tonic and makes her lay more eggs. When left at liberty she -rarely fails to lead her family to the stubble-fields, so that they may -learn to snap up the nice mouthful skilfully. In fact, every bird in -the poultry-yard finds the Locust a valuable addition to his bill of -fare. - -It is still more important outside the poultry-yard. Any who is a -sportsman, and knows the value of the Red-legged Patridge, the glory of -our southern hills, should open the crop of the bird he has just shot. -He will find it, nine times out of ten, more or less crammed with -Locusts. The Partridge dotes on them, preferring them to seeds as long -as he can catch them. This highly-flavoured, nourishing fare would -almost make him forget the existence of seeds, if it were only there -all the year round. - -The Wheat-ear, too, who is so good to eat, prefers the Locust to any -other food. And all the little birds of passage which, when autumn -comes, call a halt in Provence before their great pilgrimage, fatten -themselves with Locusts as a preparation for the journey. - -Nor does man himself scorn them. An Arab author tells us: - -“Grasshoppers”—(he means Locusts)—“are of good nourishment for men and -Camels. Their claws, wings, and head are taken away, and they are eaten -fresh or dried, either roast or boiled, and served with flesh, flour, -and herbs. - -”... Camels eat them greedily, and are given them dried or roast, -heaped in a hollow between two layers of charcoal. Thus also do the -Nubians eat them.... - -“Once, when the Caliph Omar was asked if it were lawful to eat -Grasshoppers, he made answer: - -”’Would that I had a basket of them to eat.’ - -“Wherefore, from this testimony, it is very sure that, by the Grace of -God, Grasshoppers were given to man for his nourishment.” - -Without going as far as the Arab I feel prepared to say that the Locust -is a gift of God to a multitude of birds. Reptiles also hold him in -esteem. I have found him in the stomach of the Eyed Lizard, and have -often caught the little Grey Lizard of the walls in the act of carrying -him off. - -Even the fish revel in him, when good fortune brings him to them. The -Locust leaps blindly, and without definite aim: he comes down wherever -he is shot by the springs in his legs. If the place where he falls -happens to be water, a fish gobbles him up at once. Anglers sometimes -bait their hooks with a specially attractive Locust. - -As for his being fit nourishment for man, except in the form of -Partridge and young Turkey, I am a little doubtful. Omar, the mighty -Caliph who destroyed the library of Alexandria, wished for a basket of -Locusts, it is true, but his digestion was evidently better than his -brains. Long before his day St. John the Baptist lived in the desert on -Locusts and wild honey; but in his case they were not eaten because -they were good. - -Wild honey from the pots of the Mason-bees is very agreeable food, I -know. Wishing to taste the Locust also I once caught some, and had them -cooked as the Arab author advised. We all of us, big and little, tried -the queer dish at dinner. It was much nicer than the Cicadæ praised by -Aristotle. I would go to the length of saying it is good—without, -however, feeling any desire for more. - - - - -II - -THEIR MUSICAL TALENT - -The Locust possesses musical powers wherewith to express his joys. -Consider him at rest, blissfully digesting his meal and enjoying the -sunshine. With sharp strokes of the bow, three or four times repeated -with a pause between, he plays his tune. He scrapes his sides with his -great hind-legs, using now one, now the other, and now both at a time. - -The result is very poor, so slight indeed that I am obliged to make use -of little Paul’s sharp ear to make sure that there is a sound at all. -Such as it is, it is like the squeaking of a needle-point pushed across -a sheet of paper. There you have the whole song, which is very nearly -silence. - -We can expect no more than this from the Locust’s very unfinished -instrument. There is nothing here like the Cricket’s toothed bow and -sounding-board. The lower edge of the wing-cases is rubbed by the -thighs, but though both wing-cases and thighs are powerful they have no -roughnesses to supply friction, and there is no sign of teeth. - -This artless attempt at a musical instrument can produce no more sound -than a dry membrane will emit when you rub it yourself. And for the -sake of this small result the insect lifts and lowers its thigh in -sharp jerks, and appears perfectly satisfied. It rubs its sides very -much as we rub our hands together in sign of contentment, with no -intention of making a sound. That is its own particular way of -expressing its joy in life. - -Observe the Locust when the sky is partly covered with clouds, and the -sun shines only at times. There comes a rift in the clouds. At once the -thighs begin to scrape, becoming more and more active as the sun grows -hotter. The strains are brief, but they are repeated as long as the -sunshine continues. The sky becomes overcast. Then and there the song -ceases; but is renewed with the next gleam of sunlight, always in brief -outburst. There is no mistaking it: here, in these fond lovers of the -light, we have a mere expression of happiness. The Locust has his -moments of gaiety when his crop is full and the sun is kind. - -Not all the Locusts indulge in this joyous rubbing. - -The Tryxalis, who has a pair of immensely long hind-legs, keeps up a -gloomy silence when even the sunshine is brightest. I have never seen -him move his shanks like a bow; he seems unable to use them—so long are -they—for anything but hopping. - -The big Grey Locust, who often visits me in the enclosure, even in the -depth of winter, is also dumb in consequence of the excessive length of -his legs. But he has a peculiar way of diverting himself. In calm -weather, when the sun is hot, I surprise him in the rosemary bushes -with his wings unfurled and fluttering rapidly, as though for flight. -He keeps up this performance for a quarter of an hour at a time. His -fluttering is so gentle, in spite of its extreme speed, that it creates -hardly any rustling sound. - -Others are still worse off. One of these is the Pedestrian Locust, who -strolls on foot on the ridges of the Ventoux amid sheets of Alpine -flowers, silvery, white, and rosy. His colouring is as fresh as that of -the flowers. The sunlight, which is clearer on those heights than it is -below, has made him a costume combining beauty with simplicity. His -body is pale brown above and yellow below, his big thighs are coral -red, his hind-legs a glorious azure-blue, with an ivory anklet in -front. But in spite of being such a dandy he wears too short a coat. - -His wing-cases are merely wrinkled slips, and his wings no more than -stumps. He is hardly covered as far as the waist. Any one seeing him -for the first time takes him for a larva, but he is indeed the -full-grown insect, and he will wear this incomplete garment to the end. - -With this skimpy jacket of course, music is impossible to him. The big -thighs are there; but there are no wing-cases, no grating edge for the -bow to rub upon. The other Locusts cannot be described as noisy, but -this one is absolutely dumb. In vain have the most delicate ears -listened with all their might. This silent one must have other means of -expressing his joys. What they are I do not know. - -Nor do I know why the insect remains without wings, a plodding -wayfarer, when his near kinsmen on the same Alpine slopes have -excellent means of flying. He possesses the beginnings of wings and -wing-cases, gifts inherited by the larva; but he does not develop these -beginnings and make use of them. He persists in hopping, with no -further ambition: he is satisfied to go on foot, to remain a Pedestrian -Locust, when he might, one would think, acquire wings. To flit rapidly -from crest to crest, over valleys deep in snow, to fly from one pasture -to another, would certainly be great advantages to him. His -fellow-dwellers on the mountain-tops possess wings and are all the -better for them. It would be very profitable to extract from their -sheaths the sails he keeps packed away in useless stumps; and he does -not do it. Why? - -No one knows why. Anatomy has these puzzles, these surprises, these -sudden leaps, which defy our curiosity. In the presence of such -profound problems the best thing is to bow in all humility, and pass -on. - - - - -III - -THEIR EARLY DAYS - -The Locust mother is not, in all cases, a model of affection. The -Italian Locust, having laboriously half-buried herself in the sand, -lays her eggs there and immediately bounds away. She gives not a look -at the eggs, nor makes the least attempt to cover the hole where they -lie. It closes of its own accord, as best it can, by the natural -falling-in of the sand. It is an extremely casual performance, marked -by an utter absence of maternal care. - -Others do not forsake their eggs so recklessly. The ordinary Locust -with the blue-and-black wings, for instance, after leaving her eggs in -the sand, lifts her hind-legs high, sweeps some sand into the hole, and -presses it down by stamping it rapidly. It is a pretty sight to watch -the swift action of her slender legs, giving alternate kicks to the -opening they are plugging. With this lively trampling the entrance to -the home is closed and hidden away. The hole that contains the eggs -completely disappears, so that no ill-intentioned creature could find -it by sight alone. - -Nor is this all. The power that works the two rammers lies in the -hinder thighs, which, as they rise and fall, scrape lightly against the -edge of the wing-cases. This scraping produces a faint sound, similar -to that with which the insect placidly lulls itself to sleep in the -sun. - -The Hen salutes with a song of gladness the egg she just laid; she -announces her performance to the whole neighbourhood. The Locust -celebrates the same event with her thin scraper. “I have buried -underground,” she says, “the treasure of the future.” - -Having made the nest safe she leaves the spot, refreshes herself after -her exertions with a few mouthfuls of green stuff, and prepares to -begin again. - -The Grey Locust mother is armed at the tip of her body—and so are other -female Locusts in varying degrees—with four short tools, arranged in -pairs and shaped like a hooked fingernail. On the upper pair, which are -larger than the others, these hooks are turned upwards; on the lower -and smaller pair they are turned downwards. They form a sort of claw, -and are scooped out slightly, like a spoon. These are the pick-axes, -the boring-tools with which the Grey Locust works. With these she bites -into the soil, lifting the dry earth a little, as quietly as if she -were digging in soft mould. She might be working in butter; and yet -what the bore digs into is hard, unyielding earth. - -The best site for laying the eggs is not always found at the first -attempt. I have seen the mother make five wells one after the other -before finding a suitable place. When at last the business is over, and -the insect begins to rise from the hole in which she is partly buried, -one can see that she is covering her eggs with milk-white foam, similar -to that of the Mantis. - -This foamy matter often forms a button at the entrance to the well, a -knot which stands up and attracts the eye by its whiteness against the -grey background of the soil. It is soft and sticky, but hardens pretty -soon. When this closing button is finished the mother moves away and -troubles no more about her eggs, of which she lays a fresh batch -elsewhere after a few days. - -Sometimes the foamy paste does not reach the surface; it stops some way -down, and before long is covered with the sand that slips from the -edge. But in the case of my Locusts in captivity I always know, even -when it is concealed, exactly where the barrel of eggs lies. Its -structure is always the same, though there are variations in detail. It -is always a sheath of solidified foam. Inside, there is nothing but -foam and eggs. The eggs all lie in the lower portion, packed one on top -of another; and the upper part consists only of soft, yielding foam. -This portion plays an important part when the young larvæ are hatched. -I will call it the ascending-shaft. - -The wonderful egg-casket of the Mantis is not the result of any special -talent which the mother can exercise at will. It is due to mechanism. -It happens of itself. In the same way the Locusts have no industry of -their own, especially devised for laying eggs in a keg of froth. The -foam is produced with the eggs, and the arrangement of eggs at the -bottom and centre, and froth on the outside and the top, is purely -mechanical. - -There are many Locusts whose egg-cases have to last through the winter, -since they do not open until the fine weather returns. Though the soil -is loose and dusty at first, it becomes caked together by the winter -rains. Supposing that the hatching takes place a couple of inches below -the surface, how is this crust, this hard ceiling, to be broken? How is -the larva to come up from below? The mother’s unconscious art has -arranged for that. - -The young Locust finds above him, when he comes out of the egg, not -rough sand and hardened earth, but a straight tunnel, with solid walls -that keep all difficulties away. This ascending-shaft is full of foam, -which the larva can easily penetrate, and which will bring him quite -close to the surface. Here only a finger’s-breadth of serious work -remains to be done. - -The greater part of the journey, therefore, is accomplished without -effort. Though the Locust’s building is done quite mechanically, -without the least intelligence, it is certainly singularly well -devised. - -The little creature has now to complete his deliverance. On leaving his -shell he is of a whitish colour, clouded with light red. His progress -is made by worm-like movements; and, so that it may be as easy as -possible, he is hatched, like the young Grasshopper, in a temporary -jacket which keeps his antennæ and legs closely fixed to his body. Like -the White-faced Decticus he keeps his boring-tool at his neck. Here -there is a kind of tumour that swells and subsides alternately, and -strikes the obstacle before it as regularly as a piston. When I see -this soft bladder trying to overcome the hardness of the earth I come -to the unhappy creature’s aid, and damp the layer of soil. - -Even then the work is terribly hard. How it must labour, the poor -little thing, how it must persevere with its throbbing head and -writhing loins, before it can clear a passage for itself! The wee -mite’s efforts show us plainly that the journey to the light of day is -an enormous undertaking, in which the greater number would die but for -the help of the exit-tunnel, the mother’s work. - -When the tiny insect reaches the surface at last, it rests for a moment -to recover from all that fatigue. Then suddenly the blister swells and -throbs, and the temporary jacket splits. The rags are pushed back by -the hind-legs, which are the last to be stripped. The thing is done: -the creature is free, pale in colouring as yet, but possessing its -final form as a larva. - -Immediately the hind-legs, hitherto stretched in a straight line, fall -into the correct position. The legs fold under the great thighs, and -the spring is ready to work. It works, Little Locust makes his entrance -into the world, and hops for the first time. I offer him a bit of -lettuce the size of my fingernail. He refuses it. Before taking -nourishment he must first mature and grow in the sun. - - - - -IV - -THEIR FINAL CHANGE - -I have just beheld a stirring sight: the last change of a Locust, the -full-grown insect emerging from his larval skin. It is magnificent. The -object of my enthusiasm is the Grey Locust, the giant who is so common -on the vines at vintage-time, in September. On account of his size—he -is as long as my finger—he is easier to observe than any other of his -tribe. The event took place in one of my cages. - -The fat, ungraceful larva, a rough sketch of the perfect insect, is -usually pale green; but some are blue-green, dirty yellow, red-brown, -or even ashen-grey, like the grey of the full-grown Locust. The -hind-legs, which are as powerful as those of mature age, have a great -haunch striped with red and a long shank shaped like a two-edged saw. - -The wing-cases are at present two skimpy, triangular pinions, of which -the free ends stand up like pointed gables. These two coat-tails, of -which the material seems to have been clipped short with ridiculous -meanness, just cover the creature’s nakedness at the small of the back, -and shelter two lean strips, the germs of the wings. In brief, the -sumptuous slender sails of the near future are at present sheer rags, -of such meagre size as to be grotesque. From these miserable envelopes -there will come a marvel of stately elegance. - -The first thing to be done is to burst the old tunic. All along the -corselet of the insect there is a line that is weaker than the rest of -the skin. Waves of blood can be seen throbbing within, rising and -falling alternately, distending the skin until at last it splits at the -line of least resistance, and opens as though the two symmetrical -halves had been soldered. The split is continued some little way back, -and runs between the fastenings of the wings: it goes up the head as -far as the base of the antennæ, where it sends a short branch to right -and left. - -Through this break the back is seen, quite soft, pale, hardly tinged -with grey. Slowly it swells into a larger and larger hunch. At last it -is wholly released. The head follows, pulled out of its mask, which -remains in its place, intact in the smallest particular, but looking -strange with its great eyes that do not see. The sheaths of the -antennæ, without a wrinkle, with nothing out of order, and with their -usual position unchanged, hang over this dead face, which is now half -transparent. - -This means that the antennæ within, although fitted into narrow sheaths -that enclose them as precisely as gloves, are able to withdraw without -disturbing the covers in the smallest degree, or even wrinkling them. -The contents manage to slip out as easily as a smooth, straight object -could slip from a loose sheath. This mechanism is even more remarkable -in the case of the hind-legs. - -Now it is the turn of the fore-legs and intermediary legs to shed their -armlets and gauntlets, always without the least rent, however small, -without a crease of rumpled material, or a trace of any change in the -natural position. The insect is now fixed to the top of the cage only -by the claws of the long hind-legs. It hangs perpendicularly by four -tiny hooks, head downwards, and it swings like a pendulum if I touch -the wire-gauze. - -The wing-cases and wings now emerge. These are four narrow strips, -faintly grooved and looking like bits of paper ribbon. At this stage -they are scarcely a quarter of their final length. They are so limp -that they bend under their own weight and sprawl along the insect’s -sides in the wrong direction, with their points towards the head of the -Locust. Imagine four blades of thick grass, bent and battered by a -rain-storm, and you will have a fair picture of the pitiable bunch -formed by the future wings. - -The hind-legs are next released. The great thighs appear, tinted on -their inner surface with pale pink, which will soon turn into a streak -of bright crimson. They come out of the sheath quite easily, for the -thick haunch makes way for the tapering knuckle. - -The shank is a different matter. The shank of the full-grown insect -bristles throughout its length with a double row of hard, pointed -spikes. Moreover, the lower extremity ends in four large spurs. It is a -genuine saw, but with two parallel sets of teeth. - -Now this awkwardly shaped skin is enclosed in a sheath that is formed -in exactly the same way. Each spur is fitted into a similar spur, each -tooth into the hollow of a similar tooth. And the sheath is as close -and as thin as a coat of varnish. - -Nevertheless the saw-like skin slips out of its long narrow case -without catching in it at any point whatever. If I had not seen this -happen over and over again I could never have believed it. The saw does -no injury to the dainty scabbard which a puff of my breath is enough to -tear; the formidable rake slips through without leaving the least -scratch behind it. - -One would expect that, because of the spiked armour, the envelope of -the leg would strip off in scales coming loose of themselves, or would -be rubbed off like dead skin. But the reality exceeds all possible -expectation. From the spurs and spikes of the infinitely thin envelope -there are drawn spurs and spikes so strong that they can cut soft wood. -This is done without violence, the discarded skin remains where it was, -hanging by the claws to the top of the cage, uncreased and untorn. The -magnifying-glass shows not a trace of rough usage. - -If it were suggested that one should draw out a saw from some sort of -gold-beater’s skin sheath which had been exactly moulded on the steel, -and that one should perform the operation without making the least -tear, one would simply laugh. The thing would be impossible. Yet Nature -makes light of such impossibilities; she can realise the absurd, in -case of need. - -The difficulty is overcome in this way. While the leg is being -liberated it is not rigid, as it will presently be. It is soft and -highly flexible. Where it is exposed to view I see it bending and -curving: it is as supple as elastic cord. And farther on, where it is -hidden, it is certainly still softer, it is almost fluid. The teeth of -the saw are there, but have none of their future sharpness. The spikes -lie backwards when the leg is about to be drawn back: as it emerges -they stand up and become solid. A few minutes later the leg has -attained the proper state of stiffness. - -And now the fine tunic is wrinkled and rumpled, and pushed back along -the body towards the tip. Except at this point the Locust is bare. -After a rest of twenty minutes he makes a supreme effort; he raises -himself as he hangs, and grabs hold of his cast skin. Then he climbs -higher, and fixes himself to the wire of the cage with his four front -feet. He loosens the empty husk with one last shake, and it falls to -the ground. The Locust’s transformation is conducted in much the same -way as the Cicada’s. - -The insect is now standing erect, and therefore the flexible wings are -in the right position. They are no longer curved backwards like the -petals of a flower, they are no longer upside down; but they still look -shabby and insignificant. All that we see is a few wrinkles, a few -winding furrows, which tell us that the stumps are bundles of cunningly -folded material, arranged so as to take up as little space as possible. - -Very gradually they expand, so gradually that their unfolding cannot be -seen even under the microscope. The process continues for three hours. -Then the wings and wing-cases stand up on the Locust’s back like a huge -set of sails, sometimes colourless, sometimes pale-green, like the -Cicada’s wings at the beginning. One is amazed at their size when one -thinks of the paltry bundles that represented them at first. How could -so much stuff find room there? - -The fairy tale tells us of a grain of hempseed that contained the -under-linen of a princess. Here is a grain that is even more -astonishing. The one in the story took years and years to sprout and -multiply, till at last it yielded the hemp required for the trousseau: -the Locust’s tiny bundle supplies a sumptuous set of sails in three -hours. They are formed of exquisitely fine gauze, a network of -innumerable tiny bars. - -In the wing of the larva we can see only a few uncertain outlines of -the future lace-work. There is nothing to suggest the marvellous fabric -whose every mesh will have its form and place arranged for it, with -absolute exactness. Yet it is there, as the oak is inside the acorn. - -There must be something to make the matter of the wing shape itself -into a sheet of gauze, into a labyrinth of meshes. There must be an -original plan, an ideal pattern which gives each atom its proper place. -The stones of our buildings are arranged in accordance with the -architect’s plan; they form an imaginary building before they exist as -a real one. In the same way a Locust’s wing, that sumptuous piece of -lace emerging from a miserable sheath, speaks to us of another -Architect, the Author of the plans which Nature must follow in her -labours. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE ANTHRAX FLY - - -I - -A STRANGE MEAL - -I made the acquaintance of the Anthrax in 1855 at Carpentras, when I -was searching the slopes of which I have already told you, the slopes -beloved of the Anthophora-bees. Her curious pupa, so powerfully -equipped to force an outlet for the perfect insect, which is incapable -of the least effort, seemed worthy of investigation. For that pupa is -armed with a ploughshare in front, a trident at its tail, and rows of -harpoons on its back, with which to rip open the Osmia-bee’s cocoon and -break through the hard crust of the hill-side. - -Let us, some day in July, knock away the pebbles that fasten the nests -of the Mason-bees to the sloping ground on which they are built. -Loosened by the shock, the dome comes off cleanly, all in one piece. -Moreover—and this is a great advantage—the cells are all exposed at the -base of the nest, for at this point they have no other wall than the -surface of the pebble. Without any scraping, which would be wearisome -work for us and dangerous to the Bees, we have all the cells before our -eyes, together with their contents—a silky, amber-yellow cocoon, as -delicate and transparent as the skin of an onion. Let us split the -dainty wrappers with the scissors, cell by cell, one after another. If -fortune be at all kind, as it always is to the persevering, we shall -end by finding cocoons harbouring two larvæ together, one more or less -faded in appearance, the other fresh and plump. We shall also find -some, no less plentiful, in which the withered larva is accompanied by -a family of little grubs wriggling uneasily round it. - -It is easy to see that a tragedy is happening under the cover of the -cocoon. The flabby, faded larva is the Mason-bee’s. A month ago, in -June, having finished its ration of honey, it wove itself a silken -sheath in which to take the long sleep that precedes its -transformation. It was bulging with fat, and was a rich and a -defenceless morsel for any enemy that could reach it. And enemies did -reach it. In spite of obstacles that might well seem insurmountable, -the wall of mortar and dome-shaped cover, the enemy grubs appeared in -the secret retreat, and began to eat the sleeper. Three different -species take part in this murderous work, often in the same nest, in -adjoining cells. We will concern ourselves only with the Anthrax Fly. - -The grub, when it has eaten its victim and is left alone in the -Mason-bee’s cocoon, is a naked worm, smooth, legless, and blind. It is -creamy-white, and each of its segments or divisions forms a perfect -ring, very much curved when at rest, but almost straight when -disturbed. Including the head I can count thirteen segments, -well-marked in the middle of the body, but in the fore-part difficult -to distinguish. The white, soft head shows no sign of any mouth, and is -no bigger than a tiny pin’s head. The grub has four pale red stigmata, -or openings through which to breathe, two in front and two behind, as -is the rule among Flies. It has no walking-apparatus whatever; it is -absolutely incapable of shifting its position. If I disturb its rest, -it curves and straightens itself alternately, tossing about violently -where it lies; but it does not manage to progress. - -But the most interesting point about the grub of the Anthrax is its -manner of eating. A most unexpected fact attracts our attention: the -curious ease with which this larva leaves and returns to the Bee-grub -on which it is feeding. After watching flesh-eating grubs at hundreds -and hundreds of meals, I suddenly find myself confronted with a manner -of eating that is entirely unlike anything I ever saw before. - -This, for instance, is the Amophila-grub’s way of devouring its -caterpillar. A hole is made in the victim’s side, and the head and neck -of the grub dives deep into the wound. It never withdraws its head, -never pauses to take breath. The voracious animal always goes forward, -chewing, swallowing, digesting, until the caterpillar’s skin is empty. -Once the meal is begun, the creature does not budge as long as the food -lasts. If moved by force it hesitates, and hunts about for the exact -spot where it left off eating; for if the caterpillar be attacked at a -fresh point it is liable to go bad. - -In the case of the Anthrax-grub there is none of this mangling, none of -this persistent clinging to the original wound. If I tease it with the -tip of a pointed brush it at once retires, and there is no wound to be -seen on the victim, no sign of broken skin. Soon the grub once more -applies its pimple-head to its meal, at any point, no matter where, and -keeps itself fixed there without any effort. If I repeat the touch with -the brush I see the same sudden retreat and the same calm return to the -meal. - -The ease with which this larva grips, leaves, and regrips its victim, -now here, now there, and always without a wound, shows that the mouth -of the Anthrax is not armed with fangs that can dig into the skin and -tear it. If the flesh were gashed by pincers of any kind, one or two -attempts would be necessary before they could leave go or take hold -again; and besides, the skin would be broken. There is nothing of the -kind: the grub simply glues its mouth to its prey, and withdraws it. It -does not chew its food like the other flesh-eating grub: it does not -eat, it inhales. - -This remarkable fact led me to examine the mouth under the microscope. -It is a small conical crater, with yellowish-red sides and very faint -lines running round it. At the bottom of this funnel is the opening of -the throat. There is not the slightest trace of mandibles or jaws, or -any object capable of seizing and grinding food. There is nothing at -all but the bowl-shaped opening. I know of no other example of a mouth -like this, which I can only compare to a cupping-glass. Its attack is a -mere kiss, but what a cruel kiss! - -To observe the working of this curious machine I placed a new-born -Anthrax-grub, together with its prey, in a glass tube. Here I was able -to watch the strange repast from beginning to end. - -The Anthrax-grub—the Bee’s uninvited guest—is fixed by its mouth or -sucker to any convenient part of the plump Bee-grub. It is ready to -break off its kiss suddenly, should anything disturb it, and to resume -it as easily when it wishes. After three or four days of this curious -contact the Bee-grub, formerly so fat, glossy, and healthy, begins to -look withered. Her sides fall in, her fresh colour fades, her skin -becomes covered with little folds, and she is evidently shrinking. A -week is hardly passed when these signs of exhaustion increase to a -startling degree. The victim is flabby and wrinkled, as though borne -down by her own weight. If I move her from her place she flops and -sprawls like a half-filled indiarubber bottle. But the kiss of the -Anthrax goes on emptying her: soon she is but a sort of shrivelled -bladder, growing smaller and smaller from hour to hour. At length, -between the twelfth and fifteenth day, all that remains of the -Mason-bee’s larva is a little white grain, hardly as large as a pin’s -head. - -If I soften this small remnant in water, and then blow into it through -a very fine glass tube, the skin fills out and resumes the shape of the -larva. There is no outlet anywhere for the compressed air. It is -intact: it is nowhere broken. This proves that, under the cupping-glass -of the Anthrax, the skin has been drained through its pores. - -The devouring grub, in making its attack, chooses its moment very -cunningly. It is but an atom. Its mother, a feeble Fly, has done -nothing to help it. She has no weapons; and she is quite incapable of -penetrating the Mason-bee’s fortress. The future meal of the Anthrax -has not been paralysed, nor injured in any way. The parasite arrives—we -shall presently see how; it arrives, scarcely visible, and having made -its preparations it installs itself upon its monstrous victim, whom it -is going to drain to the very husk. And the victim, though not -paralysed nor in any way lacking in vitality, lets it have its way, and -is sucked dry without a tremor or a quiver of resistance. No corpse -could show greater indifference to a bite. - -Had the Anthrax-grub appeared upon the scene earlier, when the Bee-grub -was eating her store of honey, things would surely have gone badly with -it. The victim, feeling herself bled to death by that ravenous kiss, -would have protested with much wriggling of body and grinding of -mandibles. The intruder would have perished. But at the hour chosen so -wisely by it all danger is over. Enclosed in her silken sheath, the -larva is in the torpid state that precedes her transformation into a -Bee. Her condition is not death, but neither is it life. So there is no -sign of irritation when I stir her with a needle, nor when the -Anthrax-grub attacks her. - -There is another marvellous point about the meal of the Anthrax-grub. -The Bee-grub remains alive until the very end. Were she really dead it -would, in less than twenty-four hours, turn a dirty-brown colour and -decompose. But during the whole fortnight that the meal lasts, the -butter-colour of the victim continues unaltered, and there is no sign -of putrefaction. Life persists until the body is reduced to nothing. -And yet, if I myself give her a wound, the whole body turns brown and -soon begins to rot. The prick of a needle makes her decompose. A mere -nothing kills it; the atrocious draining of its strength does not. - -The only explanation I can suggest is this, and it is no more than a -suggestion. Nothing but fluids can be drawn by the sucker of the -Anthrax through the unpierced skin of the Bee-grub: no part of the -breathing-apparatus or the nervous system can pass. As these two -essentials remain uninjured, life goes on until the fluid contents of -the skin are entirely exhausted. On the other hand, if I myself injure -the larva of the Bee, I disturb the nervous or the air-conducting -system, and the bruised part spreads a taint all over the body. - -Liberty is a noble possession, even in an insignificant grub; but it -has its dangers everywhere. The Anthrax escapes these dangers only on -the condition of being, so to speak, muzzled. It finds its own way into -the Bee’s dwelling, quite independently of its mother. Unlike most of -the other flesh-eating larvæ it is not fixed by its mother’s care at -the most suitable spot for its meal. It is perfectly free to attack its -prey where it chooses. If it had a set of carving-tools, of jaws and -mandibles, it would meet with a speedy death. It would split open its -victim and bite it at random, and its food would rot. Its freedom of -action would kill it. - - - - -II - -THE WAY OUT - -There are other grub-eaters which drain their victims without wounding -them, but not one, among those I know, reaches such perfection in this -art as the Anthrax-grub. Nor can any be compared with the Anthrax as -regards the means brought into play in order to leave the cell. The -others, when they become perfect insects, have implements for mining -and demolishing. They have stout mandibles, capable of digging the -ground, of pulling down clay partition-walls, and even of grinding the -Mason-bee’s tough cement to powder. The Anthrax, in her final form, has -nothing like this. Her mouth is a short, soft proboscis, good at most -for soberly licking the sugary fluid from the flowers. Her slim legs -are so feeble that to move a grain of sand would be too heavy a task -for them, enough to strain every joint. Her great stiff wings, which -must remain full-spread, do not allow her to slip through a narrow -passage. Her delicate suit of downy velvet, from which you take the -bloom by merely breathing on it, could not withstand the contact of -rough tunnels. She is unable to enter the Mason-bee’s cells to lay her -egg, and equally unable to leave it when the time comes to free herself -and appear in broad daylight. - -And the grub, for its part, is powerless to prepare the way for the -coming flight. That buttery little cylinder, owning no tools but a -sucker so flimsy and small that it is barely visible through the -magnifying-glass, is even weaker than the full-grown insect, which at -least flies and walks. The Mason-bee’s cell seems to this creature like -a granite cave. How can it get out? The problems would be insoluble to -these two incapables, if nothing else played its part. - -Among insects the pupa—the transition stage, when the creature is no -longer a grub but is not yet a perfect insect—is generally a striking -picture of complete weakness. A sort of mummy, tightly bound in -swaddling-clothes, motionless and unconscious, it awaits its -transformation. Its tender flesh is hardly solid; its limbs are -transparent as crystals, and are held fixed in their place, lest a -movement should disturb the work of development. In the same way, to -secure his recovery, a patient whose bones are broken is held bound in -the surgeon’s bandages. - -Well, here, by a strange reversal of the usual state of things, a -stupendous task is laid upon the pupa of the Anthrax. It is the pupa -that has to toil, to strive, to exhaust itself in efforts to burst the -wall and open the way out. To the pupa falls the desperate duty, to the -full-grown insect the joy of resting in the sun. The result of these -unusual conditions is that the pupa possesses a strange and complicated -set of tools that is in no way suggested by the grub nor recalled by -the perfect Fly. This set of tools includes a collection of -ploughshares, gimlets, hooks, spears, and other implements that are not -found in our trades nor named in our dictionaries. I will do my best to -describe the strange gear. - -By the time that July is nearly over the Anthrax has finished eating -the Bee-grub. From that time until the following May it lies motionless -in the Mason-bee’s cocoon, beside the remains of its victim. When the -fine days of May arrive it shrivels, and casts its skin; and it is then -that the pupa appears, fully clad in a stout, reddish, horny hide. - -The head is round and large, and is crowned on top and in front with a -sort of diadem of six hard, sharp, black spikes, arranged in -semi-circle. This sixfold ploughshare is the chief digging-implement. -Lower down the instrument is finished off with a separate group of two -small black spikes, placed close together. - -Four segments in the middle of the body are armed on the back with a -belt of little horny arches, set in the skin upside down. They are -arranged parallel to one another, and are finished at both ends with a -hard, black point. The belt forms a double row of little thorns, with a -hollow in between. There are about two hundred spikes on the four -segments. The use of this rasp, or grater, is obvious: it helps the -pupa to steady itself on the wall of the gallery as the work proceeds. -Thus anchored on a host of points the brave pioneer is able to hit the -obstacle harder with its crown of awls. Moreover, to make it more -difficult for the instrument to recoil, there are long, stiff bristles, -pointing backwards, scattered here and there among the rows of spikes. -There are some also on other segments, and on the sides they are -arranged in clusters. Two more belts of thorns, less powerful than the -others, and a sheaf of eight spikes at the tip of the body—two of which -are longer than the rest—completes the strange boring-machine that -prepares an outlet for the feeble Anthrax. - -About the end of May the colouring of the pupa alters, and shows that -the transformation is close at hand. The head and fore-part of the -creature become a handsome, shiny black, prophetic of the black livery -worn by the coming insect. I was anxious to see the boring-tools in -action, and, since this could not be done in natural conditions, I -confined the Anthrax in a glass tube, between two thick stoppers of -sorghum-pith. The space between the stoppers was about the same size as -the Bee’s cell, and the partitions, though not so strong as the Bee’s -masonry, were firm enough to withstand considerable effort. On the -other hand the side-walls, being of glass, could not be gripped by the -toothed belts, which made matters much harder for the worker. - -No matter: in the space of a single day the pupa pierced the front -partition, three-quarters of an inch thick. I saw it fixing its double -ploughshare against the back partition, arching itself into a bow, and -then suddenly releasing itself and striking the stopper in front of it -with its barbed forehead. Under the blows of the spikes the pith slowly -crumbled to pieces, atom by atom. At long intervals the method of work -changed. The animal drove its crown of awls into the pith, and fidgeted -and swayed about for a time; then the blows began again. Now and then -there were intervals of rest. At last the hole was made. The pupa -slipped into it, but did not pass through entirely. The head and chest -appeared beyond the hole, but the rest of the body remained held in the -tunnel. - -The glass cell certainly puzzled my Anthrax. The hole through the pith -was wide and irregular: it was a clumsy breach and not a gallery. When -made through the Mason-bee’s walls it is fairly neat, and exactly of -the animal’s diameter. For narrowness and evenness in the exit-tunnel -are necessary. The pupa always remains half-caught in it, and even -pretty securely fixed by the graters on its back. Only the head and -chest emerge into the outer air. A fixed support is indispensable, for -without it the Anthrax could not issue from her horny sheath, unfurling -her great wings and drawing out her slender legs. - -She therefore remains steadily fixed by the graters on her back, in the -narrow exit-gallery. All is now ready. The transformation begins. Two -slits appear on the head: one along the forehead, and a second, -crossing it, dividing the skull in two and extending down the chest. -Through this cross-shaped opening the Anthrax Fly suddenly appears. She -steadies herself upon her trembling legs, dries her wings and takes to -flight, leaving her cast skin at the doorway of the gallery. The -sad-coloured Fly has five or six weeks before her wherein to explore -the clay nests amid the thyme and to take her small share of the joys -of life. - - - - -III - -THE WAY IN - -If you have paid attention to this story of the Anthrax Fly, you must -have noticed that it is incomplete. The Fox in the fable saw how the -Lion’s visitors entered his den, but did not see how they went out. -With us the case is reversed: we know the way out of the Mason-bee’s -fortress, but we do not know the way in. To leave the cell whose owner -it has eaten, the Anthrax becomes a boring-tool. When the exit-tunnel -is opened this tool splits like a pod bursting in the sun, and from the -strong framework there escapes a dainty Fly. A soft bit of fluff that -contrasts strangely with the roughness of the prison whence it comes. -On this point we know pretty well what there is to know. But the -entrance of the grub into the cell puzzled me for a quarter of a -century. - -It is plain that the mother cannot place her egg in the Bee’s cell, -which is closed and barricaded with a cement wall. To pierce it she -would have to become a boring-tool once more, and get into the cast-off -rags which she left at the doorway of the exit-tunnel. She would have -to become a pupa again. For the full-grown Fly has no claws, nor -mandibles, nor any implement capable of working its way through the -wall. - -Can it be, then, the grub that makes its own way into the storeroom, -that same grub that we have seen sucking the life out of the Bee’s -larva? Let us call the creature to mind: a little oily sausage, which -stretches and curls up just where it lies, without being able to shift -its position. Its body is a smooth cylinder, its mouth a circular lip. -It has no means whatever of moving; not even a hair or a wrinkle to -enable it to crawl. It can do nothing but digest its food. It is even -less able than the mother to make its way into the Mason-bee’s -dwelling. And yet its provisions are there: they must be reached: it is -a matter of life and death. How does the Fly set about it? In the face -of this puzzle I resolved to attempt an almost impossible task and -watch the Anthrax from the moment it left the egg. - -Since these Flies are not really plentiful in my own neighbourhood I -made an expedition to Carpentras, the dear little town where I spent my -twentieth year. The old college where I made my first attempts as a -teacher was unchanged in appearance. It still looked like a -penitentiary. In my early days it was considered unwholesome for boys -to be gay and active, so our system of education applied the remedy of -melancholy and gloom. Our houses of instruction were above all houses -of correction. In a yard between four walls, a sort of bear-pit, the -boys fought to make room for their games under a spreading plane-tree. -All round it were cells like horseboxes, without light or air: those -were the class-rooms. - -I saw, too, the shop where I used to buy tobacco as I came out of the -college; and also my former dwelling, now occupied by monks. There, in -the embrasure of a window, sheltered from profane hands, between the -closed outer shutters and the panes, I kept my chemicals—bought for a -few sous saved out of the housekeeping money. My experiments, harmless -or dangerous, were made on a corner of the fire, beside the simmering -broth. How I should love to see that room again, where I pored over -mathematical problems; and my familiar friend the blackboard, which I -hired for five francs a year, and could never buy outright for want of -the necessary cash! - -But I must return to my insects. My visit to Carpentras, unfortunately, -was made too late in the year to be very profitable. I saw only a few -Anthrax Flies hovering round the face of the cliff. Yet I did not -despair, because it was plain that these few were not there to take -exercise, but to settle their families. - -So I took my stand at the foot of the rock, under a broiling sun, and -for half a day I followed the movements of my Flies. They flitted -quietly in front of the slope, a few inches away from the earthly -covering. They went from one Bee’s nest to another, but without -attempting to enter. For that matter, the attempt would be useless, for -the galleries are too narrow to admit their spreading wings. So they -simply explore the cliff, going to and fro, and up and down, with a -flight that was now sudden, now smooth and slow. From time to time I -saw one of them approach the wall and touch the earth suddenly with the -tip of her body. The proceeding took no longer than the twinkling of an -eye. When it was over the insect rested a moment, and then resumed -flight. - -I was certain that, at the moment when the Fly tapped the earth, she -laid her eggs on the spot. Yet, though I rushed forward and examined -the place with my lens, I could see no egg. In spite of the closest -attention I could distinguish nothing. The truth is that my state of -exhaustion, together with the blinding light and scorching heat, made -it difficult for me to see anything. Afterwards, when I made the -acquaintance of the tiny thing that comes out of that egg, my failure -no longer surprised me: for even in the leisure and peace of my study I -have the greatest difficulty in finding the infinitesimal creature. How -then could I see the egg, worn out as I was under the sun-baked cliff? - -None the less I was convinced that I had seen the Anthrax Flies -strewing their eggs, one by one, on the spots frequented by the Bees -who suit their grubs. They take no precaution to place the egg under -cover, and indeed the structure of the mother makes any such precaution -impossible. The egg, that delicate object, is laid roughly in the -blazing sun, among grains of sand, in some wrinkle of the chalk. It is -the business of the young grub to manage as best it can. - -The next year I continued my investigations, this time on the Anthrax -of the Chalicodoma, a Bee that abounds in my own neighbourhood. Every -morning I took the field at nine o’clock, when the sun begins to be -unendurable. I was prepared to come back with my head aching from the -glare, if only I could bring home the solution of my puzzle. The -greater the heat, the better my chances of success. What gives me -torture fills the insect with delight; what prostrates me braces the -Fly. - -The road shimmers like a sheet of molten steel. From the dusty, -melancholy olive-trees rises a mighty, throbbing hum, the concert of -the Cicadæ, who sway and rustle with increasing frenzy as the -temperature increases. The Cicada of the Ash adds its strident -scrapings to the single note of the Common Cicada. This is the moment! -For five or six weeks, oftenest in the morning, sometimes in the -afternoon, I set myself to explore the rocky waste. - -There were plenty of the nests I wanted, but I could not see a single -Anthrax on their surface. Not one settled in front of me to lay her -egg. At most, from time to time, I could see one passing far away, with -an impetuous rush. I would lose her in the distance; and that was all. -It was impossible to be present at the laying of the egg. In vain I -enlisted the services of the small boys who keep the sheep in our -meadows, and talked to them of a big black Fly and the nests on which -she ought to settle. By the end of August my last illusions were -dispelled. Not one of us had succeeded in seeing the big black Fly -perching on the dome of the Mason-bee. - -The reason is, I believe, that she never perches there. She comes and -goes in every direction across the stony plain. Her practised eye can -detect, as she flies, the earthen dome which she is seeking, and having -found it she swoops down, leaves her egg on it, and makes off without -setting foot on the ground. Should she take a rest it will be -elsewhere, on the soil, on a stone, on a tuft of lavender or thyme. It -is no wonder that neither I nor my young shepherds could find her egg. - -Meanwhile I searched the Mason-bees’ nests for grubs just out of the -egg. My shepherds procured me heaps of the nests, enough to fill -baskets and baskets; and these I inspected at leisure on my work-table. -I took the cocoons from the cells, and examined them within and -without: my lens explored their innermost recesses, the sleeping larva, -and the walls. Nothing, nothing, nothing! For a fortnight and more -nests were searched and rejected, and heaped up in a corner. My study -was crammed with them. In vain I ripped up the cocoons; I found -nothing. It needed the sturdiest faith to make me persevere. - -At last I saw, or seemed to see, something move on the Bee’s larva. Was -it an illusion? Was it a bit of down stirred by my breath? It was not -an illusion; it was not a bit of down; it was really and truly a grub! -But at first I thought the discovery unimportant, because I was so -greatly puzzled by the little creature’s appearance. - -In a couple of days I was the owner of ten such worms and had placed -each of them in a glass tube, together with the Bee-grub on which it -wriggled. It was so tiny that the least fold of skin concealed it from -my sight. After watching it one day through the lens I sometimes failed -to find it again on the morrow. I would think it was lost: then it -would move, and become visible once more. - -For some time the belief had been growing in me that the Anthrax had -two larval forms, a first and a second, the second being the form I -knew, the grub we have already seen at its meals. Was this new -discovery, I asked myself, the first form? Time showed me that it was. -For at last I saw my little worms transform themselves into the grub I -have already described, and make their first start at draining their -victims with kisses. A few moments of satisfaction like those I then -enjoyed make up for many a weary hour. - -This tiny worm, the first form or “primary larva” of the Anthrax, is -very active. It tramps over the fat sides of its victim, walking all -round it. It covers the ground pretty quickly, buckling and unbuckling -by turns, very much after the manner of the Looper-caterpillar. Its two -ends are its chief points of support. When walking it swells out, and -then looks like a bit of knotted string. It has thirteen rings or -segments, including its tiny head, which bristles in front with short, -stiff hairs. There are four other pairs of bristles on the lower -surface, and with the help of these it walks. - -For a fortnight the feeble grub remains in this condition, without -growing, and apparently without eating. Indeed, what could it eat? In -the cocoon there is nothing but the larva of the Mason-bee, and the -worm cannot eat this before it has the sucker or mouth that comes with -the second form. Nevertheless, as I said before, though it does not eat -it is far from idle. It explores its future dish, and runs all over the -neighborhood. - -Now, there is a very good reason for this long fast. In the natural -state of the Anthrax-grub it is necessary. The egg is laid by the -mother on the surface of the nest, at a distance from the Bee’s larva, -which is protected by a thick rampart. It is the business of the -new-born grub to make its way to its provisions, not by violence, of -which it is incapable, but by patiently slipping through a maze of -cracks. It is a very difficult task, even for this slender worm, for -the Bee’s masonry is exceedingly compact. There are no chinks due to -bad building, no cracks due to the weather. I see but one weak point, -and that only in a few nests: it is the line where the dome joins the -surface of the stone. This weakness so seldom occurs that I believe the -Anthrax-grub is able to find an entrance at any spot on the dome of the -Bee’s nest. - -The grub is extremely weak, and has nothing but invincible patience. -How long it takes to work its way through the masonry I cannot say. The -work is so laborious and the worker so feeble! In some cases I believe -it may be months before the slow journey is accomplished. So it is very -fortunate, you see, that this first form of the Anthrax, which exists -only in order to pierce the walls of the Bees’ nest, should be able to -live without food. - -At last I saw my young worms shrink, and rid themselves of their outer -skin. They then appeared as the grub I knew and was so anxiously -expecting, the grub of the Anthrax, the cream-colored cylinder with the -little button of a head. Fastening its round sucker to the Bee-grub, it -began its meal. You know the rest. - -Before taking leave of this tiny animal let us dwell for a moment on -its marvellous instinct. Picture it as having just left the egg, just -awakened to life under the fierce rays of the sun. The bare stone is -its cradle; there is no one to welcome it as it enters the world, a -mere thread of half-solid substance. Instantly it starts on its -struggle with the flint. Obstinately it sounds each pore of the stone; -it slips in, crawls on, retreats, begins again. What inspiration urges -it towards its food, what compass guides it? What does it know of those -depths, or of what lies in them? Nothing. What does the root of a plant -know of the earth’s fruitfulness? Again, nothing. Yet both the root and -the worm make for the nourishing spot, Why? I do not understand. I do -not even try to understand. The question is far above us. - -We have now followed the complete history of the Anthrax. Its life is -divided into four periods, each of which has its special form and its -special work. The primary larva enters the Bees’ nest, which contains -provisions; the secondary larva eats those provisions; the pupa brings -the insect to light by boring through the enclosing wall; the perfect -insect strews its eggs. Then the story starts afresh. - - - - - - - - -NOTES - - -[1] See Insect Adventures, retold for young people from the works of -Henri Fabre. - -[2] English translation by Mr Stephen M’Kenna. - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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