THE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES

BOOKS BY J. HENRI FABRE

THE LIFE OF THE SPIDERTHE LIFE OF THE FLYTHE MASON-BEESBRAMBLE-BEES AND OTHERSTHE HUNTING WASPSTHE LIFE OF THE CATERPILLARTHE LIFE OF THE GRASSHOPPERTHE SACRED BEETLE AND OTHERSTHE MASON-WASPSTHE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES

THE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES

BY

J. HENRI FABRE

TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOSFELLOW OF THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON

NEW YORKDODD, MEAD AND COMPANY1924

COPYRIGHT, 1919BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE I THE GLOW-WORM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

 II THE SITARES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

 III THE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE SITARES . . . . . . . 46

 IV THE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE OIL-BEETLES . . . . . 84

 V HYPERMETAMORPHOSIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

 VI CEROCOMÆ, MYLABRES AND ZONITES . . . . . . . . 144

 VII THE CAPRICORN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185

 VIII THE PROBLEM OF THE SIREX . . . . . . . . . . . 207

 IX THE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS . . . . . . . . 235

 X INSECT COLOURING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273

 XI THE BURYING-BEETLES: THE BURIAL . . . . . . . . 294

 XII THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS . . . . . . . 319

 XIII THE GIANT SCARITES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352

 XIV THE SIMULATION OF DEATH . . . . . . . . . . . . 370

 XV SUICIDE OR HYPNOSIS? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 390

 XVI THE CRIOCERES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411

 XVII THE CRIOCERES (_continued_) . . . . . . . . . . 428

XVIII THE CLYTHRÆ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 446

 XIX THE CLYTHRÆ: THE EGG . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

This is the second volume on Beetles in the complete English editionof Henri Fabre's entomological works. The first is entitled _TheSacred Beetle and Others_; the second and the third will be known as_The Life of the Weevil_ and _More Beetles_ respectively. 

_The Glow-worm_, which gives its name to the present book, did notform part of the _Souvenirs entomologiques_ as originally published. It is one of two essays written specially, at my request, fortranslation into English, towards the close of Henri Fabre's life; infact, this and _The Ant-lion_, a short essay for children, were thelast works that came from the veteran author's pen. _The Glow-worm_appeared first in the _Century Magazine_. Of the remaining chapters, several have appeared in various periodicals, notably the _EnglishReview_ and in _Land and Water_, the editor and proprietors of whichadmirable weekly have shown the most enlightened interest in Fabre'swork. 

A part of the chapter entitled _The Dung-beetles of the Pampas_figures in Messrs. Adam & Charles Black's volume, _The Life and Loveof the Insect_ (New York: the Macmillan Co. ), translated by myself;and the chapters on the Capricorn and Burying-beetles will be found inMr. T. Fisher Unwin's volume, _The Wonders of Instinct_ (New York: theCentury Co. ), translated by myself and Mr. Bernard Miall, which alsocontains _The Glow-worm_. These chapters are included in the presentedition by consent of and arrangement with the publishers named. 

Lastly, Mr. Bernard Miall has earned my gratitude by the valuableassistance which he has given me in preparing the translation of thegreater part of this volume. 

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. 

CHELSEA, _5 September_, 1919. 

CHAPTER ITHE GLOW-WORM

Few insects in our climes vie in popular fame with the Glow-worm, thatcurious little animal which, to celebrate the little joys of life, kindles a beacon at its tail-end. Who does not know it, at least byname? Who has not seen it roam amid the grass, like a spark fallenfrom the moon at its full? The Greeks of old called it [Greek:lampouris], meaning, the bright-tailed. Science employs the same term:it calls the lantern-bearer, _Lampyris noctiluca_, LIN. In this case, the common name is inferior to the scientific phrase, which, whentranslated, becomes both expressive and accurate. 

In fact, we might easily cavil at the word "worm. " The Lampyris is nota worm at all, not even in general appearance. He has six short legs, which he well knows how to use; he is a gad-about, a trot-about. Inthe adult state, the male is correctly garbed in wing-cases, like thetrue Beetle that he is. The female is an ill-favoured thing who knowsnaught of the delights of flying: all her life long, she retains thelarval shape, which, for the rest, is similar to that of the male, whohimself is imperfect so long as he has not achieved the maturity thatcomes with pairing-time. Even in this initial stage, the word "worm"is out of place. We French have the expression "Naked as a worm, " topoint to the lack of any defensive covering. Now the Lampyris isclothed, that is to say, he wears an epidermis of some consistency;moreover, he is rather richly coloured: his body is dark brown allover, set off with pale pink on the thorax, especially on the lowersurface. Finally, each segment is decked at the hinder edge with twospots of a fairly bright red. A costume like this was never worn by aworm. 

Let us leave this ill-chosen denomination and ask ourselves what theLampyris feeds upon. That master of the art of gastronomy, Brillat-Savarin, [1] said:

"Show me what you eat and I will tell you what you are. "

[Footnote 1: Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755-1826), author of _LaPsychologie du goût_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

A similar question should be addressed, by way of a preliminary, toevery insect whose habits we propose to study, for, from the least tothe greatest in the zoological progression, the stomach sways theworld; the data supplied by food are the chief of all the documents oflife. Well, in spite of his innocent appearance, the Lampyris is aneater of flesh, a hunter of game; and he follows his calling with rarevillainy. His regular prey is the Snail. 

This detail has long been known to entomologists. What is not sowell-known, what is not known at all yet, to judge by what I haveread, is the curious method of attack, of which I have seen no otherinstance anywhere. 

Before he begins to feast, the Glow-worm administers an anæsthetic: hechloroforms his victim, rivalling in the process the wonders of ourmodern surgery, which renders the patient insensible before operatingon him. The usual game is a small Snail hardly the size of a cherry, such as, for instance, _Helix variabilis_, DRAP. , who, in the hotweather, collects in clusters on the stiff stubble and on other long, dry stalks, by the roadside, and there remains motionless, in profoundmeditation, throughout the scorching summer days. It is in some suchresting-place as this that I have often been privileged to light uponthe Lampyris banqueting on the prey which he had just paralyzed on itsshaky support by his surgical artifices. 

But he is familiar with other preserves. He frequents the edges of theirrigating-ditches, with their cool soil, their varied vegetation, afavourite haunt of the mollusc. Here, he treats the game on theground; and, under these conditions, it is easy for me to rear him athome and to follow the operator's performance down to the smallestdetail. 

I will try to make the reader a witness of the strange sight. I placea little grass in a wide glass jar. In this I install a few Glow-wormsand a provision of Snails of a suitable size, neither too large nortoo small, chiefly _Helix variabilis_. We must be patient and wait. Above all, we must keep an assiduous watch, for the desired eventscome unexpectedly and do not last long. 

Here we are at last. The Glow-worm for a moment investigates the prey, which, according to its habit, is wholly withdrawn in the shell, except the edge of the mantle, which projects slightly. Then thehunter's weapon is drawn, a very simple weapon, but one that cannot beplainly perceived without the aid of a lens. It consists of twomandibles bent back powerfully into a hook, very sharp and as thin asa hair. The microscope reveals the presence of a slender grooverunning throughout the length. And that is all. 

The insect repeatedly taps the Snail's mantle with its instrument. Itall happens with such gentleness as to suggest kisses rather thanbites. As children, teasing one another, we used to talk of"tweaksies" to express a slight squeeze of the finger-tips, somethingmore like a tickling than a serious pinch. Let us use that word. Inconversing with animals, language loses nothing by remaining juvenile. It is the right way for the simple to understand one another. 

The Lampyris doles out his tweaks. He distributes them methodically, without hurrying, and takes a brief rest after each of them, as thoughhe wished to ascertain the effect produced. Their number is not great:half-a-dozen, at most, to subdue the prey and deprive it of all powerof movement. That other pinches are administered later, at the time ofeating, seems very likely, but I cannot say anything for certain, because the sequel escapes me. The first few, however--there are nevermany--are enough to impart inertia and loss of all feeling to themollusc, thanks to the prompt, I might almost say, lightning methodsof the Lampyris, who, beyond a doubt, instils some poison or other bymeans of his grooved hooks. 

Here is the proof of the sudden efficacity of those twitches, so mildin appearance: I take the Snail from the Lampyris, who has operated onthe edge of the mantle some four or five times. I prick him with afine needle in the fore-part, which the animal, shrunk into its shell, still leaves exposed. There is no quiver of the wounded tissues, noreaction against the brutality of the needle. A corpse itself couldnot give fewer signs of life. 

Here is something even more conclusive: chance occasionally gives meSnails attacked by the Lampyris while they are creeping along, thefoot slowly crawling, the tentacles swollen to their full extent. Afew disordered movements betray a brief excitement on the part of themollusc and then everything ceases: the foot no longer slugs; thefront-part loses its graceful swan-neck curve; the tentacles becomelimp and give way under their weight, dangling feebly like a brokenstick. This conditions persists. 

Is the Snail really dead? Not at all, for I am free to resuscitate theseeming corpse. After two or three days of that singular conditionwhich is no longer life and yet not death, I isolate the patient and, although this is not really necessary to success, I give him a douchewhich will represent the shower so dear to the able-bodied mollusc. Inabout a couple of days, my prisoner, but lately injured by theGlow-worm's treachery, is restored to his normal state. He revives, ina manner; he recovers movement and sensibility. He is affected by thestimulus of a needle; he shifts his place, crawls, puts out histentacles, as though nothing unusual had occurred. The general torpor, a sort of deep drunkenness, has vanished outright. The dead returns tolife. What name shall we give to that form of existence which, for atime, abolishes the power of movement and the sense of pain? I can seebut one that is approximately suitable: anæsthesia. The exploits of ahost of Wasps whose flesh-eating grubs are provided with meat that ismotionless though not dead[2] have taught us the skilful art of theparalyzing insect, which numbs the locomotory nerve-centres with itsvenom. We have now a humble little animal that first produces completeanæsthesia in its patient. Human science did not in reality inventthis art, which is one of the wonders of our latter-day surgery. Muchearlier, far back in the centuries, the Lampyris and, apparently, others knew it as well. The animal's knowledge had a long start ofours; the method alone has changed. Our operators proceed by making usinhale the fumes of ether or chloroform; the insect proceeds byinjecting a special virus that comes from the mandibular fangs ininfinitesimal doses. Might we not one day be able to benefit by thishint? What glorious discoveries the future would have in store for us, if we understood the beastie's secrets better!

[Footnote 2: Cf. _The Hunting Wasps_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: _passim_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

What does the Lampyris want with anæsthetical talent against aharmless and moreover eminently peaceful adversary, who would neverbegin the quarrel of his own accord? I think I see. We find in Algeriaa Beetle known as _Drilus maroccanus_, who, though non-luminous, approaches our Glow-worm in his organization and especially in hishabits. He too feeds on land molluscs. His prey is a Cyclostome with agraceful spiral shell, tight-closed with a stony lid which is attachedto the animal by a powerful muscle. The lid is a movable door which isquickly shut by the inmate's mere withdrawal into his house and aseasily opened when the hermit goes forth. With this system of closing, the abode becomes inviolable; and the Drilus knows it. 

Fixed to the surface of the shell by an adhesive apparatus whereof theLampyris will presently show us the equivalent, he remains on thelook-out, waiting, if necessary, for whole days at a time. At last, the need of air and food oblige the besieged noncombatant to showhimself; at least, the door is set slightly ajar. That is enough. TheDrilus is on the spot and strikes his blow. The door can no longer beclosed and the assailant is henceforth master of the fortress. Ourfirst impression is that the muscle moving the lid has been cut with aquick-acting pair of shears. This idea must be dismissed. The Drilusis not well enough equipped with jaws to gnaw through a fleshy mass sopromptly. The operation has to succeed at once, at the first touch: ifnot, the animal attacked would retreat, still in full vigour, and thesiege must be recommenced, as arduous as ever, exposing the insect tofasts indefinitely prolonged. Although I have never come across theDrilus, who is a stranger to my district, I conjecture a method ofattack very similar to that of the Glow-worm. Like our ownSnail-eater, the Algerian insect does not cut its victim into smallpieces: it renders it inert, chloroforms it by means of a few tweakswhich are easily distributed, if the lid but half-opens for a second. That will do. The besieger thereupon enters and, in perfect quiet, consumes a prey incapable of the least muscular effort. That is how Isee things by the unaided light of logic. 

Let us now return to the Glow-worm. When the Snail is on the ground, creeping, or even shrunk into his shell, the attack never presents anydifficulty. The shell possesses no lid and leaves the hermit'sfore-part to a great extent exposed. Here, on the edges of the mantlecontracted by the fear of danger, the mollusc is vulnerable andincapable of defence. But it also frequently happens that the Snailoccupies a raised position, clinging to the tip of a grass-stalk orperhaps to the smooth surface of a stone. This support serves him as atemporary lid; it wards off the aggression of any churl who might tryto molest the inhabitant of the cabin, always on the express conditionthat no slit show itself anywhere on the protecting circumference. If, on the other hand, in the frequent case when the shell does not fitits support quite closely, some point, however tiny, be leftuncovered, this is enough for the subtle tools of the Lampyris, whojust nibbles at the mollusc and at once plunges him into that profoundimmobility which favours the tranquil proceedings of the consumer. 

These proceedings are marked by extreme prudence. The assailant has tohandle his victim gingerly, without provoking contractions which wouldmake the Snail let go his support and, at the very least, precipitatehim from the tall stalk whereon he is blissfully slumbering. Now anygame falling to the ground would seem to be so much sheer loss, forthe Glow-worm has no great zeal for hunting-expeditions: he profits bythe discoveries which good luck sends him, without undertakingassiduous searches. It is essential, therefore, that the equilibriumof a prize perched on the top of a stalk and only just held inposition by a touch of glue should be disturbed as little as possibleduring the onslaught; it is necessary that the assailant should go towork with infinite circumspection and without producing pain, lest anymuscular reaction should provoke a fall and endanger the prize. As wesee, sudden and profound anæsthesia is an excellent means of enablingthe Lampyris to attain his object, which is to consume his prey inperfect quiet. 

What is his manner of consuming it? Does he really eat, that is tosay, does he divide his food piecemeal, does he carve it into minuteparticles, which are afterwards ground by a chewing-apparatus? I thinknot. 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 drinkshis fill; he feeds on a thin gruel into which he transforms his preyby a method recalling that of the maggot. Like the flesh-eating grubof the Fly, he too is able to digest before consuming; he liquefieshis prey before feeding on it. 

This is how things happen: a Snail has been rendered insensible by theGlow-worm. The operator is nearly always alone, even when the prize isa large one, like the Common Snail, _Helix aspersa_. Soon a number ofguests hasten up--two, three or more--and, without any quarrel withreal proprietor, all alike fall to. Let us leave them to themselvesfor a couple of days and then turn the shell, with the openingdownwards. The contents flow out as easily as would soup from anoverturned saucepan. When the sated diners retire from this gruel, only insignificant leavings remain. 

The matter is obvious: by repeated tiny bites, similar to the tweakswhich we saw distributed at the outset, the flesh of the mollusc isconverted into a gruel on which the various banqueters nourishthemselves without distinction, each working at the broth by means ofsome special pepsine and each taking his own mouthfuls of it. Inconsequence of this method, which first converts the food into aliquid, the Glow-worm's mouth must be very feebly armed apart from thetwo fangs which sting the patient and inject the anæsthetic poisonand, at the same time, no doubt, the serum capable of turning thesolid flesh into fluid. These two tiny implements, which can just beexamined through the lens, must, it seems, have some other object. They are hollow and in this resemble those of the Ant-lion, whichsucks and drains its capture without having to divide it; but there isthis great difference, that the Ant-lion leaves copious remnants, which are afterwards flung outside the funnel-shaped trap dug in thesand, whereas the Glow-worm, that expert liquefier, leaves nothing, ornext to nothing. With similar tools, the one simply sucks the blood ofits prey and the other turns every morsel of his to account, thanks toa preliminary liquefaction. 

And this is done with exquisite precision, though the equilibrium issometimes anything but steady. My rearing-glasses supply me withmagnificent examples. Crawling up the sides, the Snails imprisoned inmy apparatus sometimes reach the top, which is closed with a glasspane, and fix themselves to it by means of a speck of glair. This is amere temporary halt, in which the mollusc is miserly with its adhesiveproduct, and the merest shake is enough to loosen the shell and sendit 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 his weaklegs. He selects his quarry, makes a minute inspection of it to findan entrance-slit, nibbles it a little, renders it insensible and, without delay, proceeds to prepare the gruel which he will consume fordays on end. 

When he leaves the table, the shell is found to be absolutely empty;and yet this shell, which was fixed to the glass by a very faintstickiness, has not come loose, has not even shifted its position inthe smallest degree: without any protest from the hermit graduallyconverted into broth, it has been drained on the very spot at whichthe first attack was delivered. These small details tell us howpromptly the anæsthetic bite takes effect; they teach us howdexterously the Glow-worm treats his Snail without causing him to fallfrom a very slippery vertical support and without even shaking him onhis slight line of adhesion. 

Under these conditions of equilibrium, the operator's short, clumsylegs are obviously not enough; a special accessory apparatus is neededto defy the danger of slipping and to seize the unseizable. And thisapparatus the Lampyris possesses. At the hinder end of the animal wesee a white spot which the lens separates into some dozen short, fleshy appendages, sometimes gathered into a cluster, sometimes spreadinto a rosette. There is your organ of adhesion and locomotion. If hewould fix himself somewhere, even on a very smooth surface, such as agrass-stalk, the Glow-worm opens his rosette and spreads it wide onthe support, to which it adheres by its own stickiness. The sameorgan, rising and falling, opening and closing, does much to assistthe act of progression. In short, the Glow-worm is a new sort ofself-propelled cripple, who decks his hind-quarters with a daintywhite rose, a kind of hand with twelve fingers, not jointed, butmoving in every direction: tubular fingers which do not seize, butstick. 

The same organ serves another purpose: that of a toilet-sponge andbrush. At a moment of rest, after a meal, the Glow-worm passes andrepasses the said brush over his head, back, sides and hinder-parts, aperformance made possible by the flexibility of his spine. This isdone point by point, from one end of the body to the other, with ascrupulous persistency that proves the great interest which he takesin the operation. What is his object in thus sponging himself, industing and polishing himself so carefully? It is a question, apparently, of removing a few atoms of dust or else some traces ofviscidity that remain from the evil contact with the snail. A wash andbrush-up is not superfluous when one leaves the tub in which themollusc has been treated. 

If the Glow-worm possessed no other talent than that of chloroforminghis prey by means of a few tweaks resembling kisses, he would beunknown to the vulgar herd; but he also knows how to light himselflike a beacon; he shines, which is an excellent manner of achievingfame. Let us consider more particularly the female, who, whileretaining her larval shape, becomes marriageable and glows at her bestduring the hottest part of summer. The lighting-apparatus occupies thelast three segments of the abdomen. On each of the first two, it takesthe form, on the ventral surface, of a wide belt covering almost thewhole of the arch; on the third, the luminous part is much less andconsists simply of two small crescent-shaped markings, or rather twospots which shine through to the back and are visible both above andbelow the animal. Belts and spots emit a glorious white light, delicately tinged with blue. The general lighting of the Glow-wormthus comprises two groups: first, the wide belts of the two segmentspreceding the last; secondly, the two spots of the final segments. Thetwo belts, the exclusive attribute of the marriageable female, are thepart richest in light: to glorify her wedding, the future mother donsher brightest gauds; she lights her two resplendent scarves. But, before that, from the time of the hatching, she had only the modestrush-light of the stern. This efflorescence of light is the equivalentof the final metamorphosis, which is usually represented by the giftof wings and flight. Its brilliance heralds the pairing-time. Wingsand flight there will be none: the female retains her humble larvalform, but she kindles her blazing beacon. 

The male, on his side, is fully transformed, changes his shape, acquires wings and wing-cases; nevertheless, like the female, hepossesses, from the time when he is hatched, the pale lamp of the endsegment. This luminous aspect of the stern is characteristic of theentire Glow-worm tribe, independently of sex and season. It appearsupon the budding grub and continues throughout life unchanged. And wemust not forget to add that it is visible on the dorsal as well as onthe ventral surface, whereas the two large belts peculiar to thefemale shine only under the abdomen. 

My hand is not so steady nor my sight so good as once they were, but, as far as they allow me, I consult anatomy for the structure of theluminous organs. I take a scrap of the epidermis and manage toseparate pretty neatly half of one of the shining belts. I place mypreparation under the microscope. On the skin, a sort of white-washlies spread, formed of a very fine, granular substance. This iscertainly the light-producing matter. To examine this white layer moreclosely is beyond the power of my weary eyes. Just beside it is acurious air-tube, whose short and remarkably wide stem branchessuddenly into a sort of bushy tuft of very delicate ramifications. These creep over the luminous sheet, or even dip into it. That is all. 

The luminescence, therefore, is controlled by the respiratory organsand the work produced is an oxidization. The white sheet supplies theoxidizable matter and the thick air-tube spreading into a tufty bushdistributes the flow of air over it. There remains the question of thesubstance whereof this sheet is formed. The first suggestion wasphosphorus, in the chemist's sense of the word. The Glow-worm has beencalcined and treated with the violent reagents that bring the simplesubstances to light; but no one, so far as I know, has obtained asatisfactory answer along these lines. Phosphorus seems to play nopart here, in spite of the name of phosphorescence which is sometimesbestowed upon the Glow-worm's gleam. The answer lies elsewhere, no oneknows where. 

We are better informed as regards another question. Has the Glow-worma free control of the light which he emits? Can he turn it on or downor put it out as he pleases? Has he an opaque screen which is drawnover the flame at will, or is that flame always left exposed? There isno need for any such mechanism: the insect has something better forits revolving light. 

The thick tube supplying the light-producing sheet increases the flowof air and the light is intensified; the same air-tube, swayed by theanimal's will, slackens or even suspends the passage of air and thelight grows fainter or even goes out. It is, in short, the mechanismof a lamp which is regulated by the access of air to the wick. 

Excitement can set the attendant air-duct in motion. We must heredistinguish between two cases: that of the gorgeous scarves, theexclusive ornament of the female ripe for matrimony, and that of themodest fairy-lamp on the last segment, which both sexes kindle at anyage. In the second case, the extinction caused by a flurry is suddenand complete, or nearly so. In my nocturnal hunts for youngGlow-worms, measuring about 5 millimetres long, [3] I can plainly seethe glimmer on the blades of grass; but, should the least false stepdisturb a neighbouring twig, the light goes out at once and thecoveted insect becomes invisible. Upon the full-grown females, lit upwith their nuptial scarves, even a violent start has but a slighteffect and often none at all. 

[Footnote 3: . 195 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

I fire a gun beside a wire-gauze cage in which I am rearing mymenagerie of females in the open air. The explosion produces noresult. The illumination continues, as bright and placid as before. Itake a spray and rain down a slight shower of cold water upon theflock. 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. Isend a puff of smoke from my pipe into the cage. This time, the pauseis more marked. There are even some extinctions, but these do not lastlong. Calm soon returns and the light is renewed as brightly as ever. I take some of the captives in my fingers, turn and return them, teasethem a little. The illumination continues and is not much diminished, if I do not press too hard with my thumb. At this period, with thepairing close at hand, the insect is in all the fervour of itspassionate splendour; and nothing short of very serious reasons wouldmake it put out its signals altogether. 

All things considered, there is not a doubt but that the Glow-wormhimself manages his lighting-apparatus, extinguishing and rekindlingit at will; but there is one point at which the voluntary agency ofthe insect is without effect. I detach a strip of the epidermisshowing one of the luminescent sheets and place it in a glass tube, which I close with a plug of damp wadding, to avoid too rapid anevaporation. Well, this scrap of carcass shines away merrily, althoughnot quite as brilliantly as on the living body. 

Life's aid is now superfluous. The oxidizable substance, theluminescent sheet, is in direct communication with the surroundingatmosphere; the flow of oxygen through an air-tube is not necessary;and the luminous emission continues to take place, in the same way aswhen it is produced by the contact of the air with the real phosphorusof the chemists. Let us add that, in aerated water, the luminousnesscontinues as brilliant as in the free air, but that it is extinguishedin water deprived of its air by boiling. No better proof could befound of what I have already propounded, namely, that the Glow-worm'slight is the effect of a slow oxidization. 

The light is white, calm and soft to the eyes and suggests a sparkdropped by the full moon. Despite its splendour, it is a very feebleilluminant. If we move a Glow-worm along a line of print, in perfectdarkness, we can easily make out the letters, one by one, and evenwords, when these are not too long; but nothing more is visible beyonda narrow zone. A lantern of this kind soon tires the reader'spatience. 

Suppose a group of Glow-worms placed almost touching one another. Eachof them sheds its glimmer, which ought, one would think, to light upits neighbours by reflexion and give us a clear view of eachindividual specimen. But not at all: the luminous party is a chaos inwhich our eyes are unable to distinguish any definite form at a mediumdistance. The collective lights confuse the link-bearers into onevague whole. 

Photography gives us a striking proof of this. I have a score offemales, all at the height of their splendour, in a wire-gauze cage inthe open air. A tuft of thyme forms a grove in the centre of theirestablishment. When night comes, my captives clamber to this pinnacleand strive to show off their luminous charms to the best advantage atevery point of the horizon, thus forming along the twigs marvellousclusters from which I expected magnificent effects on thephotographer's plates and paper. My hopes are disappointed. All that Iobtain is white, shapeless patches, denser here and less dense thereaccording to the numbers forming the group. There is no picture of theGlow-worms themselves; not a trace either of the tuft of thyme. Forwant of satisfactory light, the glorious firework is represented by ablurred splash of white on a black ground. 

The beacons of the female Glow-worms are evidently nuptial signals, invitations to the pairing; but observe that they are lighted on thelower surface of the abdomen and face the ground, whereas the summonedmales, whose flights are sudden and uncertain, travel overhead, in theair, sometimes a great way up. In its normal position, therefore, theglittering lure is concealed from the eyes of those concerned; it iscovered by the thick bulk of the bride. The lantern ought really togleam on the back and not under the belly; otherwise the light ishidden under a bushel. 

The anomaly is corrected in a very ingenious fashion, for every femalehas her little wiles of coquetry. At nightfall, every evening, mycaged captives make for the tuft of thyme with which I havethoughtfully furnished the prison and climb to the top of the upperbranches, those most in sight. Here, instead of keeping quiet, as theydid at the foot of the bush just now, they indulge in violentexercises, twist the tip of their very flexible abdomen, turn it toone side, turn it to the other, jerk it in every direction. In thisway, the search-light cannot fail to gleam, at one moment or another, before the eyes of every male who goes a-wooing in the neighbourhood, whether on the ground or in the air. 

It is very like the working of the revolving mirror used in catchingLarks. If stationary, the little contrivance would leave the birdindifferent; turning and breaking up its light in rapid flashes, itexcites it. 

While the female Glow-worm has her tricks for summoning her swains, the male, on his side, is provided with an optical apparatus suited tocatch from afar the least reflection of the calling-signal. Hiscorselet expands into a shield and overlaps his head considerably inthe form of a peaked cap or eye-shade, the object of which appears tobe to limit the field of vision and concentrate the view upon theluminous speck to be discerned. Under this arch are the two eyes, which are relatively enormous, exceedingly convex, shaped like askull-cap and contiguous to the extent of leaving only a narrow groovefor the insertion of the antennæ. This double eye, occupying almostthe whole face of the insect and contained in the cavern formed by thespreading peak of the corselet, is a regular Cyclop's eye. 

At the moment of the pairing, the illumination becomes much fainter, is almost extinguished; all that remains alight is the humblefairy-lamp of the last segment. This discreet night-light is enoughfor the wedding, while, all around, the host of nocturnal insects, lingering over their respective affairs, murmur the universalmarriage-hymn. The laying follows very soon. The round, white eggs arelaid, or rather strewn at random, without the least care on themother's part, either on the more or less cool earth or on a blade ofgrass. These brilliant ones know nothing at all of family-affection. 

Here is a very singular thing: the Glow-worm's eggs are luminous evenwhen still contained in the mother's womb. If I happen by accident tocrush a female big with germs that have reached maturity, a shinystreak runs along my fingers, as though I had broken some vesselfilled with a phosphorescent fluid. The lens shows me that I am wrong. The luminosity comes from the cluster of eggs forced out of the ovary. Besides, as laying-time approaches, the phosphorescence of the eggs isalready made manifest without this clumsy midwifery. A soft opalescentlight shines through the skin of the belly. 

The hatching follows soon after the laying. The young of either sexhave two little rush-lights on the last segment. At the approach ofthe severe weather, they go down into the ground, but not very far. Inmy rearing-jars, which are supplied with fine and very loose earth, they descend to a depth of three or four inches at most. I dig up afew in mid-winter. I always find them carrying their faintstern-light. About the month of April, they come up again to thesurface, there to continue and complete their evolution. 

From start to finish, the Glow-worm's life is one great orgy of light. The eggs are luminous; the grubs likewise. The full-grown females aremagnificent light-houses, the adult males retain the glimmer which thegrubs already possessed. We can understand the object of the femininebeacon; but of what use is all the rest of the pyrotechnic display? Tomy great regret, I cannot tell. It is and will be, for many a day tocome, perhaps for all time, the secret of animal physics, which isdeeper than the physics of the books. 

CHAPTER IITHE SITARES

The high banks of sandy clay in the country round about Carpentras arethe favourite haunts of a host of Bees and Wasps, those lovers of athoroughly sunny aspect and of soils that are easy to excavate. Here, in the month of May, two Anthophoræ[1] are especially abundant, gatherers of honey and, both of them, makers of subterranean cells. One, _A. Parietina_, builds at the entrance of her dwelling anadvanced fortification, an earthy cylinder, wrought in open work, likethat of the Odynerus, [2] and curved like it, but of the width andlength of a man's finger. When the community is a populous one, westand amazed at the rustic ornamentation formed by all thesestalactites of clay hanging from the façade. The other, _A. Pilipes_, who is very much more frequent, leaves the opening of her corridorbare. The chinks between the stones in old walls and abandoned hovels, the surfaces of excavations in soft sandstone or marl, are foundsuitable for her labours; but the favourite spots, those to which thegreatest number of swarms resort, are vertical stretches, exposed tothe south, such as are afforded by the cuttings of deeply sunkenroads. Here, over areas many yards in width, the wall is drilled witha multitude of holes, which impart to the earthy mass the look of someenormous sponge. These round holes might be fashioned with an auger, so regular are they. Each is the entrance to a winding corridor, whichruns to a depth of four to six inches. The cells are distributed atthe far end. If we would witness the labours of the industrious Bee, we must repair to her workshop during the latter half of May. Then, but at a respectful distance, if, as novices, we are afraid of beingstung, we may contemplate, in all its bewildering activity, thetumultuous, buzzing swarm, busied with the building and theprovisioning of the cells. 

[Footnote 1: Cf. _The Mason-bees_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. Viii. ; and _Bramble-bees andOthers_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira deMattos: _passim_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 2: Cf. _The Mason-wasps_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. Vi. And x. --_Translator's Note_. ]

It is most often during the months of August and September, thosehappy months of the summer holidays, that I have visited the banksinhabited by the Anthophora. At this period all is silent near thenests; the work has long been completed; and numbers of Spiders' websline the crevices or plunge their silken tubes into the Bee'scorridors. Let us not, however, hastily abandon the city once sopopulous, so full of life and bustle and now deserted. A few inchesbelow the surface, thousands of larvæ and nymphs, imprisoned in theircells of clay, are resting until the coming spring. Might not such asucculent prey as these larvæ, paralysed and incapable of defence, tempt certain parasites who are industrious enough to attain them?

Here indeed are some Flies clad in a dismal livery, half-black, half-white, a species of Anthrax (_A. Sinuata_), [3] flying indolentlyfrom gallery to gallery, doubtless with the object of laying theireggs there; and here are others, more numerous, whose mission isfulfilled and who, having died in harness, are hanging dry andshrivelled in the Spiders' webs. Elsewhere the entire surface of aperpendicular bank is hung with the dried corpses of a Beetle(_Sitaris humeralis_), slung, like the Flies, in the silken meshes ofthe Spiders. Among these corpses some male Sitares circle, busy, amorous, heedless of death, mating with the first female that passeswithin reach, while the fertilized females thrust their bulky abdomensinto the opening of a gallery and disappear into it backwards. It isimpossible to mistake the situation: some grave interest attracts tothis spot these two insects, which, within a few days, make theirappearance, mate, lay their eggs and die at the very doors of theAnthophora's dwellings. 

[Footnote 3: Cf. _The Life of the Fly_, by J. Henri Fabre, translatedby Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. Ii. And iv. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

Let us now give a few blows of the pick to the surface beneath whichthe singular incidents already in our mind must be occurring, beneathwhich similar things occurred last year; perhaps we shall find someevidence of the parasitism which we suspected. If we search thedwellings of the Anthophoræ during the early days of August, this iswhat we see: the cells forming the superficial layer are not likethose situated at a greater depth. This difference arises from thefact that the same establishment is exploited simultaneously by theAnthophora and by an Osmia (_O. Tricornis_)[4] as is proved by anobservation made at the working-period, in May. The Anthophoræ are theactual pioneers, the work of boring the galleries is wholly theirs;and their cells are situated right at the end. The Osmia profits bythe galleries which have been abandoned either because of their age, or because of the completion of the cells occupying the most distantpart; she builds her cells by dividing these corridors into unequaland inartistic chambers by means of rude earthen partitions. TheOsmia's sole achievement in the way of masonry is confined to thesepartitions. This, by the way, is the ordinary building-method adoptedby the various Osmiæ, who content themselves with a chink between twostones, an empty Snail-shell, or the dry and hollow stem of someplant, wherein to build their stacks of cells, at small expense, bymeans of light partitions of mortar. 

[Footnote 4: Cf. _Bramble-bees and Others_: _passim_. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

The cells of the Anthophora, with their faultless geometricalregularity and their perfect finish, are works of art, excavated, at asuitable depth, in the very substance of the loamy bank, without anymanufactured part save the thick lid that closes the orifice. Thusprotected by the prudent industry of their mother, well out of reachin their distant, solid retreats, the Anthophora's larvæ are devoid ofthe glandular apparatus designed for secreting silk. They thereforenever spin a cocoon, but lie naked in their cells, whose inner surfacehas the polish of stucco. 

In the Osmia's cells, on the other hand, means of defence arerequired, for these are situated in the surface layer of the bank;they are irregular in form, rough inside and barely protected, bytheir thin earthen partitions, against external enemies. The Osmia'slarvæ, in fact, contrive to enclose themselves in an egg-shapedcocoon, dark brown in colour and very strong, which preserves themboth from the rough contact of their shapeless cells and from themandibles of voracious parasites, Acari, [5] Cleri[6] and Anthreni, [7]those manifold enemies whom we find prowling in the galleries, seekingwhom they may devour. It is by means of this equipoise between themother's talents and the larva's that the Osmia and the Anthophora, intheir early youth, escape some part of the dangers which threatenthem. It is easy therefore, in the bank excavated by these two Bees, to recognize the property of either species by the situation and formof the cells and also by their contents, which consist, with theAnthophora, of a naked larva and, with the Osmia, of a larva enclosedin a cocoon. 

[Footnote 5: Mites and Ticks. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 6: A genus of Beetles of which certain species (_Clerusapiarius_ and _C. Alvearius_) pass their preparatory state in thenests of Bees, where they feed on the grubs. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 7: Another genus of Beetles. The grub of _A. Musæorum_, theMuseum Beetle, is very destructive toinsect-collections. --_Translator's Note_. ]

On opening a certain number of these cocoons, we end by discoveringsome which, in place of the Osmia's larva, contain each a curiouslyshaped nymph. These nymphs, at the least shock received by theirdwelling, indulge in extravagant movements, lashing the walls withtheir abdomen till the whole house shakes and dances. And, even if weleave the cocoon intact, we are informed of their presence by a dullrustle heard inside the silken dwelling the moment after we move it. 

The fore-part of this nymph is fashioned like a sort of boar's-snoutarmed with six strong spikes, a multiple ploughshare, eminentlyadapted for burrowing in the soil. A double row of hooks surmounts thedorsal ring of the four front segments of the abdomen. These are somany grappling-irons, with whose assistance the creature is enabled toprogress in the narrow gallery dug by the snout. Lastly, a sheaf ofsharp points forms the armour of the hinder-part. If we examineattentively the surface of the vertical wall which contains thevarious nests, it will not be long before we discover nymphs likethose which we have been describing, with one extremity held in agallery of their own diameter, while the fore-part projects freelyinto the air. But these nymphs are reduced to their cast skins, alongthe back and head of which runs a long slit through which the perfectinsect has escaped. The purpose of the nymph's powerful weapons isthus made manifest: it is the nymph that has to rend the tough cocoonwhich imprisons it, to excavate the tightly-packed soil in which it isburied, to dig a gallery with its six-pointed snout and thus to bringto the light the perfect insect, which apparently is incapable ofperforming these strenuous tasks for itself. 

And in fact these nymphs, taken in their cocoons, have in a few days'time given me a feeble Fly (_Anthrax sinuata_) who is quite incapableof piercing the cocoon and still more of making her exit through asoil which I cannot easily break up with my pick. Although similarfacts abound in insect history, we always notice them with a livelyinterest. They tell us of an incomprehensible power which suddenly, ata given moment, irresistibly commands an obscure grub to abandon theretreat in which it enjoys security, in order to make its way througha thousand difficulties and to reach the light, which would be fatalto it on any other occasion, but which is necessary to the perfectinsect, which could not reach it by its own efforts. 

But the layer of Osmia-cells has been removed; and the pick nowreaches the Anthophora's cells. Among these cells are some whichcontain larvæ and which result from the labours of last May; others, though of the same date, are already occupied by the perfect insect. The precocity of metamorphosis varies from one larva to another;however, a few days' difference of age is enough to explain theseinequalities of development. Other cells, as numerous as the first, contain a parasitical Hymenopteron, a Melecta (_M. Armata_), likewisein the perfect state. Lastly, there are some, indeed many, whichcontain a singular egg-shaped shell, divided into segments withprojecting breathing-pores. This shell is extremely thin and fragile;it is amber-coloured and so transparent that one can distinguish quiteplainly, through its sides, an adult Sitaris (_S. Humeralis_), whooccupies the interior and is struggling as though to set herself atliberty. This explains the presence here, the pairing and theegg-laying of the Sitares whom we but now saw roaming, in the companyof the Anthrax-flies, at the entrance to the galleries of theAnthophoræ. The Osmia and the Anthophora, the joint owners of thepremises, have each their parasite: the Anthrax attacks the Osmia andthe Sitaris the Anthophora. 

But what is this curious shell in which the Sitaris is invariablyenclosed, a shell unexampled in the Beetle order? Can this be a caseof parasitism in the second degree, that is, can the Sitaris be livinginside the chrysalis of a first parasite, which itself exists at thecost of the Anthophora's larva or of its provisions? And, even so, howcan this parasite, or these parasites, obtain access to a cell whichseems to be inviolable, because of the depth at which it lies, andwhich, moreover, does not reveal, to the most careful examinationunder the magnifying-glass, any violent inroad on the enemy's part?These are the questions that presented themselves to my mind when forthe first time, in 1855, I observed the facts which I have justrelated. Three years of assiduous observation enabled me to add one ofits most astonishing chapters to the story of the formation ofinsects. 

After collecting a fairly large number of these enigmatical shellscontaining adult Sitares, I had the satisfaction of observing, atleisure, the emergence of the perfect insect from the shell, the actof pairing and the laying of the eggs. The shell is easily broken; afew strokes of the mandibles, distributed at random, a few kicks areenough to deliver the perfect insect from its fragile prison. 

In the glass jars in which I kept my Sitares I saw the pairing followvery closely upon the first moments of freedom. I even witnessed afact which shows emphatically how imperious, in the perfect insect, isthe need to perform, without delay, the act intended to ensure thepreservation of its race. A female, with her head already cut out ofthe shell, is anxiously struggling to release herself entirely; amale, who has been free for a couple of hours, climbs on the shelland, tugging here and there, with his mandibles, at the fragileenvelope, strives to deliver the female from her shackles. His effortsare soon crowned with success; and, though the female is still threeparts swathed in her swaddling-bands, the coupling takes placeimmediately, lasting about a minute. During the act, the male remainsmotionless on the top of the shell, or on the top of the female whenthe latter is entirely free. I do not know whether, in ordinarycircumstances, the male occasionally thus helps the female to gain herliberty; to do so he would have to penetrate into a cell containing afemale, which, after all, is not beyond his powers, seeing that he hasbeen able to escape from his own. Still, on the actual site of thecells, the coupling is generally performed at the entrance to thegalleries of the Anthophoræ; and then neither of the sexes drags aboutwith it the least shred of the shell from which it has emerged. 

After mating, the two Sitares proceed to clean their legs and antennæby drawing them between their mandibles; then each goes his own way. The male cowers in a crevice of the earthen bank, lingers for two orthree days and perishes. The female also, after getting rid of hereggs, which she does without delay, dies at the entrance to thecorridor in which the eggs are laid. This is the origin of all thosecorpses swinging in the Spiders' web with which the neighbourhood ofthe Anthophora's dwellings is upholstered. 

Thus the Sitares in the perfect state live long enough only to mateand to lay their eggs. I have never seen one save upon the scene oftheir loves, which is also that of their death; I have never surprisedone browsing on the plants near at hand, so that, though they areprovided with a normal digestive apparatus, I have grave reasons todoubt whether they actually take any nourishment whatever. What a lifeis theirs! A fortnight's feasting in a storehouse of honey; a year ofslumber underground; a minute of love in the sunlight; then death!

Once fertilized, restlessly the female at once proceeds to seek afavourable spot wherein to lay her eggs. It was important to notewhere this exact spot is. Does the female go from cell to cell, confiding an egg to the succulent flanks of each larva, whether thislarva belong to the Anthophora or to a parasite of hers, as themysterious shell whence the Sitaris emerges would incline one tobelieve? This method of laying the eggs, one at a time in each cell, would appear to be essential, if we are to explain the facts alreadyascertained. But then why do the cells usurped by the Sitares retainnot the slightest trace of the forcible entry which is indispensable?And how is it that, in spite of lengthy investigations during which myperseverance has been kept up by the keenest desire to cast some lightupon all these mysteries, how is it, I say, that I have never comeacross a single specimen of the supposed parasites to which the shellmight be attributed, since this shell appears not to be a Beetle's?The reader would hardly suspect how my slight acquaintance withentomology was unsettled by this inextricable maze of contradictoryfacts. But patience! We may yet obtain some light. 

Let us begin by observing precisely at what spot the eggs are laid. Afemale has just been fertilized before my eyes; she is forthwithplaced in a large glass jar, into which I put, at the same time, someclods of earth containing Anthophora-cells. These cells are occupiedpartly by larvæ and partly by nymphs that are still quite white; someare slightly open and afford a glimpse of their contents. Lastly, inthe inner surface of the cork which closes the jar I sink acylindrical well, a blind alley, of the same diameter as the corridorsof the Anthophora. In order that the insect, if it so desire, mayenter this artificial corridor, I lay the bottle horizontally. 

The female, painfully dragging her big abdomen, perambulates all thenooks and corners of her makeshift dwelling, exploring them with herpalpi, which she passes everywhere. After half an hour of groping andcareful investigation, she ends by selecting the horizontal gallerydug in the cork. She thrusts her abdomen into this cavity and, withher head hanging outside, begins her laying. Not until thirty-sixhours later was the operation completed; and during this incrediblelapse of time the patient creature remained absolutely motionless. 

The eggs are white, oval and very small. They measure barelytwo-thirds of a millimetre[8] in length. They stick together slightlyand are piled in a shapeless heap which might be likened to agood-sized pinch of the unripe seeds of some orchid. As for theirnumber, I will admit that it tried my patience to no purpose. I donot, however, believe that I am exaggerating when I estimate it as atleast two thousand. Here are the data on which I base this figure: thelaying, as I have said, lasts thirty-six hours; and my frequent visitsto the female working in the cavity in the cork convinced me thatthere was no perceptible interruption in the successive emission ofthe eggs. Now less than a minute elapses between the arrival of oneegg and that of the next; and the number of these eggs cannottherefore be lower than the number of minutes contained in thirty-sixhours, or 2160. But the exact number is of no importance: we need onlynote that it is very large, which implies, for the young larvæ issuingfrom the eggs, very numerous chances of destruction, since so lavish asupply of germs is necessary to maintain the species in the requisiteproportions. 

[Footnote 8: . 026 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Enlightened by these observations and informed of the shape, thenumber and the arrangement of the eggs, I searched the galleries ofthe Anthophoræ for those which the Sitares had laid there andinvariably found them gathered in a heap inside the galleries, at adistance of an inch or two from the orifice, which is always open tothe outer world. Thus, contrary to what one was to some extententitled to suppose, the eggs are not laid in the cells of the pioneerBee; they are simply dumped in a heap inside the entrance to herdwelling. Nay more, the mother does not make any protective structurefor them; she takes no pains to shield them from the rigours ofwinter; she does not even attempt, by stopping for a short distance, as best she can, the entrance-lobby in which she has laid them, toprotect them from the thousand enemies that threaten them; for, aslong as the frosts of winter have not arrived, these open galleriesare trodden by Spiders, by Acari, by Anthrenus-grubs and otherplunderers, to whom these eggs, or the young larvæ about to emergefrom them, must be a dainty feast. In consequence of the mother'sheedlessness, the number of those who escape all these voracioushunters and the inclemencies of the weather must be curiously small. This perhaps explains why she is compelled to make up by her fecundityfor her deficient industry. 

The hatching occurs a month later, about the end of September or thebeginning of October. The season being still propitious, I was led tosuppose that the young larvæ must at once make a start and disperse, in order that each might seek to gain access, through someimperceptible fissure, to an Anthophora-cell. This presumption turnedout to be entirely at fault. In the boxes in which I had placed theeggs laid by my captives, the young larvæ, little black creatures atmost a twenty-fifth of an inch long, did not move away, providedthough they were with vigorous legs; they remained higgledy-piggledywith the white skins of the eggs whence they had emerged. 

In vain I placed within their reach lumps of earth containing nests ofthe Anthophora, open cells, larvæ and nymphs of the Bee: nothing wasable to tempt them; they persisted in forming, with the egg-skins, apowdery heap of speckled black and white. It was only by drawing thepoint of a needle through this pinch of living dust that I was able toprovoke an active wriggling. Apart from this, all was still. If Iforcibly removed a few larvæ from the common heap, they at oncehurried back to it, in order to hide themselves among the rest. Perhaps they had less reason to fear the cold when thus collected andsheltered beneath the egg-skins. Whatever may be the motive thatimpels them to remain thus gathered in a heap, I recognized that noneof the means suggested by my imagination succeeded in forcing them toabandon the little spongy mass formed by the skins of the eggs, whichwere slightly glued together. Lastly, to assure myself that the larvæ, in the free state, do not disperse after they are hatched, I wentduring the winter to Carpentras and inspected the banks inhabited bythe Anthophoræ. There, as in my boxes, I found the larvæ piled intoheaps, all mixed up with the skins of the eggs. 

CHAPTER IIITHE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE SITARES

Nothing new happens before the end of the following April. I shallprofit by this long period of repose to tell you more about the younglarva, of which I will begin by giving a description. Its length is atwenty-fifth of an inch, or a little less. It is hard as leather, aglossy greenish black, convex above and flat below, long and slender, with a diameter increasing gradually from the head to the hinderextremity of the metathorax, after which it rapidly diminishes. Itshead is a trifle longer than it is wide and is slightly dilated at thebase; it is pale-red near the mouth and darker about the ocelli. 

The labrum forms a segment of a circle; it is reddish, edged with asmall number of very short, stiff hairs. The mandibles are powerful, red-brown, curved and sharp; when at rest they meet without crossing. The maxillary palpi are rather long, consisting of two cylindricalsections of equal length, the outer ending in a very short bristle. The jaws and the lower lip are not sufficiently visible to lendthemselves to accurate description. 

The antennæ consist of two cylindrical segments, equal in length, notvery definitely divided; these segments are nearly as long as those ofthe palpi; the outer is surmounted by a cirrus whose length is as muchas thrice that of the head and tapers off until it becomes invisibleunder a powerful pocket-lens. Behind the base of either antennæ aretwo ocelli, unequal in size and almost touching. 

The thoracic segments are of equal length and increase gradually inwidth from front to back. The prothorax is wider than the head, but isnarrower in front than at the base and is slightly rounded at thesides. The legs are of medium length and fairly robust, ending in along, powerful, sharp and very mobile claw. On the haunch and thigh ofeach leg is a long cirrus, like that of the antennæ, almost as long asthe whole limb and standing at right angles to the plane of locomotionwhen the creature moves. There are a few stiff bristles on the legs. 

The abdomen has nine segments, of practically equal length, butshorter than those of the thorax and diminishing very rapidly in widthtoward the last. Fixed below the eighth segment, or rather below thestrip of membrane separating this segment and the last, we see twospikes, slightly curved, short, but with strong, sharp, hard points, and placed one to the right and the other to the left of the medianline. These two appendages are able, by means of a mechanismrecalling, on a smaller scale, that of the Snail's horns, to withdrawinto themselves, as a result of the membranous character of theirbase. They can also retreat under the eighth segment, borne, as theyare, by the anal segment, when this last, as it contracts, withdrawsinto the eighth. Lastly, the ninth or anal segment bears on its hinderedge two long cirri, like those of the legs and the antennæ, curvingbackwards from tip to base. At the rear of this segment a fleshynipple appears, more or less prominent; this is the anus. I do notknow where the stigmata are placed; they have evaded myinvestigations, though these were undertaken with the aid of themicroscope. 

When the larva is at rest, the various segments overlap evenly; andthe membranous intervals, corresponding with the articulations, do notshow. But, when the larva walks, all the articulations, especiallythose of the abdominal segments, are distended and end by occupyingalmost as much space as the horny arches. At the same time the analsegment emerges from the sheath formed by the eighth; the anus, inturn, is stretched into a nipple; and the two points of thepenultimate ring rise, at first slowly, and then suddenly stand upwith an abrupt motion similar to that of a spring when released. Inthe end, these two points diverge like the horns of a crescent. Oncethis complex apparatus is unfolded, the tiny creature is ready tocrawl upon the most slippery surface. 

The last segment and its anal button are curved at right angles to theaxis of the body; and the anus comes and presses upon the surface oflocomotion, where it ejects a tiny drop of transparent, treacly fluid, which glues and holds the little creature firmly in position, supported on a sort of tripod formed by the anal button and the twocirri of the last segment. If we are observing the animal's manner oflocomotion on a strip of glass, we can hold the strip in a verticalposition, or even turn it upside down, or shake it lightly, withoutcausing the larva to become detached and fall, held fast as it is bythe glutinous secretion of the anal button. 

If it has to proceed along a surface where there is no danger of afall, the microscopic creature employs another method. It crooks itsbelly and, when the two spikes of the eighth segment, now fullyoutspread, have found a firm support by ploughing, so to speak, thesurface of locomotion, it bears upon that base and pushes forward byexpanding the various abdominal articulations. This forward movementis also assisted by the action of the legs, which are far fromremaining inactive. This done, it casts anchor with the powerful clawsof its feet; the abdomen contracts; the various segments drawtogether; and the anus, pulled forward, obtains a fresh purchase, withthe aid of the two spikes, before beginning the second of thesecurious strides. 

During these manoeuvres, the cirri of the flanks and thighs drag alongthe supporting surface and by their length and elasticity appearfitted only to impede progress. But let us not be in a hurry toconclude that we have discovered an inconsistency: the least ofcreatures is adapted to the conditions amid which it has to live;there is reason to believe that these filaments, far from hamperingthe pigmy's progress, must, in normal circumstances, be of someassistance to it. 

Even the little that we have just learnt shows us that the youngSitaris-larva is not called upon to move on an ordinary surface. Thespot, whatever it may be like, where this larva is to live laterexposes it to the risk of many dangerous falls, since, in order toprevent them, it is not only equipped with strong and extremely mobiletalons and a steel-shod crescent, a sort of ploughshare capable ofbiting into the most highly polished substance, but is furtherprovided with a viscous liquid, sufficiently tenacious and adhesive tohold it in position without the help of other appliances. In vain Iracked my brains to guess what the substance might be, so shifting, souncertain and so perilous, which the young Sitares are destined toinhabit; and I discovered nothing to explain the necessity for thestructure which I have described. Convinced beforehand, by anattentive examination of this structure, that I should witness somepeculiar habits, I waited with eager impatience for the return of thewarm weather, never doubting that by dint of persevering observationthe mystery would be disclosed to me next spring. At last this spring, so fervently desired, arrived; I brought to bear all the patience, allthe imagination, all the insight and discernment that I may possess;but, to my utter shame and still greater regret, the secret escapedme. Oh, how painful are those tortures of indecision, when one has topostpone till the following year an investigation which has led to noresult!

My observations made during the spring of 1856, although purelynegative, nevertheless have an interest of their own, because theyprove the inaccuracy of certain suppositions to which the undeniableparasitism of the Sitares naturally inclines us. I will thereforerelate them in a few words. At the end of April, the young larvæ, hitherto motionless and concealed in the spongy heap of the egg-skins, emerge from their immobility, scatter and run about in all directionsthrough the boxes and jars in which they have passed the winter. Bytheir hurried gait and their indefatigable evolutions we readily guessthat they are seeking something which they lack. What can thissomething be, unless it be food? For remember that these larvæ werehatched at the end of September and that since then, that is to say, for seven long months, they have taken no nourishment, though theyhave spent this period in the full enjoyment of their vitality, as Iwas able to assure myself all through the winter by irritating them, and not in a state of torpor similar to that of the hibernatinganimals. From the moment of their hatching they are doomed, althoughfull of life, to an absolute abstinence of seven months' duration; andit is natural to suppose, when we see their present excitement, thatan imperious hunger sets them bustling in this fashion. 

The desired nourishment could only be the contents of the cells of theAnthophora, since we afterwards find the Sitares in these cells. Nowthese contents are limited to honey or larvæ. It just happens that Ihave kept some Anthophora-cells occupied by larvæ or nymphs. I place afew of these, some open, some closed, within reach of the youngSitares, as I had already done directly after the hatching. I evenslip the Sitares into the cells: I place them on the sides of thelarva, a succulent morsel to all appearances; I do all sorts of thingsto tempt their appetite; and, after exhausting my ingenuity, whichcontinues fruitless, I remain convinced that my famished grubs areseeking neither the larvæ nor nymphs of the Anthophora. 

Let us now try honey. We must obviously employ honey prepared by thesame species of Anthophora as that at whose cost the Sitares live. Butthis Bee is not very common in the neighbourhood of Avignon; and myengagements at the college[1] do not allow me to absent myself for thepurpose of repairing to Carpentras, where she is so abundant. Inhunting for cells provisioned with honey I thus lose a good part ofthe month of May; however, I end by finding some which are newlysealed and which belong to the right Anthophora. I open these cellswith the feverish impatience of a sorely-tried longing. All goes well:they are half-full of fluid, dark, nauseating honey, with the Bee'slately-hatched larva floating on the surface. This larva is removed;and taking a thousand precautions, I lay one or more Sitares on thesurface of the honey. In other cells I leave the Bee's larva andinsert Sitares, placing them sometimes on the honey and sometimes onthe inner wall of the cell or simply at the entrance. Lastly, all thecells thus prepared are put in glass tubes, which enable me to observethem readily, without fear of disturbing my famished guests at theirmeal. 

[Footnote 1: Fabre, as a young man, was a master at Avignon College. Cf. _The Life of the Fly_: chaps. Xii. , xiii. , xix. Andxx. --_Translator's Note_. ]

But what am I saying? Their meal? There is no meal! The Sitares, placed at the entrance to a cell, far from seeking to make their wayin, leave it and go roaming about the glass tube; those which havebeen placed on the inner surface of the cells, near the honey, emergeprecipitately, half-caught in the glue and tripping at every step;lastly, those which I thought I had favoured the most, by placing themon the honey itself, struggle, become entangled in the sticky mass andperish in it, suffocated. Never did experiment break down socompletely! Larvæ, nymphs, cells, honey: I have offered you them all!Then what do you want, you fiendish little creatures?

Tired of all these fruitless attempts, I ended where I ought to havebegun: I went to Carpentras. But it was too late: the Anthophora hadfinished her work; and I did not succeed in seeing anything new. During the course of the year I learnt from Léon Dufour, [2] to whom Ihad spoken of the Sitares, that the tiny creature which he had foundon the Andrenæ[3] and described under the generic name ofTriungulinus, was recognized later by Newport[4] as the larva of aMeloe, or Oil-beetle. Now it so happened that I had found a fewOil-beetles in the cells of the same Anthophora that nourishes theSitares. Could there be a similarity of habits between the two kindsof insects? This idea threw a sudden light for me upon the subject;but I had plenty of time in which to mature my plans: I had anotheryear to wait. 

[Footnote 2: Jean Marie Léon Dufour (1780-1865), an army surgeon whoserved with distinction in several campaigns, and subsequentlypractised as a doctor in the Landes, where he attained great eminenceas a naturalist. Fabre often refers to him as the Wizard of theLandes. Cf. _The Life of the Spider_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. I. ; and _The Life of the Fly_:chap. I. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 3: A genus of Burrowing Bee, the most numerous in speciesamong the British Bees. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 4: George Newport (1803-1854), an English surgeon andnaturalist, president of the Entomological Society from 1844 to 1845and an expert in insect anatomy. --_Translator's Note_. ]

When April came, my Sitaris-larvæ began, as usual, to bestirthemselves. The first Bee to appear, an Osmia, is dropped alive into aglass jar containing a few of these larvæ; and after a lapse of somefifteen minutes I inspect them through the pocket-lens. Five Sitaresare embedded in the fleece of the thorax. It is done, the problem'ssolved! The larvæ of the Sitares, like those of the Oil-beetles, clinglike grim death to the fleece of their generous host and make himcarry them into the cell. Ten times over I repeat the experiment withthe various Bees that come to plunder the lilac flowering outside mywindow and in particular with male Anthophoræ; the result is still thesame: the larvæ embed themselves in the hair of the Bees' thorax. Butafter so many disappointments one becomes distrustful and it is betterto go and observe the facts upon the spot; besides, the Easterholidays fall very conveniently and afford me the leisure for myobservations. 

I will admit that my heart was beating a little faster than usual whenI found myself once again standing in front of the perpendicular bankin which the Anthophora nests. What will be the result of theexperiment? Will it once more cover me with confusion? The weather iscold and rainy; not a Bee shows herself on the few spring flowers thathave come out. Numbers of Anthophoræ cower, numbed and motionless, atthe entrance to the galleries. With the tweezers, I extract them oneby one from their lurking-places, to examine them under the lens. Thefirst has Sitaris-larvæ on her thorax; so has the second; the thirdand fourth likewise; and so on, as far as I care to pursue theexamination. I change galleries ten times, twenty times; the result isinvariable. Then, for me, occurred one of the moments which come tothose who, after considering and reconsidering an idea for years andyears from every point of view, are at last able to cry: "Eureka!"

On the days that followed, a serene and balmy sky enabled theAnthophoræ to leave their retreats and scatter over the countrysideand despoil the flowers. I renewed my examination on those Anthophoræflying incessantly from one flower to another, whether in theneighbourhood of the places where they were born or at great distancesfrom these places. Some were without Sitaris-larvæ; others, morenumerous, had two, three, four, five or more among the hairs of theirthorax. At Avignon, where I have not yet seen _Sitaris humeralis_, thesame species of Anthophora, observed at almost the same season, whilepillaging the lilac-blossom, was always free of young Sitaris-grubs;at Carpentras, on the contrary, where there is not a singleAnthophora-colony without Sitares, nearly three-quarters of thespecimens which I examined carried a few of these larvæ in theirfleece. 

But, on the other hand, if we look for these larvæ in theentrance-lobbies where we found them, a few days ago, piled up inheaps, we no longer see them. Consequently, when the Anthophoræ, having opened their cells, enter the galleries to reach the exit andfly away, or else when the bad weather and the darkness bring themback there for a time, the young Sitaris-larvæ, kept on the alert inthese same galleries by the stimulus of instinct, attach themselves tothe Bees, wriggling into their fur and clutching it so firmly thatthey need not fear a fall during the long journeys of the insect whichcarries them. By thus attaching themselves to the Anthophoræ the youngSitares evidently intend to get themselves carried, at the opportunemoment, into the victualled cells. 

One might even at first sight believe that they live for some time onthe Anthophora's body, just as the ordinary parasites, the variousspecies of Lice, live on the body of the animal that feeds them. Butnot at all. The young Sitares, embedded in the fleece, at right anglesto the Anthophora's body, head inwards, rump outwards, do not stirfrom the point which they have selected, a point near the Bee'sshoulders. We do not see them wandering from spot to spot, exploringthe Anthophora's body, seeking the part where the skin is moredelicate, as they would certainly do if they were really deriving somenourishment from the juices of the Bee. On the contrary, they arenearly always established on the toughest and hardest part of theBee's body, on the thorax, a little below the insertion of the wings, or, more rarely, on the head; and they remain absolutely motionless, fixed to the same hair, by means of the mandibles, the feet, theclosed crescent of the eighth segment and, lastly, the glue of theanal button. If they chance to be disturbed in this position, theyreluctantly repair to another point of the thorax, pushing their waythrough the insect's fur and in the end fastening on to another hair, as before. 

To confirm my conviction that the young Sitaris-grubs do not feed onthe Anthophora's body, I have sometimes placed within their reach, ina glass jar, some Bees that have long been dead and are completelydried up. On these dry corpses, fit at most for gnawing, but certainlycontaining nothing to suck, the Sitaris-larvæ took up their customaryposition and there remained motionless as on the living insect. Theyobtain nothing, therefore, from the Anthophora's body; but perhapsthey nibble her fleece, even as the Bird-lice nibble the birds'feathers?

To do this, they would require mouth-parts endowed with a certainstrength and, in particular, horny and sturdy jaws, whereas their jawsare so fine that a microscopic examination failed to show them to me. The larvæ, it is true, are provided with powerful mandibles; but thesefinely-pointed mandibles, with their backward curve, though excellentfor tugging at food and tearing it to pieces, are useless for grindingit or gnawing it. Lastly, we have a final proof of the passivecondition of the Sitaris-larvæ on the body of the Anthophoræ in thefact that the Bees do not appear to be in any way incommoded by theirpresence, since we do not see them trying to rid themselves of thegrubs. Some Anthophoræ which were free from these grubs and someothers which were carrying five or six upon their bodies were placedseparately in glass jars. When the first disturbance resulting fromtheir captivity was appeased, I could see nothing peculiar about thoseoccupied by the young Sitares. And, if all these arguments were notsufficient, I might add that a creature which has already been able tospend seven months without food and which in a few days' time willproceed to drink a highly-flavoured fluid would be guilty of asingular inconsistency if it were to start nibbling the dry fleece ofa Bee. It therefore seems to me undeniable that the young Sitaressettle on the Anthophora's body merely to make her carry them into thecells which she will soon be building. 

But until then the future parasites must hold tight to the fleece oftheir hostess, despite her rapid evolutions among the flowers, despiteher rubbing against the walls of the galleries when she enters to takeshelter and, above all, despite the brushing which she must often giveherself with her feet to dust herself and keep spick and span. Henceno doubt the need for that curious apparatus which no standing ormoving upon ordinary surfaces could explain, as was said above, whenwe were wondering what the shifting, swaying, dangerous body might beon which the larva would have to establish itself later. This body isa hair of a Bee who makes a thousand rapid journeys, now diving intoher narrow galleries, now forcing her way down the tight throat of acorolla, and who never rests except to brush herself with her feet andremove the specks of dust collected by the down which covers her. 

We can now easily understand the use of the projecting crescent whosetwo horns, by closing together, are able to take hold of a hair moreeasily than the most delicate tweezers; we perceive the full value ofthe tenacious adhesive provided by the anus to save the tiny creature, at the least sign of danger, from an imminent fall; we realize lastlythe useful function that may be fulfilled by the elastic cirri of theflanks and legs, which are an absolute and most embarrassingsuperfluity when walking upon a smooth surface, but which, in thepresent case, penetrate like so many probes into the thickness of theAnthophora's down and serve as it were to anchor the Sitaris-larva inposition. The more we consider this arrangement, which seems modelledby a blind caprice so long as the grub drags itself laboriously over asmooth surface, the more do we marvel at the means, as effective asthey are varied, which are lavished upon this fragile creature to helpit to preserve its unstable equilibrium. 

Before I describe what becomes of the Sitaris-grubs on leaving thebody of the Anthophoræ, I must not omit to mention one very remarkablepeculiarity. All the Bees invaded by these grubs that have hithertobeen observed have, without one exception, been male Anthophoræ. Thosewhom I drew from their lurking-places were males; those whom I caughtupon the flowers were males; and, in spite of the most active search, I failed to find a single female at liberty. The cause of this totalabsence of females is easy to understand. 

If we remove a few clods from the area occupied by the nests, we seethat, though all the males have already opened and abandoned theircells, the females, on the contrary, are still enclosed in theirs, buton the point of soon taking flight. This appearance of the malesalmost a month before the emergence of the females is not peculiar tothe Anthophoræ; I have observed it in many other Bees and particularlyin the Three-horned Osmia (_O. Tricornis_), who inhabits the same siteas the Hairy-footed Anthophora (_A. Pilipes_). The males of the Osmiamake their appearance even before those of the Anthophora and at soearly a season that the young Sitaris-larvæ are perhaps not yetaroused by the instinctive impulse which urges them to activity. It isno doubt to their precocious awakening that the males of the Osmia owetheir ability to traverse with impunity the corridors in which theyoung Sitaris-grubs are heaped together, without having the latterfasten to their fleece; at least, I cannot otherwise explain theabsence of these larvæ from the backs of the male Osmiæ, since, whenwe place them artificially in the presence of these Bees, they fastenon them as readily as on the Anthophoræ. 

The emergence from the common site begun by the male Osmiæ iscontinued by the male Anthophoræ and ends with the almost simultaneousemergence of the female Osmiæ and Anthophoræ. I was easily able toverify this sequence by observing at my own place, in the earlyspring, the dates at which the cells, collected during the previousautumn, were broken. 

At the moment of their emergence, the male Anthophoræ, passing throughthe galleries in which the Sitaris-larvæ are waiting on the alert, must pick up a certain number of them; and those among them who, byentering empty corridors, escape the enemy on this first occasion willnot evade him for long, for the rain, the chilly air and the darknessbring them back to their former homes, where they take shelter now inone gallery, now in another, during a great part of April. Thisconstant traffic of the males in the entrance-lobbies of their housesand the prolonged stay which the bad weather often compels them tomake provide the Sitares with the most favourable opportunity forslipping into the Bees' fur and taking up their position. Moreover, when this state of affairs has lasted a month or so, there can be onlyvery few if any larvæ left wandering about without having attainedtheir end. At that period I was unable to find them anywhere save onthe body of the male Anthophora. 

It is therefore extremely probable that, on their emergence, whichtakes place as May draws near, the female Anthophoræ do not pick upSitaris-larvæ in the corridors, or pick up only a number which willnot compare with that carried by the males. In fact, the first femalesthat I was able to observe in April, in the actual neighbourhood ofthe nests, were free from these larvæ. Nevertheless it is upon thefemales that the Sitaris-larvæ must finally establish themselves, forthe males upon whom they now are cannot introduce them into the cells, since they take no part in the building or provisioning. There istherefore, at a given moment, a transfer of Sitaris-larvæ from themale Anthophoræ to the females; and this transfer is, beyond a doubt, effected during the union of the sexes. The female finds in the male'sembraces both life and death for her offspring; at the moment when shesurrenders herself to the male for the preservation of her race, thevigilant parasites pass from the male to the female, with theextermination of that same race in view. 

In support of these deductions, here is a fairly conclusiveexperiment, though it reproduces the natural circumstances butroughly. On a female taken in her cell and therefore free fromSitares, I place a male who is infested with them; and I keep the twosexes in contact, suppressing their unruly movements as far as I amable. After fifteen or twenty minutes of this enforced proximity, thefemale is invaded by one or more of the larvæ which at first were onthe male. True, experiment does not always succeed under theseimperfect conditions. 

By watching at Avignon the few Anthophoræ that I succeeded indiscovering, I was able to detect the precise moment of their work;and on the following Thursday, [5] the 21st of May, I repaired in allhaste to Carpentras, to witness, if possible, the entrance of theSitares into the Bee's cells. I was not mistaken: the works were infull swing. 

[Footnote 5: Thursday is the weekly holiday in Frenchschools. --_Translator's Note_. ]

In front of a high expanse of earth, a swarm stimulated by the sun, which floods it with light and heat, is dancing a crazy ballet. It isa hover of Anthophoræ, a few feet thick and covering an area whichmatches the sort of house-front formed by the perpendicular soil. Fromthe tumultuous heart of the cloud rises a monotonous, threateningmurmur, while the bewildered eye strays through the inextricableevolutions of the eager throng. With the rapidity of a lightning-flashthousands of Anthophoræ are incessantly flying off and scattering overthe country-side in search of booty; thousands of others also areincessantly arriving, laden with honey or mortar, and keeping up theformidable proportions of the swarm. 

I was at that time something of a novice as regards the nature ofthese insects:

"Woe, " said I to myself, "woe to the reckless wight bold enough toenter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand uponthe dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded by the furioushost, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousandstings!"

At this thought, rendered still more alarming by the recollection ofcertain misadventures of which I had been the victim when seeking toobserve too closely the combs of the Hornet (_Vespa crabro_), I felt ashiver of apprehension pass through my body. 

Yet, to obtain light upon the question which brings me hither, I mustneeds penetrate the fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching the works which I intend to upset; lens inhand, I must scrutinize, unmoved amid the whirl, the things that arehappening in the cells. The use moreover of a mask, of gloves, of acovering of any kind is impracticable, for utter dexterity of thefingers and complete liberty of sight are essential to theinvestigations which I have to make. No matter: even though I leavethis wasps'-nest with a face swollen beyond recognition, I must to-dayobtain a decisive solution of the problem which has preoccupied me toolong. 

A few strokes of the net, aimed, beyond the limits of the swarm, atthe Anthophoræ on their way to the harvest or returning, soon informedme that the Sitaris-larvæ are perched on the thorax, as I expected, occupying the same position as on the males. The circumstancestherefore could not be more favourable. We will inspect the cellswithout further delay. 

My preparations are made at once: I button my clothes tightly, so asto afford the Bees the least possible opportunity, and I enter theheart of the swarm. A few blows of the mattock, which arouse a farfrom reassuring crescendo in the humming of the Anthophoræ, soon placeme in possession of a lump of earth; and I beat a hasty retreat, greatly astonished to find myself still safe and sound and unpursued. But the lump of earth which I have removed is from a part too near thesurface; it contains nothing but Osmia-cells, which do not interest mefor the moment. A second expedition is made, lasting longer than thefirst; and, though my retreat is effected without great precipitation, not an Anthophora has touched me with her sting, nor even shownherself disposed to fall upon the aggressor. 

This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the workin progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells, spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ andcrushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastationresults merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is notfollowed by any hostile demonstration. The Anthophoræ whose cells arenot hurt go about their labours as if nothing unusual were happeninground about them; those whose dwellings are overturned try to repairthem, or hover distractedly in front of the ruins; but none of themseems inclined to swoop down upon the author of the damage. At most, afew, more irritated than the rest, come at intervals and hover beforemy face, confronting me at a distance of a couple of inches, and thenfly away, after a few moments of this curious inspection. 

Despite the selection of a common site for their nests, which mightsuggest an attempt at communistic interests among the Anthophoræ, these Bees, therefore, obey the egotistical law of each one forhimself and do not know how to band themselves together to repel anenemy who threatens one and all. Taken singly, the Anthophora does noteven know how to dash at the enemy who is ravaging her cells and drivehim away with her stings; the pacific creature hastily leaves itsdwelling when disturbed by undermining and escapes in a crippledstate, sometimes even mortally wounded, without thinking of making useof its venomous sting, except when it is seized and handled. Manyother Hymenoptera, honey-gatherers or hunters, are quite asspiritless; and I can assert to-day, after a long experience, thatonly the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps and theBumble-bees, know how to devise a common defence; and only they darefall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance. 

Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was ablefor hours to pursue my investigations at my leisure, seated on a stonein the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receivinga single sting, though I took no precautions whatever. Country-folk, happening to pass and beholding me seated, unperturbed, in the midstof the whirl of Bees, stopped aghast to ask me whether I had bewitchedthem, whether I charmed them, since I appeared to have nothing to fearfrom them:

"_Mé, moun bel ami, li-z-avé doun escounjurado què vous pougnioun pas, canèu de sort!_"

My miscellaneous impedimenta spread over the ground, boxes, glass jarsand tubes, tweezers and magnifying-glasses, were certainly regarded bythese good people as the implements of my wizardry. 

We will now proceed to examine the cells. Some are still open andcontain only a more or less complete store of honey. Others arehermetically sealed with an earthen lid. The contents of these lattervary greatly. Sometimes we find the larva of a Bee which has finishedits mess or is on the point of finishing it; sometimes a larva, whitelike the first, but more corpulent and of a different shape; at othertimes honey with an egg floating on the surface. The honey is liquidand sticky, with a brownish colour and a very strong, repulsive smell. The egg is of a beautiful white, cylindrical in shape, slightly curvedinto an arc, a fifth or a sixth of an inch in length and not quite atwenty-fifth of an inch in thickness; it is the egg of the Anthophora. 

In a few cells this egg is floating all alone on the surface of thehoney; in others, very numerous these, we see, lying on the egg of theAnthophora, as on a sort of raft, a young Sitaris-grub with the shapeand the dimensions which I have described above, that is to say, withthe shape and the dimensions which the creature possesses on leavingthe egg. This is the enemy within the gates. 

When and how did it get in? In none of the cells where I have observedit was I able to distinguish a fissure which could have allowed it toenter; they are all sealed in a quite irreproachable manner. Theparasite therefore established itself in the honey-warehouse beforethe warehouse was closed; on the other hand, the open cells, full ofhoney, but as yet without the egg of the Anthophora, are always freefrom parasites. It is therefore during the laying, or afterwards, whenthe Anthophora is occupied in plastering the door of the cell, thatthe young larva gains admittance. It is impossible to decide byexperiment to which of these two periods we must ascribe theintroduction of the Sitares into the cell; for, however peaceable theAnthophora may be, it is evident that we cannot hope to witness whathappens in the cell at the moment when she is laying an egg or at themoment when she is making the lid. But a few attempts will soonconvince us that the only second which would allow the Sitaris toestablish itself in the home of the Bee is the very second when theegg is laid on the surface of the honey. 

Let us take an Anthophora-cell full of honey and furnished with an eggand, after removing the lid, place it in a glass tube with a fewSitaris-grubs. The grubs do not appear at all eager for this wealth ofnectar placed within their reach; they wander at random about thetube, run about the outside of the cell, sometimes happen upon theedge of the orifice and very rarely venture inside. When they do, theydo not go far in and they come out again at once. If one happens toreach the honey, which only half fills the cell, it tries to escape assoon as it has perceived the shifting nature of the sticky soil uponwhich it was about to enter; but, tottering at every step, because ofthe viscous matter clinging to its feet, it often ends by falling backinto the honey, where it dies of suffocation. 

Again, we may experiment as follows: having prepared a cell as before, we place a larva most carefully on its inner wall, or else on thesurface of the food itself. In the first case, the larva hastens toleave the cell; in the second case, it struggles awhile on the surfaceof the honey and ends by getting so completely caught that, after athousand efforts to gain the shore, it is swallowed up in the viscouslake. 

In short, all attempts to establish the Sitaris-grub in anAnthophora-cell provisioned with honey and furnished with an egg areno more successful than those which I made with cells whose store offood had already been broached by the larva of the Bee, as describedabove. It is therefore certain that the Sitaris-grub does not leavethe fleece of the Mason-bee when the Bee is in her cell or at theentrance to it, in order itself to make a rush for the coveted honey;for this honey would inevitably cause its death, if it happened byaccident to touch the perilous surface merely with the tip of itstarsi. 

Since we cannot admit that the Sitaris-grub leaves the furry corseletof its hostess to slip unseen into the cell, whose orifice is not yetwholly walled up, at the moment when the Anthophora is building herdoor, all that remains to investigate is the second at which the eggis being laid. Remember in the first place that the young Sitariswhich we find in a closed cell is always placed on the egg of the Bee. We shall see in a minute that this egg not merely serves as a raft forthe tiny creature floating on a very treacherous lake, but alsoconstitutes the first and indispensable part of its diet. To get atthis egg, situated in the centre of the lake of honey, to reach, atall costs, this raft, which is also its first ration, the young larvaevidently possesses some means of avoiding the fatal contact of thehoney; and this means can be provided only by the actions of the Beeherself. 

In the second place, observations repeated _ad nauseam_ have shown methat at no period do we find in each invaded cell more than a singleSitaris, in one or other of the forms which it successively assumes. Yet there are several young larvæ established in the silky tangle ofthe Bee's thorax, all eagerly watching for the propitious moment atwhich to enter the dwelling in which they are to continue theirdevelopment. How then does it happen that these larvæ, goaded by suchan appetite as one would expect after seven or eight months' completeabstinence, instead of all rushing together into the first cell withinreach, on the contrary enter the various cells which the Bee isprovisioning one at a time and in perfect order? Some action must takeplace here independent of the Sitares. 

To satisfy those two indispensable conditions, the arrival of thelarva upon the egg without crossing the honey and the introduction ofa single larva among all those waiting in the fleece of the Bee, therecan be only one explanation, which is to suppose that, at the momentwhen the Anthophora's egg is half out of the oviduct, one of theSitares which have hastened from the thorax to the tip of the abdomen, one more highly favoured by its position, instantly settles upon theegg, a bridge too narrow for two, and with it reaches the surface ofthe honey. The impossibility of otherwise fulfilling the twoconditions which I have stated gives to the explanation which I amoffering a degree of certainty almost equivalent to that which wouldbe furnished by direct observation, which is here, unfortunately, impracticable. This presupposes, it is true, in the microscopic littlecreature destined to live in a place where so many dangers threaten itfrom the first, an astonishingly rational inspiration, which adaptsthe means to the end with amazing logic. But is not this theinvariable conclusion to which the study of instinct always leads us?

When dropping her egg upon the honey, therefore, the Anthophora at thesame time deposits in her cell the mortal enemy of her race; shecarefully plasters the lid which closes the entrance to the cell; andall is done. A second cell is built beside it, probably to suffer thesame fatal doom; and so on until the more or less numerous parasitessheltered by her down are all accommodated. Let us leave the unhappymother to continue her fruitless task and turn our attention to theyoung larva which has so adroitly secured itself board and lodging. 

In opening cells whose lid is still moist, we end by discovering onein which the egg, recently laid, supports a young Sitaris. This egg isintact and in irreproachable condition. But now the work ofdevastation begins: the larva, a tiny black speck which we see runningover the white surface of the egg, at last stops and balances itselffirmly on its six legs; then, seizing the delicate skin of the eggwith the sharp hooks of its mandibles, it tugs at it violently untilit breaks, spilling its contents, which the larva eagerly drinks up. Thus the first stroke of the mandibles which the parasite delivers inthe usurped cell is aimed at the destruction of the Bee's egg. Ahighly logical precaution! The Sitaris-larva, as we shall see, has tofeed upon the honey in the cell; the Anthophora-larva which wouldproceed from that egg would require the same food; but the portion istoo small for two; so, quick, a bite at the egg and the difficultywill be removed. The story of these facts calls for no comment. Thisdestruction of the cumbersome egg is all the more inevitable inasmuchas special tastes compel the young Sitaris-grub to make its firstmeals of it. Indeed we see the tiny creature begin by greedilydrinking the juices which the torn wrapper of the egg allows toescape; and for several days it may be observed, at one timemotionless on this envelope, in which it rummages at intervals withits head, at others running over it from end to end to rip it openstill wider and to cause a little of the juices, which become dailyless abundant, to trickle from it; but we never catch it imbibing thehoney which surrounds it on every side. 

For that matter, it is easy to convince ourselves that the eggcombines with the function of a life-buoy that of the first ration. Ihave laid on the surface of the honey in a cell a tiny strip of paper, of the same dimensions as the egg; and on this raft I have placed aSitaris-larva. Despite every care, my attempts, many times repeated, always failed. The larva, placed in a paper boat in the centre of themass of honey, behaves as in the earlier experiments. Not finding whatsuits it, it tries to escape and perishes in the sticky toils as soonas it leaves the strip of paper, which it soon does. 

On the other hand, we can easily rear Sitaris-grubs by takingAnthophora-cells not invaded by the parasites, cells in which the eggis not yet hatched. All that we have to do is to pick up one of thesegrubs with the moistened tip of a needle and to lay it delicately onthe egg. There is then no longer the least attempt to escape. Afterexploring the egg to find its way about, the larva rips it open andfor several days does not stir from the spot. Henceforth itsdevelopment takes place unhindered, provided that the cell beprotected from too rapid evaporation, which would dry up the honey andrender it unfit for the grub's food. The Anthophora's egg therefore isabsolutely necessary to the Sitaris-larva, not merely as a boat, butalso as its first nourishment. This is the whole secret, for lack ofknowing which I had hitherto failed in my attempts to rear the larvæhatched in my glass jars. 

At the end of a week, the egg, drained by the parasite, is nothing buta dry skin. The first meal is finished. The Sitaris-larva, whosedimensions have almost doubled, now splits open along the back; andthrough a slit which comprises the head and the three thoracicsegments a white corpusculum, the second form of this singularorganism, escapes to fall on the surface of the honey, while theabandoned slough remains clinging to the raft which has hithertosafeguarded and fed the larva. Presently both sloughs, those of theSitaris and the egg, will disappear, submerged under the waves ofhoney which the new larva is about to raise. Here ends the history ofthe first form adopted by the Sitaris. 

In summing up the above, we see that the strange little creatureawaits, without food, for seven months, the appearance of theAnthophoræ and at last fastens on to the hairs on the corselet of themales, who are the first to emerge and who inevitably pass within itsreach in going through their corridors. From the fleece of the malethe larva moves, three or four weeks later, to that of the female, atthe moment of coupling; and then from the female to the egg leavingthe oviduct. It is by this concatenation of complex manoeuvres thatthe larva in the end finds itself perched upon an egg in the middle ofa closed cell filled with honey. These perilous gymnastics on the hairof a Bee in movement all the day, this passing from one sex to theother, this arrival in the middle of the cell by way of the egg, adangerous bridge thrown across the sticky abyss, all this necessitatesthe balancing-appliances with which it is provided and which I havedescribed above. Lastly, the destruction of the egg calls, in itsturn, for a sharp pair of scissors; and such is the object of thekeen, curved mandibles. Thus the primary form of the Sitares has asits function to get itself carried by the Anthophora into the cell andto rip up her egg. This done, the organism becomes transformed to sucha degree that repeated observations are required to make us believethe evidence of our eyes. 

CHAPTER IVTHE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE OIL-BEETLES

I interrupt the history of the Sitares to speak of the Meloes, thoseuncouth Beetles, with their clumsy belly and their limp wing-casesyawning over their back like the tails of a fat man's coat that is fartoo tight for its wearer. The insect is ugly in colouring, which isblack, with an occasional blue gleam, and uglier still in shape andgait; and its disgusting method of defence increases the repugnancewith which it inspires us. If it judges itself to be in danger, theMeloe resorts to spontaneous bleeding. From its joints a yellowish, oily fluid oozes, which stains your fingers and makes them stink. Thisis the creature's blood. The English, because of its trick ofdischarging oily blood when on the defensive, call this insect theOil-beetle. It would not be a particularly interesting Beetle save forits metamorphoses and the peregrinations of its larva, which aresimilar in every respect to those of the larva of the Sitares. Intheir first form, the Oil-beetles are parasites of the Anthophoræ;their tiny grub, when it leaves the egg, has itself carried into thecell by the Bee whose victuals are to form its food. 

Observed in the down of various Bees, the queer little creature for along time baffled the sagacity of the naturalists, who, mistaking itstrue origin, made it a species of a special family of winglessinsects. It was the Bee-louse (_Pediculus apis_) of Linnæus;[1] theTriungulin of the Andrenæ (_Triungulinus andrenetarum_) of LéonDufour. They saw in it a parasite, a sort of Louse, living in thefleece of the honey-gatherers. It was reserved for the distinguishedEnglish naturalist Newport to show that this supposed Louse was thefirst state of the Oil-beetles. Some observations of my own will filla few lacunæ in the English scientist's monograph. I will thereforesketch the evolution of the Oil-beetles, using Newport's work where myown observations are defective. In this way the Sitares and theMeloes, alike in habits and transformations, will be compared; and thecomparison will throw a certain light upon the strange metamorphosesof these insects. 

[Footnote 1: Carolus Linnæus (Karl von Linné, 1707-1778), thecelebrated Swedish botanist and naturalist, founder of the Linnæansystem of classification. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The same Mason-bee (_Anthophora pilipes_) upon whom the Sitares livealso feeds a few scarce Meloes (_M. Cicatricosus_) in its cells. Asecond Anthophora of my district (_A. Parietina_) is more subject tothis parasite's invasions. It was also in the nests of an Anthophora, but of a different species (_A. Retusa_), that Newport observed thesame Oil-beetle. These three lodgings adopted by _Meloe cicatricosus_may be of some slight interest, as leading us to suspect that eachspecies of Meloe is apparently the parasite of diverse Bees, asuspicion which will be confirmed when we examine the manner in whichthe larvæ reach the cell full of honey. The Sitares, though less givento change of lodging, are likewise able to inhabit nests of differentspecies. They are very common in the cells of _Anthophora pilipes_;but I have found them also, in very small numbers, it is true, in thecells of _A. Personata_. 

Despite the presence of _Meloe cicatricosus_ in the dwellings of theMason-bee, which I so often ransacked in compiling the history of theSitares, I never saw this insect, at any season of the year, wanderingon the perpendicular soil, at the entrance of the corridors, for thepurpose of laying its eggs there, as the Sitares do; and I should knownothing of the details of the egg-laying if Godart, [2] de Geer[3] and, above all, Newport had not informed us that the Oil-beetles lay theireggs in the earth. According to the last-named author, the variousOil-beetles whom he had the opportunity of observing dig, among theroots of a clump of grass, in a dry soil exposed to the sun, a hole acouple of inches deep which they carefully fill up after laying theireggs there in a heap. This laying is repeated three or four timesover, at intervals of a few days during the same season. For eachbatch of eggs the female digs a special hole, which she does not failto fill up afterwards. This takes place in April and May. 

[Footnote 2: Jean Baptiste Godart (1775-1823), the principal editor of_L'Histoire naturelle des lépidoptères de France_. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

[Footnote 3: Baron Karl de Geer (1720-1778), the Swedish entomologist, author of _Mémoires pour servir à l'histoire des insectes_(1752-1778). --_Translator's Note_. ]

The number of eggs laid in a single batch is really prodigious. In thefirst batch, which, it is true, is the most prolific of all, _Meloeproscarabæus_, according to Newport's calculations, produces theastonishing number of 4, 218 eggs, which is double the number of eggslaid by a Sitaris. And what must the number be, when we allow for thetwo or three batches that follow the first! The Sitares, entrustingtheir eggs to the very corridors through which the Anthophora is boundto pass, spare their larvæ a host of dangers which the larvæ of theMeloe have to run, for these, born far from the dwellings of the Bees, are obliged to make their own way to their hymenopterousfoster-parents. The Oil-beetles, therefore, lacking the instinct ofthe Sitares, are endowed with incomparably greater fecundity. Therichness of their ovaries atones for the insufficiency of instinct byproportioning the number of germs in accordance with the risks ofdestruction. What transcendent harmony is this, which thus holds thescales between the fecundity of the ovaries and the perfection ofinstinct!

The hatching of the eggs takes place at the end of May or in June, about a month after they are laid. The eggs of the Sitares also arehatched after the same lapse of time. But the Meloe-larvæ, moregreatly favoured, are able to set off immediately in search of theBees that are to feed them; while those of the Sitares, hatched inSeptember, have to wait motionless and in complete abstinence for theemergence of the Anthophoræ the entrance to whose cells they guard. Iwill not describe the young Meloe-larva, which is sufficiently wellknown, in particular by the description and the diagram furnished byNewport. To enable the reader to understand what follows, I willconfine myself to stating that this primary larva is a sort of littleyellow louse, long and slender, found in the spring in the down ofdifferent Bees. 

How has this tiny creature made its way from the underground lodgingwhere the eggs are hatched to the fleece of a Bee? Newport suspectsthat the young Oil-beetles, on emerging from their natal burrow, climbupon the neighbouring plants, especially upon the Cichoriceæ, andwait, concealed among the petals, until a few Bees chance to plunderthe flower, when they promptly fasten on to their fur and allowthemselves to be borne away by them. I have more than Newport'ssuspicions upon this curious point; my personal observations andexperiments are absolutely convincing. I will relate them as the firstphase of the history of the Bee-louse. They date back to the 23rd ofMay, 1858. 

A vertical bank on the road from Carpentras to Bédoin is this time thescene of my observations. This bank, baked by the sun, is exploited bynumerous swarms of Anthophoræ, who, more industrious than theircongeners, are in the habit of building, at the entrance to theircorridors, with serpentine fillets of earth, a vestibule, a defensivebastion in the form of an arched cylinder. In a word, they are swarmsof _A. Parietina_. A sparse carpet of turf extends from the edge ofthe road to the foot of the bank. The more comfortably to follow thework of the Bees, in the hope of wresting some secret from them, I hadbeen lying for a few moments upon this turf, in the very heart of theinoffensive swarm, when my clothes were invaded by legions of littleyellow lice, running with desperate eagerness through the hairythickets of the nap of the cloth. In these tiny creatures, with whichI was powdered here and there as with yellow dust, I soon recognizedan old acquaintance, the young Oil-beetles, whom I now saw for thefirst time elsewhere than in the Bees' fur or the interior of theircells. I could not lose so excellent an opportunity of learning howthese larvæ manage to establish themselves upon the bodies of theirfoster-parents. 

In the grass where, after lying down for a moment, I had caught theselice were a few plants in blossom, of which the most abundant werethree composites: _Hedypnois polymorpha_, _Senecio gallicus_ and_Anthemis arvensis_. Now it was on a composite, a dandelion, thatNewport seemed to remember seeing some young Oil-beetles; and myattention therefore was first of all directed to the plants which Ihave named. To my great satisfaction, nearly all the flowers of thesethree plants, especially those of the camomile (_Anthemis_) wereoccupied by young Oil-beetles in greater or lesser numbers. On onehead of camomile I counted forty of these tiny insects, coweringmotionless in the centre of the florets. On the other hand, I couldnot discover any on the flowers of the poppy or of a wild rocket(_Diplotaxis muralis_) which grew promiscuously among the plantsaforesaid. It seems to me, therefore, that it is only on the compositeflowers that the Meloe-larvæ await the Bees' arrival. 

In addition to this population encamped upon the heads of thecomposites and remaining motionless, as though it had achieved itsobject for the moment, I soon discovered yet another, far morenumerous, whose anxious activity betrayed a fruitless search. On theground, in the grass, numberless little larvæ were running in a greatflutter, recalling in some respects the tumultuous disorder of anoverturned Ant-hill; others were hurriedly climbing to the tip of ablade of grass and descending with the same haste; others again wereplunging into the downy fluff of the withered everlastings, remainingthere a moment and quickly reappearing to continue their search. Lastly, with a little attention, I was able to convince myself thatwithin an area of a dozen square yards there was perhaps not a singleblade of grass which was not explored by several of these larvæ. 

I was evidently witnessing the recent emergence of the youngOil-beetles from their maternal lairs. Part of them had alreadysettled on the groundsel- and camomile-flowers to await the arrival ofthe Bees; but the majority were still wandering in search of thisprovisional refuge. It was by this wandering population that I hadbeen invaded when I lay down at the foot of the bank. It wasimpossible that all these larvæ, the tale of whose alarming thousandsI would not venture to define, should form one family and recognize acommon mother; despite what Newport has told us of the Oil-beetles'astonishing fecundity, I could not believe this, so great was theirmultitude. 

Though the green carpet was continued for a considerable distancealong the side of the road, I could not detect a single Meloe-larvaelsewhere than in the few square yards lying in front of the bankinhabited by the Mason-bee. These larvæ therefore could not have comefar; to find themselves near the Anthophoræ they had had no longpilgrimage to make, for there was not a sign of the inevitablestragglers and laggards that follow in the wake of a travellingcaravan. The burrows in which the eggs were hatched were therefore inthat turf opposite the Bees' abode. Thus the Oil-beetles, far fromlaying their eggs at random, as their wandering life might lead one tosuppose, and leaving their young to the task of approaching theirfuture home, are able to recognize the spots haunted by the Anthophoræand lay their eggs in the near neighbourhood of those spots. 

With such a multitude of parasites occupying the composite flowers inclose proximity to the Anthophora's nests, it is impossible that themajority of the swarm should not become infested sooner or later. Atthe time of my observations, a comparatively tiny proportion of thestarving legion was waiting on the flowers; the others were stillwandering on the ground, where the Anthophoræ very rarely alight; andyet I detected the presence of several Meloe-larvæ in the thoracicdown of nearly all the Anthophoræ which I caught and examined. 

I have also found them on the bodies of the Melecta- andCoelioxys-bees, [4] who are parasitic on the Anthophoræ. Suspendingtheir audacious patrolling before the galleries under construction, these spoilers of the victualled cells alight for an instant on acamomile-flower and lo, the thief is robbed! A tiny, imperceptiblelouse has slipped into the thick of the downy fur and, at the momentwhen the parasite, after destroying the Anthophora's egg, is layingher own upon the stolen honey, will creep upon this egg, destroy it inits turn and remain sole mistress of the provisions. The mess of honeyamassed by the Anthophora will thus pass through the hands of threeowners and remain finally the property of the weakest of the three. 

[Footnote 4: Cf. _The Mason-bees_: chaps. Viii. And ix. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

And who shall say whether the Meloe, in its turn, will not bedispossessed by a fresh thief; or even whether it will not, in thestate of a drowsy, fat and flabby larva, fall a prey to some marauderwho will munch its live entrails? As we meditate upon this deadly, implacable struggle which nature imposes, for their preservation, onthese different creatures, which are by turns possessors anddispossessed, devourers and devoured, a painful impression mingleswith the wonder aroused by the means employed by each parasite toattain its end; and, forgetting for a moment the tiny world in whichthese things happen, we are seized with terror at this concatenationof larceny, cunning and brigandage which forms part, alas, of thedesigns of _alma parens rerum_!

The young Meloe-larvæ established in the down of the Anthophoræ or inthat of the Melecta- and the Coelioxys-bees, their parasites, hadadopted an infallible means of sooner or later reaching the desiredcell. Was it, so far as they were concerned, a choice dictated by theforesight of instinct, or just simply the result of a lucky chance?The question was soon decided. Various Flies--Drone-flies andBluebottles (_Eristalis tenax_ and _Calliphora vomitoria_)--wouldsettle from time to time on the groundsel- or camomile-flowersoccupied by the young Meloes and stop for a moment to suck the sweetsecretions. On all these Flies, with very few exceptions, I foundMeloe-larvæ, motionless in the silky down of the thorax. I may alsomention, as infested by these larvæ, an Ammophila (_A. Hirsuta_), [5]who victuals her burrows with a caterpillar in early spring, while herkinswomen build their nests in autumn. This Wasp merely grazes, so tospeak, the surface of a flower; I catch her; there are Meloes movingabout her body. It is clear that neither the Drone-flies nor theBluebottles, whose larvæ live in putrefying matter, nor yet theAmmophilæ who victual theirs with caterpillars, could ever havecarried the larvæ which invaded them into cells filled with honey. These larvæ therefore had gone astray; and instinct, as does not oftenhappen, was here at fault. 

[Footnote 5: For the Wasp known as the Hairy Ammophila, who feeds heryoung on the Grey Worm, the caterpillar of the Turnip Moth, cf. _TheHunting Wasps_, chaps. Xviii. To xx. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Let us now turn our attention to the young Meloes waiting expectantupon the camomile-flowers. There they are, ten, fifteen or more, lodged half-way down the florets of a single blossom or in theirinterstices; it therefore needs a certain degree of scrutiny toperceive them, their hiding-place being the more effectual in that theamber colour of their bodies merges in the yellow hue of the florets. So long as nothing unusual happens upon the flower, so long as nosudden shock announces the arrival of a strange visitor, the Meloesremain absolutely motionless and give no sign of life. To see themdipping vertically, head downwards, into the florets, one mightsuppose that they were seeking some sweet liquid, their food; but inthat case they ought to pass more frequently from one floret toanother, which they do not, except when, after a false alarm, theyregain their hiding-places and choose the spot which seems to them themost favourable. This immobility means that the florets of thecamomile serve them only as a place of ambush, even as later theAnthophora's body will serve them solely as a vehicle to convey themto the Bee's cell. They take no nourishment, either on the flowers oron the Bees; and, as with the Sitares, their first meal will consistof the Anthophora's egg, which the hooks of their mandibles areintended to rip open. 

Their immobility is, as we have said, complete; but nothing is easierthan to arouse their suspended activity. Shake a camomile-blossomlightly with a bit of straw: instantly the Meloes leave theirhiding-places, come up and scatter in all directions on the whitepetals of the circumference, running over them from one end to theother with all the speed which the smallness of their size permits. Onreaching the extreme end of the petals, they fasten to it either withtheir caudal appendages, or perhaps with a sticky substance similar tothat furnished by the anal button of the Sitares; and, with theirbodies hanging outside and their six legs free, they bend about inevery direction and stretch as far out as they can, as though strivingto touch an object out of their reach. If nothing offers for them toseize upon, after a few vain attempts they regain the centre of theflower and soon resume their immobility. 

But, if we place near them any object whatever, they do not fail tocatch on to it with surprising agility. A blade of grass, a bit ofstraw, the handle of my tweezers which I hold out to them: they acceptanything in their eagerness to quit the provisional shelter of theflower. It is true that, after finding themselves on these inanimateobjects, they soon recognize that they have gone astray, as we see bytheir bustling movements to and fro and their tendency to go back tothe flower if there still be time. Those which have thus giddily flungthemselves upon a bit of straw and are allowed to return to theirflower do not readily fall a second time into the same trap. There istherefore, in these animated specks, a memory, an experience ofthings. 

After these experiments I tried others with hairy materials imitatingmore or less closely the down of the Bees, with little pieces of clothor velvet cut from my clothes, with plugs of cotton wool, with pelletsof flock gathered from the everlastings. Upon all these objects, offered with the tweezers, the Meloes flung themselves without anydifficulty; but, instead of keeping quiet, as they do on the bodies ofthe Bees, they soon convinced me, by their restless behaviour, thatthey found themselves as much out of their element on these furrymaterials as on the smooth surface of a bit of straw. I ought to haveexpected this: had I not just seen them wandering without pause uponthe everlastings enveloped with cottony flock? If reaching the shelterof a downy surface were enough to make them believe themselves safe inharbour, nearly all would perish, without further attempts, in thedown of the plants. 

Let us now offer them live insects and, first of all, Anthophoræ. Ifthe Bee, after we have rid her of the parasites which she may becarrying, be taken by the wings and held for a moment in contact withthe flower, we invariably find her, after this rapid contact, overrunby Meloes clinging to her hairs. The larvæ nimbly take up theirposition on the thorax, usually on the shoulders or sides, and oncethere they remain motionless: the second stage of their strangejourney is compassed. 

After the Anthophoræ, I tried the first live insects that I was ableto procure at once: Drone-flies, Bluebottles, Hive-bees, smallButterflies. All were alike overrun by the Meloes, without hesitation. What is more, there was no attempt made to return to the flowers. As Icould not find any Beetles at the moment, I was unable to experimentwith them. Newport, experimenting, it is true, under conditions verydifferent from mine, since his observations related to young Meloesheld captive in a glass jar, while mine were made in the normalcircumstances, Newport, I was saying, saw Meloes fasten to the body ofa Malachius and stay there without moving, which inclines me tobelieve that with Beetles I should have obtained the same results as, for instance, with a Drone-fly. And I did, in fact, at a later date, find some Meloe-larvæ on the body of a big Beetle, the GoldenRose-chafer (_Cetonia aurata_), an assiduous visitor of the flowers. 

After exhausting the insect class, I put within their reach my lastresource, a large black Spider. Without hesitation they passed fromthe flower to the arachnid, made for places near the joints of thelegs and settled there without moving. Everything therefore seems tosuit their plans for leaving the provisional abode where they arewaiting; without distinction of species, genus, or class, they fastento the first living creature that chance brings within their reach. Wenow understand how it is that these young larvæ have been observedupon a host of different insects and especially upon the early Fliesand Bees pillaging the flowers; we can also understand the need forthat prodigious number of eggs laid by a single Oil-beetle, since thevast majority of the larvæ which come out of them will infallibly goastray and will not succeed in reaching the cells of the Anthophoræ. Instinct is at fault here; and fecundity makes up for it. 

But instinct recovers its infallibility in another case. The Meloes, as we have seen, pass without difficulty from the flower to theobjects within their reach, whatever these may be, smooth or hairy, living or inanimate. This done, they behave very differently, according as they have chanced to invade the body of an insect or someother object. In the first case, on a downy Fly or Butterfly, on asmooth-skinned Spider or Beetle, the larvæ remain motionless afterreaching the point which suits them. Their instinctive desire istherefore satisfied. In the second case, in the midst of the nap ofcloth or velvet, or the filaments of cotton, or the flock of theeverlasting, or, lastly, on the smooth surface of a leaf or a straw, they betray the knowledge of their mistake by their continual comingand going, by their efforts to return to the flower imprudentlyabandoned. 

How then do they recognize the nature of the object to which they havejust moved? How is it that this object, whatever the quality of itssurface, will sometimes suit them and sometimes not? Do they judgetheir new lodging by sight? But then no mistake would be possible; thesense of sight would tell them at the outset whether the object withinreach was suitable or not; and emigration would or would not takeplace according to its decision. And then how can we suppose that, buried in the dense thicket of a pellet of cotton-wool or in thefleece of an Anthophora, the imperceptible larva can recognize, bysight, the enormous mass which it is perambulating?

Is it by touch, by some sensation due to the inner vibrations ofliving flesh? Not so, for the Meloes remain motionless on insectcorpses that have dried up completely, on dead Anthophoræ taken fromcells at least a year old. I have seen them keep absolutely quiet onfragments of an Anthophora on a thorax long since nibbled and emptiedby the Mites. By what sense then can they distinguish the thorax of anAnthophora from a velvety pellet, when sight and touch are out of thequestion? The sense of smell remains. But in that case what exquisitesubtlety must we not take for granted? Moreover, what similarity ofsmell can we admit between all the insects which, dead or alive, wholeor in pieces, fresh or dried, suit the Meloes, while anything elsedoes not suit them? A wretched louse, a living speck, leaves usmightily perplexed as to the sensibility which directs it. Here is yetone more riddle added to all the others. 

After the observations which I have described, it remained for me tosearch the earthen surface inhabited by the Anthophoræ: I should thenhave followed the Meloe-larva in its transformations. It was certainly_cicatricosus_ whose larvæ I had been studying; it was certainly thisinsect which ravaged the cells of the Mason-bee, for I found it deadin the old galleries which it had been unable to leave. Thisopportunity, which did not occur again, promised me an ample harvest. I had to give it all up. My Thursday was drawing to a close; I had toreturn to Avignon, to resume my lessons on the electrophorus and theToricellian tube. O happy Thursdays! What glorious opportunities Ilost because you were too short!

We will go back a year to continue this history. I collected, underfar less favourable conditions, it is true, enough notes to map outthe biography of the tiny creature which we have just seen migratingfrom the camomile-flowers to the Anthophora's back. From what I havesaid of the Sitaris-larvæ, it is plain that the Meloe-larvæ perched, like the former, on the back of a Bee, have but one aim: to getthemselves conveyed by this Bee to the victualled cells. Their objectis not to live for a time on the body that carries them. 

Were it necessary to prove this, it would be enough to say that wenever see these larvæ attempt to pierce the skin of the Bee, or elseto nibble at a hair or two, nor do we see them increase in size solong as they are on the Bee's body. To the Meloes, as to the Sitares, the Anthophora serves merely as a vehicle which conveys them to theirgoal, the victualled cell. 

It remains for us to learn how the Meloe leaves the down of the Beewhich has carried it, in order to enter the cell. With larvæ collectedfrom the bodies of different Bees, before I was fully acquainted withthe tactics of the Sitares, I undertook, as Newport had done beforeme, certain investigations intended to throw light on this leadingpoint in the Oil-beetle's history. My attempts, based upon those whichI had made with the Sitares, resulted in the same failure. The tinycreatures, when brought into contact with Anthophora-larvæ or -nymphs, paid no attention whatever to their prey; others, placed near cellswhich were open and full of honey, did not enter them, or at mostventured to the edge of the orifice; others, lastly, put inside thecell, on the dry wall or on the surface of the honey, came out againimmediately or else got stuck and died. The touch of the honey is asfatal to them as to the young Sitares. 

Searches made at various periods in the nests of the Hairy-footedAnthophora had taught me some years earlier that _Meloe cicatricosus_, like the Sitares, is a parasite of that Bee; indeed I had at differenttimes discovered adult Meloes, dead and shrivelled, in the Bee'scells. On the other hand, I knew from Léon Dufour that the littleyellow animal, the Louse found in the Bee's down, had been recognized, thanks to Newport's investigations, as the larva of the Oil-beetle. With these data, rendered still more striking by what I was learningdaily on the subject of the Sitares, I went to Carpentras, on the 21stof May, to inspect the nests of the Anthophoræ, then building, as Ihave described. Though I was almost certain of succeeding, sooner orlater, with the Sitares, who were excessively abundant, I had verylittle hope of the Meloes, which on the contrary are very scarce inthe same nests. Circumstances, however, favoured me more than I daredhope and, after six hours' labour, in which the pick played a greatpart, I became the possessor, by the sweat of my brow, of aconsiderable number of cells occupied by Sitares and two other cellsappropriated by Meloes. 

While my enthusiasm had not had time to cool at the sight, momentarilyrepeated, of a young Sitaris perched upon an Anthophora's egg floatingin the centre of the little pool of honey, it might well have burstall restraints on beholding the contents of one of these cells. On theblack, liquid honey a wrinkled pellicle is floating; and on thispellicle, motionless, is a yellow louse. The pellicle is the emptyenvelope of the Anthophora's egg; the louse is a Meloe-larva. 

The story of this larva becomes self-evident. The young Meloe leavesthe down of the Bee at the moment when the egg is laid; and, sincecontact with the honey would be fatal to the grub, it must, in orderto save itself, adopt the tactics followed by the Sitaris, that is tosay, it must allow itself to drop on the surface of the honey with theegg which is in the act of being laid. There, its first task is todevour the egg which serves it for a raft, as is attested by the emptyenvelope on which it still remains; and it is after this meal, theonly one that it takes so long as it retains its present form, that itmust commence its long series of transformations and feed upon thehoney amassed by the Anthophora. This was the reason of the completefailure both of my attempts and of Newport's to rear the youngMeloe-larvæ. Instead of offering them honey, or larvæ, or nymphs, weshould have placed them on the eggs recently laid by the Anthophora. 

On my return from Carpentras, I meant to try this method, togetherwith that of the Sitares, with which I had been so successful; but, asI had no Meloe-larvæ at my disposal and could not obtain any save bysearching for them in the Bees' fleece, the Anthophora-eggs were alldiscovered to have hatched in the cells which I brought back from myexpedition, when I was at last able to find some. This lost experimentis little to be regretted, for, since the Meloes and the Sitaresexhibiting the completest similarity not only in habits but also intheir method of evolution, there is no doubt whatever that I shouldhave succeeded. I even believe that this method may be attempted withthe cells of various Bees, provided that the eggs and the honey do notdiffer too greatly from the Anthophora's. I should not, for example, count on being successful with the cells of the three-horned Osmia, who shares the Anthophora's quarters: her egg is short and thick; andher honey is yellow, odourless, solid, almost a powder and veryfaintly flavoured. 

CHAPTER VHYPERMETAMORPHOSIS

By a Machiavellian stratagem the primary larva of the Oil-beetle orthe Sitaris has penetrated the Anthophora's cell; it has settled onthe egg, which is its first food and its life-raft in one. Whatbecomes of it once the egg is exhausted?

Let us, to begin with, go back to the larva of the Sitaris. By the endof a week the Anthophora's egg has been drained dry by the parasiteand is reduced to the envelope, a shallow skiff which preserves thetiny creature from the deadly contact of the honey. It is on thisskiff that the first transformation takes place, whereafter the larva, which is now organized to live in a glutinous environment, drops offthe raft into the pool of honey and leaves its empty skin, split alongthe back, clinging to the pellicle of the egg. At this stage we seefloating motionless on the honey a milk-white atom, oval, flat and atwelfth of an inch long. This is the larva of the Sitaris in its newform. With the aid of a lens we can distinguish the fluctuations ofthe digestive canal, which is gorging itself with honey; and along thecircumference of the flat, elliptical back we perceive a double row ofbreathing-pores which, thanks to their position, cannot be choked bythe viscous liquid. Before describing the larva in detail we will waitfor it to attain its full development, which cannot take long, for theprovisions are rapidly diminishing. 

The rapidity however is not to be compared with that with which thegluttonous larvæ of the Anthophora consume their food. Thus, onvisiting the dwellings of the Anthophoræ for the last time, on the25th of June, I found that the Bee's larvæ had all finished theirrations and attained their full development, whereas those of theSitares, still immersed in the honey, were, for the most part, onlyhalf the size which they must finally attain. This is yet anotherreason why the Sitares should destroy an egg which, were it todevelop, would produce a voracious larva, capable of starving them ina very short time. When rearing the larvæ myself in test-tubes, I havefound that the Sitares take thirty-five to forty days to finish theirmess of honey and that the larvæ of the Anthophora spend less than afortnight over the same meal. 

It is in the first half of July that the Sitaris-grubs reach theirfull dimensions. At this period the cell usurped by the parasitecontains nothing beyond a full-fed larva and, in a corner, a heap ofreddish droppings. This larva is soft and white, about half an inch inlength and a quarter of an inch wide at its broadest part. Seen fromabove as it floats on the honey, it is elliptical in form, taperinggradually towards the front and more suddenly towards the rear. Itsventral surface is highly convex; its dorsal surface, on the contrary, is almost flat. When the larva is floating on the liquid honey, it isas it were steadied by the excessive development of the ventralsurface immersed in the honey, which enables it to acquire anequilibrium that is of the greatest importance to its welfare. Infact, the breathing-holes, arranged without means of protection oneither edge of the almost flat back, are level with the viscous liquidand would be choked by that sticky glue at the least false movement, if a suitably ballasted hold did not prevent the larva from heelingover. Never was corpulent abdomen of greater use: thanks to thisplumpness of the belly the larva is protected from asphyxia. 

Its segments number thirteen, including the head. This head is pale, soft, like the rest of the body, and very small compared with the restof the creature. The antennæ are excessively short and consist of twocylindrical joints. I have vainly looked for the eyes with a powerfulmagnifying-glass. In its former state, the larva, subject to strangemigrations, obviously needs the sense of sight and is provided withfour ocelli. In its present state, of what use would eyes be to it atthe bottom of a clay cell, where the most absolute darkness prevails?

The labrum is prominent, is not distinctly divided from the head, iscurved in front and edged with pale and very fine bristles. Themandibles are small, reddish toward the tips, blunt and hollowed outspoonwise on the inner side. Below the mandibles is a fleshy partcrowned with two very tiny nipples. This is the lower lip with its twopalpi. It is flanked right and left by two other parts, likewisefleshy, adhering closely to the lip and bearing at the tip arudimentary palp consisting of two or three very tiny joints. Thesetwo parts are the future jaws. All this apparatus of lips and jaws iscompletely immobile and in a rudimentary condition which is difficultto describe. They are budding organs, still faint and embryonic. Thelabrum and the complicated lamina formed by the lip and the jaws leavebetween them a narrow slit in which the mandibles work. 

The legs are merely vestiges, for, though they consist of three tinycylindrical joints, they are barely a fiftieth of an inch in length. The creature is unable to make use of them, not only in the liquidhoney upon which it lives, but even on a solid surface. If we take thelarva from the cell and place it on a hard substance, to observe itmore readily, we see that the inordinate protuberance of the abdomen, by lifting the thorax from the ground, prevents the legs from findinga support. Lying on its side, the only possible position because ofits conformation, the larva remains motionless or only makes a fewlazy, wriggling movements of the abdomen, without ever stirring itsfeeble limbs, which for that matter could not assist it in any way. Inshort, the tiny creature of the first stage, so active and alert, issucceeded by a ventripotent grub, deprived of movement by its veryobesity. Who would recognize in this clumsy, flabby, blind, hideouslypot-bellied creature, with nothing but a sort of stumps for legs, theelegant pigmy of but a little while back, armour-clad, slender andprovided with highly perfected organs for performing its perilousjourneys?

Lastly, we count nine pairs of stigmata: one pair on the mesothoraxand the rest on the first eight segments of the abdomen. The lastpair, that on the eighth abdominal segment, consists of stigmata sosmall that to detect them we have to gather their position by that inthe succeeding states of the larva and to pass a very patientmagnifying-glass along the direction of the other pairs. These are asyet but vestigial stigmata. The others are fairly large, with pale, round, flat edges. 

If in its first form the Sitaris-larva is organized for action, toobtain possession of the coveted cell, in its second form it isorganized solely to digest the provisions acquired. Let us take aglance at its internal structure and in particular at its digestiveapparatus. Here is a strange thing: this apparatus, in which the hoardof honey amassed by the Anthophora is to be engulfed, is similar inevery respect to that of the adult Sitaris, who possibly never takesfood. We find in both the same very short oesophagus, the samechylific ventricle, empty in the perfect insect, distended in thelarva with an abundant orange-coloured pulp; in both the samegall-bladders, four in number, connected with the rectum by one oftheir extremities. Like the perfect insect, the larva is devoid ofsalivary glands or any other similar apparatus. Its nervous systemcomprises eleven ganglia, not counting the oesophageal collar, whereasin the perfect insect there are only seven: three for the thorax, ofwhich the last two are contiguous, and four for the abdomen. 

When its rations are finished the larva remains a few days in amotionless condition, ejecting from time to time a few reddishdroppings until the digestive canal is completely cleared of itsorange-coloured pulp. Then the creature contracts itself, huddlesitself together; and before long we see coming detached from its bodya transparent, slightly crumpled and extremely fine pellicle, forminga closed bag, in which the successive transformations will take placehenceforth. On this epidermal bag, this sort of transparent leatherbottle, formed by the larva's skin detached all of a piece, without aslit of any kind, we can distinguish the several well-preservedexternal organs: the head, with its antennæ, mandibles, paws andpalpi; the thoracic segments, with their vestiges of legs; theabdomen, with its chain of breathing-holes still connected one toanother by tracheal threads. 

Then beneath this pellicle, which is so delicate that it can hardlybear the most cautious touch, we see a soft, white mass taking shape, a mass which in a few hours acquires a firm, horny consistency and avivid yellow hue. The transformation is now complete. Let us tear thefine gauze bag enclosing the organism which has just come into beingand direct our investigation to this third form of the Sitaris-larva. 

It is an inert, segmented body, with an oval outline, a hornyconsistency, just like that of pupæ and chrysalids, and abright-yellow colour, which we can best describe by likening it tothat of a lemon-drop. Its upper surface forms a double inclined planewith a very blunt ridge; its lower surface is at first flat, but, asthe result of evaporation, becomes more concave daily, leaving aprojecting rim all around its oval outline. Lastly, its twoextremities or poles are slightly flattened. The major axis of thelower surface averages half an inch in length and the minor axis aquarter of an inch. 

At the cephalic pole of this body is a sort of mask, modelled roughlyon the head of the larva, and at the opposite pole a small circulardisk deeply wrinkled at the centre. The three segments that come afterthe head bear each a pair of very minute knobs, hardly visible withoutthe lens: these are, to the legs of the larva in its previous form, what the cephalic mask is to the head of the same larva. They are notorgans, but indications, landmarks placed at the points where theseorgans will appear later. On either side we count nine stigmata, setas before on the mesothorax and the first eight abdominal segments. The first eight breathing-holes are dark brown and stand out plainlyagainst the yellow colour of the body. They consist of small, shiny, conical knobs, perforated at the top with a round hole. The ninthstigma, though fashioned like the others, is ever so much smaller; itcannot be distinguished without the lens. 

The anomaly, already so manifest in the change from the first form tothe second, becomes even more so here; and we do not know what name togive to an organism without a standard of comparison, not only in theorder of Beetles, but in the whole class of insects. While, on the onehand, this organism offers many points of resemblance to the pupæ ofthe Flies in its horny consistency, in the complete immobility of itsvarious segments, in the all but absolute absence of relief whichwould enable one to distinguish the parts of the perfect insect;while, on the other hand, it approximates to the chrysalids, becausethe creature, to attain this condition, has to shed its skin, as thecaterpillars do, it differs from the pupa because it has for coveringnot the surface skin, which has become horny, but rather one of theinner skins of the larva; and it differs from the chrysalids by theabsence of mouldings which in the latter betray the appendages of theperfect insect. Lastly, it differs yet more profoundly from the pupaand the chrysalis because from both these organisms the perfect insectsprings straightway, whereas that which follows what we areconsidering is simply a larva like that which went before. I shallsuggest, to denote this curious organism, the term _pseudochrysalis_;and I shall reserve the names _primary larva_, _secondary larva_ and_tertiary larva_ to denote, in a couple of words, each of the threeforms under which the Sitares possess all the characteristics oflarvæ. 

Although the Sitaris, on assuming the form of the pseudochrysalis, istransfigured outwardly to the point of baffling the science ofentomological phases, this is not so inwardly. I have at every seasonof the year examined the viscera of the pseudochrysalids, whichgenerally remain stationary for a whole year, and I have neverobserved other forms among their organs than those which we find inthe secondary larva. The nervous system has undergone no change. Thedigestive apparatus is absolutely void and, because of its emptiness, appears only as a thin cord, sunk, lost amid the adipose sacs. Thestercoral intestine has more substance; its outlines are betterdefined. The four gall-bladders are always perfectly distinct. Theadipose tissue is more abundant than ever: it forms by itself thewhole contents of the pseudochrysalis, for in the matter of volume theinsignificant threads of the nervous system and the digestiveapparatus count for nothing. It is the reserve upon which life mustdraw for its future labours. 

A few Sitares remain hardly a month in the pseudochrysalis stage. Theother phases are achieved in the course of August; and at thebeginning of September the insect attains the perfect state. But as arule the development is slower; the pseudochrysalis goes through thewinter; and it is not, at the earliest, until June in the second yearthat the final transformations take place. Let us pass in silence overthis long period of repose, during which the Sitaris, in the form of apseudochrysalis, slumbers at the bottom of its cell, in a sleep aslethargic as that of a germ in its egg, and come to the months of Juneand July in the following year, the period of what we might call asecond hatching. 

The pseudochrysalis is still enclosed in the delicate pouch formed ofthe skin of the secondary larva. Outside, nothing fresh has happened;but important changes have taken place inside. I have said that thepseudochrysalis displayed an upper surface arched like a hog's backand a lower surface at first flat and then more and more concave. Thesides of the double inclined plane of the upper or dorsal surface alsoshare in this depression occasioned by the evaporation of the fluidconstituents; and a time comes when these sides are so depressed thata section of the pseudochrysalis through a plane perpendicular to itsaxis would be represented by a curvilinear triangle with bluntedcorners and inwardly convex sides. This is the appearance displayed bythe pseudochrysalis during the winter and spring. 

But in June it has lost this withered appearance; it represents aperfect balloon, an ellipsoid of which the sections perpendicular tothe major axis are circles. Something has also come to pass of greaterimportance than this expansion, which may be compared with that whichwe obtain by blowing into a wrinkled bladder. The horny integuments ofthe pseudochrysalis have become detached from their contents, all of apiece, without a break, just as happened the year before with the skinof the secondary larva; and they thus form a fresh vesicular envelope, free from any adhesion to the contents and itself enclosed in thepouch formed of the secondary larva's skin. Of these two bags withoutoutlet, one of which is enclosed within the other, the outer istransparent, flexible, colourless and extremely delicate; the secondis brittle, almost as delicate as the first, but much less translucentbecause of its yellow colouring, which makes it resemble a thin flakeof amber. On this second sac are found the stigmatic warts, thethoracic studs and so forth, which we noted on the pseudochrysalis. Lastly, within its cavity we catch a glimpse of something the shape ofwhich at once recalls to mind the secondary larva. 

And indeed, if we tear the double envelope which protects thismystery, we recognize, not without astonishment, that we have beforeour eyes a new larva similar to the secondary. After one of thestrangest transformations, the creature has gone back to its secondform. To describe the new larva is unnecessary, for it differs fromthe former in only a few slight details. In both there is the samehead, with its various appendages barely outlined; the same vestigesof legs, the same stumps transparent as crystal. The tertiary larvadiffers from the secondary only by its abdomen, which is less fat, owing to the absolute emptiness of the digestive apparatus; by adouble chain of fleshy cushions extending along each side; by the rimof the stigmata, crystalline and slightly projecting, but less so thanin the pseudochrysalis; by the ninth pair of breathing-holes, hithertorudimentary but now almost as large as the rest; lastly by themandibles ending in a very sharp point. Evicted from its twofoldsheath, the tertiary larva makes only very lazy movements ofcontraction and dilation, without being able to advance, without evenbeing able to maintain its normal position, because of the weakness ofits legs. It usually remains motionless, lying on its side, or elsedisplays its drowsy activity merely by feeble, wormlike movements. 

By dint of these alternate contractions and dilations, indolent thoughthey be, the larva nevertheless contrives to turn right round in thesort of shell with which the pseudochrysalidal integuments provide it, when by accident it finds itself placed head downwards; and thisoperation is all the more difficult inasmuch as the larva almostexactly fills the cavity of the shell. The creature contracts, bendsits head under its belly and slides its front half over its hinderhalf by wormlike movements so slow that the lens can hardly detectthem. In less than a quarter of an hour the larva, at first turnedupside down, finds itself again head uppermost. I admire thisgymnastic feat, but have some difficulty in understanding it, so smallis the space which the larva, when at rest in its cell, leavesunoccupied, compared with that which we should be justified inexpecting from the possibility of such a reversal. The larva does notlong enjoy the privilege which enables it to resume inside its cell, when this is moved from its original position, the attitude which itprefers, that is to say, with its head up. 

Two days, at most, after its first appearance it relapses into aninertia as complete as that of the pseudochrysalis. On removing itfrom its amber shell, we see that its faculty of contracting ordilating at will is so completely paralysed that the stimulus of aneedle is unable to provoke it, though the integuments have retainedall their flexibility and though no perceptible change has occurred inthe organization. The irritability, therefore, which in thepseudochrysalis is suspended for a whole year, reawakens for a moment, to relapse instantly into the deepest torpor. This torpor will bepartly dispelled only at the moment of the passing into the nymphalstage, to return immediately afterwards and last until the insectattains the perfect state. 

Further, on holding larvæ of the third form, or nymphs enclosed intheir cells, in an inverted position, in glass tubes, we never seethem regain an erect position, however long we continue theexperiment. The perfect insect itself, during the time that it isenclosed in the shell, cannot regain it, for lack of the requisiteflexibility. This total absence of movement in the tertiary larva, when a few days old, and also in the nymph, together with thesmallness of the space left free in the shell, would necessarily leadto the conviction, if we had not witnessed the first moments of thetertiary larva, that it is absolutely impossible for the creature toturn right round. 

And now see to what curious inferences this lack of observations madeat the due moment may lead us. We collect some pseudochrysalids andheap them in a glass jar in all possible positions. The favourableseason arrives; and with very legitimate astonishment we find that, ina large number of shells, the larva or nymph occupies an invertedposition, that is to say, the head is turned towards the analextremity of the shell. In vain we watch these reversed bodies for anyindications of movement; in vain we place the shells in everyimaginable position, to see if the creature will turn round; in vain, once more, we ask ourselves where the free space is which this turningwould demand. The illusion is complete: I have been taken in by itmyself; and for two years I indulged in the wildest conjectures toaccount for this lack of correspondence between the shell and itscontents, to explain, in short, a fact which is inexplicable once thepropitious moment has passed. 

On the natural site, in the cells of the Anthophora, this apparentanomaly never occurs, because the secondary larva, when on the pointof transformation into the pseudochrysalis, is always careful to placeits head uppermost, according as the axis of the cell more or lessnearly approaches the vertical. But, when the pseudochrysalids areplaced higgledy-piggledy in a box or jar, all those which are upsidedown will later contain inverted larvæ or nymphs. 

After four changes of form so profound as those which I havedescribed, one might reasonably expect to find some modifications ofthe internal organization. Nevertheless, nothing is changed; thenervous system is the same in the tertiary larva as in the earlierphases; the reproductive organs do not yet show; and there is no needto mention the digestive apparatus, which remains invariable even inthe perfect insect. 

The duration of the tertiary larva is a bare four or five weeks, whichis also about the duration of the second. In July, when the secondarylarva passes into the pseudochrysalid stage, the tertiary larva passesinto the nymphal stage, still inside the double vesicular envelope. Its skin splits along the back in front; and with the assistance of afew feeble contractions, which reappear at this juncture, it is thrustbehind in the shape of a little ball. There is therefore nothing herethat differs from what happens in the other Beetles. 

Nor does the nymph which succeeds this tertiary larva present anypeculiarity: it is the perfect insect in swaddling-bands, yellowishwhite, with its various external members, clear as crystal, displayedunder the abdomen. A few weeks elapse, during which the nymph partlydons the livery of the adult state; and, in about a month, the insectmoults for a last time, in the usual manner, in order to attain itsfinal form. The wing-cases are now of a uniform yellowish white, asare the wings, the abdomen and the greater part of the legs; verynearly all the rest of the body is of a glossy black. In the space oftwenty-four hours, the wing-cases assume their half-black, half-russetcolouring; the wings grow darker; and the legs finish turning black. This done, the adult organism is completed. However, the Sitarisremains still a fortnight in the intact shell, ejecting at intervalswhite droppings of uric acid, which it pushes back together with theshreds of its last two sloughs, those of the tertiary larva and of thenymph. Lastly, about the middle of August, it tears the double bagthat contains it, pierces the lid of the Anthophora's cell, enters acorridor and appears outside in quest of the other sex. 

I have told how, while digging in search of the Sitaris, I found twocells belonging to _Meloe cicatricosus_. One contained an Anthophora'segg; with this egg was a yellow Louse, the primary larva of the Meloe. The history of this tiny creature we know. The second cell also wasfull of honey. On the sticky liquid floated a little white larva, about a sixth of an inch in length and very different from the otherlittle white larvæ belonging to Sitares. The rapid fluctuations of theabdomen showed that it was eagerly drinking the strong-scented nectarcollected by the Bee. This larva was the young Meloe in the secondperiod of its development. 

I was not able to preserve these two precious cells, which I hadopened wide to examine the contents. On my return from Carpentras, Ifound that their honey had been spilt by the motion of the carriageand that their inhabitants were dead. On the 25th of June, a freshvisit to the nests of the Anthophoræ furnished me with two larvæ likethe foregoing, but much larger. One of them was on the point offinishing its store of honey, the other still had nearly half left. The first was put in a place of safety with a thousand precautions, the second was at once immersed in alcohol. 

These larvæ are blind, soft, fleshy, yellowish white, covered with afine down visible only under the lens, curved into a fish-hook likethe larvæ of the Lamellicorns, to which they bear a certainresemblance in their general configuration. The segments, includingthe head, number thirteen, of which nine are provided withbreathing-holes with a pale, oval rim. These are the mesothorax andthe first eight abdominal segments. As in the Sitaris-larvæ, the lastpair of stigmata, that of the eighth segment of the abdomen, is lessdeveloped than the rest. 

The head is horny, of a light brown colour. The epistoma is edged withbrown. The labrum is prominent, white and trapezoidal. The mandiblesare black, strong, short, obtuse, only slightly curved, sharp-edgedand furnished each with a broad tooth on the inner side. The maxillaryand labial palpi are brown and shaped like very small studs with twoor three joints to them. The antennæ, inserted just at the base of themandibles, are brown, and consist of three sections: the first isthick and globular; the two others are much smaller in diameter andcylindrical. The legs are short, but fairly strong, able to serve thecreature for crawling or digging; they end in a strong black claw. Thelength of the larva when fully developed is one inch. 

As far as I can judge from the dissection of the specimen preserved inalcohol, whose viscera were affected by being kept too long in thatliquid, the nervous system consists of eleven ganglia, not countingthe oesophageal collar; and the digestive apparatus does not differperceptibly from that of an adult Oil-beetle. 

The larger of the two larvæ of the 25th of June, placed in a test-tubewith what remained of its provisions, assumed a new form during thefirst week of the following month. Its skin split along the frontdorsal half and, after being pushed half back, left partly uncovered apseudochrysalis bearing the closest analogy with that of the Sitares. Newport did not see the larva of the Oil-beetle in its second form, that which it displays when it is eating the mess of honey hoarded bythe Bees, but he did see its moulted skin half-covering thepseudochrysalis which I have just mentioned. From the sturdy mandiblesand the legs armed with a powerful claw which he observed on thismoulted skin, Newport assumed that, instead of remaining in the sameAnthophora-cell, the larva, which is capable of burrowing, passes fromone cell to another in search of additional nourishment. Thissuspicion seems to me to be well-founded, for the size which the larvafinally attains exceeds the proportions which the small quantity ofhoney enclosed in a single cell would lead us to expect. 

Let us go back to the pseudochrysalis. It is, as in the Sitares, aninert body, of a horny consistency, amber-coloured and divided intothirteen segments, including the head. Its length is 20millimetres. [1] It is slightly curved into an arc, highly convex onthe dorsal surface, almost flat on the ventral surface and edged witha projecting fillet which marks the division between the two. The headis only a sort of mask on which certain features are vaguely carved instill relief, corresponding with the future parts of the head. On thethoracic segments are three pairs of tubercles, corresponding with thelegs of the recent larva and the future insect. Lastly, there are ninepairs of stigmata, one pair on the mesothorax and the eight followingpairs on the first eight segments of the abdomen. The last pair israther smaller than the rest, a peculiarity which we have alreadynoted in the larva which precedes the pseudochrysalis. 

[Footnote 1: . 787 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

On comparing the pseudochrysalids of the Oil-beetles and Sitares, weobserve a most striking similarity between the two. The same structureoccurs in both, down to the smallest details. We find on either sidethe same cephalic masks, the same tubercles occupying the place of thelegs, the same distribution and the same number of stigmata and, lastly, the same colour, the same rigidity of the integuments. Theonly points of difference are in the general appearance, which is notthe same in the two pseudochrysalids, and in the covering formed bythe cast skin of the late larva. In the Sitares, in fact, this castskin constitutes a closed bag, a pouch completely enveloping thepseudochrysalis; in the Oil-beetles, on the contrary, it is split downthe back and pushed to the rear and, consequently, only half-coversthe pseudochrysalis. 

The post-mortem examination of the only pseudochrysalis in mypossession showed me that, similarly to that which happens in theSitares, no change occurred in the organization of the viscera, notwithstanding the profound transformations which take placeexternally. In the midst of innumerable little sacs of adipose tissueis buried a thin thread in which we easily recognize the essentialfeatures of the digestive apparatus, both of the preceding larval formand of the perfect insect. As for the medullary cord of the abdomen, it consists, as in the larva, of eight ganglia. In the perfect insectit comprises only four. 

I could not say positively how long the Oil-beetle remains in thepseudochrysalid form; but, if we consider the very complete analogybetween the evolution of the Oil-beetles and that of the Sitares, there is reason to believe that a few pseudochrysalids complete theirtransformation in the same year, while others, in greater numbers, remain stationary for a whole year and do not attain the state of theperfect insect until the following spring. This is also the opinionexpressed by Newport. 

Be this as it may, I found at the end of August one of thesepseudochrysalids which had already attained the nymphal stage. It iswith the help of this precious capture that I shall be able to finishthe story of the Oil-beetle's development. The horny integuments ofthe pseudochrysalis are split along a fissure which includes the wholeventral surface and the whole of the head and runs up the back of thethorax. This cast skin, which is stiff and keeps its shape, ishalf-enclosed, as was the pseudochrysalis, in the skin shed by thesecondary larva. Lastly, through the fissure, which divides it almostin two, a Meloe-nymph half-emerges; so that, to all appearances, thepseudochrysalis has been followed immediately by the nymph, which doesnot happen with the Sitares, which pass from the first of these twostates to the second only by assuming an intermediary form closelyresembling that of the larva which eats the store of honey. 

But these appearances are deceptive, for, on removing the nymph fromthe split sheath formed by the integuments of the pseudochrysalis, wefind, at the bottom of this sheath, a third cast skin, the last ofthose which the creature has so far rejected. This skin is even nowadhering to the nymph by a few tracheal filaments. If we soften it inwater, we easily recognize that it possesses an organization almostidentical with that which preceded the pseudochrysalis. In the lattercase only, the mandibles and the legs are not so robust. Thus, afterpassing through the pseudochrysalid stage, the Oil-beetles for sometime resume the preceding form, almost without modification. 

The nymph comes next. It presents no peculiarities. The only nymphthat I have reared attained the perfect insect state at the end ofSeptember. Under ordinary conditions would the adult Oil-beetle haveemerged from her cell at this period? I do not think so, since thepairing and egg-laying do not take place until the beginning ofspring. She would no doubt have spent the autumn and the winter in theAnthophora's dwelling, only leaving it in the spring following. It iseven probable that, as a rule, the development is even slower and thatthe Oil-beetles, like the Sitares, for the most part spend the coldseason in the pseudochrysalid state, a state well-adapted to thewinter torpor, and do not achieve their numerous forms until thereturn of the warm weather. 

The Sitares and Meloes belong to the same family, that of theMeloidæ. [2] Their strange transformations must probably extendthroughout the group; indeed, I had the good fortune to discover athird example, which I have not hitherto been able to study in all itsdetails after twenty-five years of investigation. On six occasions, nooftener, during this long period I have set eyes on thepseudochrysalis which I am about to describe. Thrice I obtained itfrom old Chalicodoma-nests built upon a stone, nests which I at firstattributed to the Chalicodoma of the Walls and which I now refer withgreater probability to the Chalicodoma of the Sheds. I once extractedit from the galleries bored by some wood-eating larva in the trunk ofa dead wild pear-tree, galleries afterwards utilized for the cells ofan Osmia, I do not know which. Lastly, I found a pair of them inbetween the row of cocoons of the Three-pronged Osmia (_O. Tridentata_, DUF. ), who provides a home for her larvæ in a channel dugin the dry bramble stems. The insect in question therefore is aparasite of the Osmiæ. When I extract it from the oldChalicodoma-nests, I have to attribute it not to this Bee but to oneof the Osmiæ (_O. Tricornis_ and _O. Latreillii_) who, when makingtheir nests, utilize the old galleries of the Mason-bee. 

[Footnote 2: Later classifiers place both in the family of theCantharidæ. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The most nearly complete instances that I have seen furnishes me withthe following data: the pseudochrysalis is very closely enveloped inthe skin of the secondary larva, a skin consisting of fine transparentpellicle, without any rent whatever. This is the pouch of the Sitaris, save that it lies in immediate contact with the body enclosed. On thisjacket we distinguish three pairs of tiny legs, reduced to shortvestiges, to stumps. The head is in place, showing quite perceptiblythe fine mandibles and the other parts of the mouth. There is no traceof eyes. Each side has a white edging of shrivelled tracheæ, runningfrom one stigmatic orifice to another. 

Next comes the pseudochrysalis, horny, currant-red, cylindrical, cone-shaped at both ends, slightly convex on the dorsal surface andconcave on the ventral surface. It is covered with delicate, prominentspots, sprinkled very close together; it takes a lens to show them. Itis 1 centimetre long and 4 millimetres wide. [3] We can distinguish alarge knob of a head, on which the mouth is vaguely outlined; threepairs of little shiny brown specks, which are the hardly perceptiblevestiges of the legs; and on each side a row of eight black specks, which are the stigmatic orifices. The first speck stands by itself, infront; the seven others, divided from the first by an empty space, form a continuous row. Lastly, at the opposite end is a little pit, the sign of the anal pore. 

[Footnote 3: . 393 x . 156 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Of the six pseudochrysalids which a lucky accident placed at mydisposal, four were dead; the other two were furnished by _Zonitismutica_. This justified my forecast, which from the first, withanalogy for my guide, made me attribute these curious organizations tothe genus Zonitis. The meloidal parasite of the Osmiæ, therefore, isrecognized. We have still to make the acquaintance of the primarylarva, which gets itself carried by the Osmia into the cell full ofhoney, and the tertiary larva, the one which, at a given moment, mustbe found contained in the pseudochrysalis, a larva which will besucceeded by the nymph. 

Let us recapitulate the strange metamorphoses which I have sketched. Every Beetle-larva, before attaining the nymphal stage, undergoes agreater or smaller number of moults, of changes of skin; but thesemoults, which are intended to favour the development of the larva byridding it of covering that has become too tight for it, in no wayalter its external shape. After any moult that it may have undergone, the larva retains the same characteristics. If it begin by beingtough, it will not become tender; if it be equipped with legs, it willnot be deprived of them later; if it be provided with ocelli, it willnot become blind. It is true that the diet of these non-variable larværemains the same throughout their duration, as do the conditions underwhich they are destined to live. 

But suppose that this diet varies, that the environment in which theyare called upon to live changes, that the circumstances accompanyingtheir development are liable to great changes: it then becomes evidentthat the moult may and even must adapt the organization of the larvato these new conditions of existence. The primary larva of the Sitarislives on the body of the Anthophora. Its perilous peregrinationsdemand agility of movement, long-sighted eyes and masterlybalancing-appliances; it has, in fact, a slender shape, ocelli, legsand special organs adapted to averting a fall. Once inside the Bee'scell, it has to destroy the egg; its sharp mandibles, curved intohooks, will fulfil this office. This done, there is a change of diet:after the Anthophora's egg the larva proceeds to consume the ration ofhoney. The environment in which it has to live also changes: insteadof balancing itself on a hair of the Anthophora, it has now to floaton a sticky fluid; instead of living in broad daylight, it has toremain plunged in the profoundest darkness. Its sharp mandibles musttherefore become hollowed into a spoon that they may scoop up thehoney; its legs, its cirri, its balancing-appliances must disappear asuseless and even harmful, since all these organs can only involve thelarva in serious danger, by causing it to stick in the honey; itsslender shape, its horny integuments, its ocelli, being no longernecessary in a dark cell where movement is impossible, where there areno rough encounters to be feared, may likewise give place to completeblindness, to soft integuments, to a heavy, slothful form. Thistransfiguration, which everything shows to be indispensable to thelife of the larva, is effected by a simple moult. 

We do not so plainly perceive the necessity of the subsequent forms, which are so abnormal that nothing like them is known in all the restof the insect class. The larva which is fed on honey first adopts afalse chrysalid appearance and afterwards goes back to its earlierform, though the necessity for these transformations escapes usentirely. Here I am obliged to record the facts and to leave the taskof interpreting them to the future. The larva of the Meloidæ, therefore, undergo four moults before attaining the nymphal state; andafter each moult their characteristics alter most profoundly. Duringall these external changes, the internal organization remainsunchangingly the same; and it is only at the moment of the nymph'sappearance that the nervous system becomes concentrated and that thereproductive organs are developed, absolutely as in the other Beetles. 

Thus, to the ordinary metamorphoses which make a Beetle passsuccessively through the stages of larva, nymph and perfect insect, the Meloidæ add others which repeatedly transform the larva'sexterior, without introducing any modification of its viscera. Thismode of development, which preludes the customary entomological formsby the multiple transfigurations of the larva, certainly deserves aspecial name: I suggest that of _hypermetamorphosis_. 

Let us now recapitulate the more prominent facts of this essay. 

The Sitares, the Meloes, the Zonites and apparently other Meloidæ, possibly all of them, are in their earliest infancy parasites of theharvesting Bees. 

The larva of the Meloidæ, before reaching the nymphal state, passesthrough four forms, which I call the _primary larva_, the _secondarylarva_, the _pseudochrysalis_ and the _tertiary larva_. The passagefrom one of these forms to the next is effected by a simple moult, without any changes in the viscera. 

The primary larva is leathery and settles on the Bee's body. Itsobject is to get itself carried into a cell filled with honey. Onreaching the cell, it devours the Bee's egg; and its part is played. 

The secondary larva is soft and differs completely from the primarylarva in its external characteristics. It feeds upon the honeycontained in the usurped cell. 

The pseudochrysalis is a body deprived of all movement and clad inhorny integuments which may be compared with those of the pupæ andchrysalids. On these integuments we see a cephalic mask withoutdistinct or movable parts, six tubercles indicating the legs and ninepairs of breathing-holes. In the Sitares the pseudochrysalis isenclosed in a sort of sealed pouch and in the Zonites in atight-fitting bag formed of the skin of the secondary larva. In theMeloes it is simply half-sheathed in the split skin of the secondarylarva. 

The tertiary larva reproduces almost exactly the peculiarities of thesecond; it is enclosed, in the Sitares and probably also the Zonites, in a double vesicular envelope formed of the skin of the secondarylarva and the slough of the pseudochrysalis. In the Meloes, it ishalf-enclosed in the split integuments of the pseudochrysalis, even asthese, in their turn, are half-enclosed in the skin of the secondarylarva. 

From the tertiary larva onwards the metamorphoses follow theirhabitual course, that is to say, this larva becomes a nymph; and thisnymph the perfect insect. 

CHAPTER VICEROCOMÆ, MYLABRES AND ZONITES

All has not been told concerning the Meloidæ, those strange parasites, some of which, the Sitares and the Oil-beetles, attach themselves, like the tiniest of Lice, to the fleece of various Bees to getthemselves carried into the cell where they will destroy the egg andafterwards feed upon the ration of honey. A most unexpected discovery, made a few hundred yards from my door, has warned me once again howdangerous it is to generalize. To take it for granted, as the mass ofdata hitherto collected seemed to justify us in doing, that all theMeloidæ of our country usurp the stores of honey accumulated by theBees, was surely a most judicious and natural generalization. Manyhave accepted it without hesitation; and I for my part was one ofthem. For on what are we to base our conviction when we imagine thatwe are stating a law? We think to take our stand upon the general; andwe plunge into the quicksands of error. And behold, the law of theMeloidæ has to be struck off the statutes, a fate common to manyothers, as this chapter will prove. 

On the 16th of July, 1883, I was digging, with my son Émile, in thesandy heap where, a few days earlier, I had been observing the laboursand the surgery of the Mantis-killing Tachytes. My purpose was tocollect a few cocoons of this Digger-wasp. The cocoons were turning upin abundance under my pocket-trowel, when Émile presented me with anunknown object. Absorbed in my task of collection, I slipped the findinto my box without examining it further than with a rapid glance. Weleft the spot. Half-way home, the ardour of my search became assuaged;and a thought of the problematical object, so negligently dropped intothe box among the cocoons, flashed across my mind. 

"Hullo!" I said to myself. "Suppose it were _that_? Why not? But, no, yes, it _is_ that; that's just what it is!"

Then, suddenly turning to Émile, who was rather surprised by thissoliloquy:

"My boy, " I said, "you have had a magnificent find. It's apseudochrysalis of the Meloidæ. It's a document of incalculable value;you've struck a fresh vein in the extraordinary records of thesecreatures. Let us look at it closely and at once. "

The thing was taken from the box, dusted by blowing on it andcarefully examined. I really had before my eyes the pseudochrysalis ofsome Meloid. Its shape was unfamiliar to me. No matter: I was an oldhand and could not mistake its source. Everything assured me that Iwas on the track of an insect that rivalled the Sitares and theOil-beetles in the strangeness of its transformations; and, what was astill more precious fact, its occurrence amid the burrows of theMantis-killer told me that its habits would be wholly different. 

"It's very hot, my poor Émile; we are both of us pretty done. Nevermind: let's go back to our sand-hill and dig and have another search. I must have the larva that comes before the pseudochrysalis; I must, if possible, have the insect that comes out of it. "

Success responded amply to our zeal. We found a goodly number ofpseudochrysalids. More often still, we unearthed larvæ which were busyeating the Mantes, the rations of the Tachytes. Are these really thelarvæ that turn into the pseudochrysalids? It seems very probable, butthere is room for doubt. Rearing them at home will dispel the mists ofprobability and replace them by the light of certainty. But that isall: I have not a vestige of the perfect insect to inform me of thenature of the parasite. The future, let us hope, will fill this gap. Such was the result of the first trench opened in the heap of sand. Later searches enriched my harvest a little, without furnishing mewith fresh data. 

Let us now proceed to examine my double find. And first of all thepseudochrysalis, which put me on the alert. It is a motionless, rigidbody, of a waxen yellow, smooth, shiny, curved like a fish-hooktowards the head, which is inflected. Under a very powerfulmagnifying-glass the surface is seen to be strewn with very tinypoints which are slightly raised and shinier than the surface. Thereare thirteen segments, including the head. The dorsal surface isconvex, the ventral surface flat. A blunt ridge divides the twosurfaces. The three thoracic segments bear each a pair of tiny conicalnipples, of a deep rusty red, signs of the future legs. The stigmataare very distinct, appearing as specks of a deeper red than the restof the integuments. There is one pair, the largest, on the secondsegment of the thorax, almost on the line dividing it from the firstsegment. Then follow eight pairs, one on each segment of the abdomenexcept the last, making in all nine pairs of stigmata. The last pair, that of the eighth abdominal segment, is the smallest. 

The anal extremity displays no peculiarity. The cephalic maskcomprises eight cone-shaped tubercles, dark red like the tubercles ofthe legs. Six of these are arranged in two lateral rows; the othersare between the two rows. In each row of three nipples, the one in themiddle is the largest; it no doubt corresponds with the mandibles. Thelength of this organism varies greatly, fluctuating between 8 and 15millimetres. [1] Its width is from 3 to 4 millimetres. [2]

[Footnote 1: . 312 to . 585 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 2: . 117 to . 156 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Apart from the general configuration, it will be seen that we havehere the strikingly characteristic appearance of the pseudochrysalidsof the Sitares, Oil-beetles and Zonites. There are the same rigidinteguments, of the red of a cough-lozenge or virgin wax; the samecephalic mask, in which the future mouth-parts are represented byfaintly marked tubercles; the same thoracic studs, which are thevestiges of the legs; the same distribution of the stigmata. I wastherefore firmly convinced that the parasite of the Mantis-hunterscould only be a Meloid. 

Let us also record the description of the strange larva founddevouring the heap of Mantes in the burrows of the Tachytes. It isnaked, blind, white, soft and sharply curved. Its general appearancesuggests the larva of some Weevil. I should be even more accurate if Icompared it with the secondary larva of _Meloe cicatricosus_, of whichI once published a drawing in the _Annales des sciencesnaturelles_. [3] If we reduce the dimensions considerably, we shallhave something very like the parasite of the Tachytes. 

[Footnote 3: It was his essays in this periodical, on themetamorphoses of the Sitares and Oil-beetles, that procured Fabre hisfirst reputation as an entomologist. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The head is large, faintly tinged with red. The mandibles are strong, bent into a pointed hook, black at the tip and a fiery red at thebase. The antennæ are very short, inserted close to the root of themandibles. I count three joints: the first thick and globular, theother two cylindrical, the second of these cut short abruptly. Thereare twelve segments, apart from the head, divided by fairly definitegrooves. The first thoracic segment is a little longer than the rest, with the dorsal plate very slightly tinged with russet, as is the topof the head. Beginning with the tenth segment, the body tapers alittle. A slight scalloped rim divides the dorsal from the ventralsurface. 

The legs are short, white and transparent and end in a feeble claw. Apair of stigmata on the mesothorax, near the line of junction with theprothorax; a stigma on either side of the first eight abdominalsegments; in all nine pairs of stigmata, distributed like those of thepseudochrysalis. These stigmata are small, tinged with red and ratherdifficult to distinguish. Varying in size, like the pseudochrysalidwhich seems to come from it, this larva averages nearly half an inchin length and an eighth of an inch in width. 

The six little legs, feeble though they be, perform services which onewould not at first suspect. They embrace the Mantis that is beingdevoured and hold her under the mandibles, while the grub, lying onits side, takes its meal at its ease. They also serve for locomotion. On a firm surface, such as the wooden top of my table, the larva canmove about quite well; it toddles along, dragging its belly, with itsbody straight from end to end. On fine, loose sand, change of positionbecomes difficult. The grub now bends itself into a bow; it wrigglesupon its back, upon its side; it crawls a little way; it digs andheaves with its mandibles. But let a less crumbling support come toits assistance; and pilgrimages of some length are not beyond itspowers. 

I reared my guests in a box divided into compartments by means ofpaper partitions. Each space, representing about the capacity of aTachytes-cell, received its layer of sand, its pile of Mantes and itslarva. And more than one disturbance arose in this refectory, where Ihad reckoned upon keeping the banqueters isolated one from the other, each at its special table. This larva, which had finished its rationthe day before, was discovered next day in another chamber, where itwas sharing its neighbour's repast. It had therefore climbed thepartition, which for that matter was of no great height, or else hadforced its way through some chink. This is enough, I think, to provethat the grub is not a strict stay-at-home, as are the larvæ of theSitares and the Oil-beetles when devouring the ration of theAnthophora. 

I imagine that, in the burrows of the Tachytes, the grub, when itsheap of Mantes is consumed, moves from cell to cell until it hassatisfied its appetite. Its subterranean excursions cannot cover awide range, but they enable it to visit a few adjacent cells. I havementioned how greatly the Tachytes' provision of Mantes varies. [4] Thesmaller rations certainly fall to the males, which are puny dwarfscompared with their companions; the more plentiful fall to thefemales. The parasitic grub to which fate has allotted the scantymasculine ration has not perhaps sufficient with this share; it wantsan extra portion, which it can obtain by changing its cell. If it befavoured by chance, it will eat according to the measure of its hungerand will attain the full development of which its race allows; if itwander about without finding anything, it will fast and will remainsmall. This would explain the differences which I note in both thegrubs and the pseudochrysalids, differences amounting in lineardimensions to a hundred per cent and more. The rations, rare orabundant according to the cells lit upon, would determine the size ofthe parasite. 

[Footnote 4: The essay on the Tachytes has not yet appeared inEnglish. It will form part of a volume entitled _More HuntingWasps_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

During the active period, the larva undergoes a few moults; I havewitnessed at least one of these. The creature stripped of its skinappears as it was before, without any change of form. It instantlyresumes its meal, which was interrupted while the old skin was shed;it embraces with its legs another Mantis on the heap and proceeds tonibble her. Whether simple or multiple, this moult has nothing incommon with the renewals due to the hypermetamorphosis, which soprofoundly change the creature's appearance. 

Ten days' rearing in the partitioned box is enough to prove how rightI was when I looked upon the parasitic larva feeding on Mantes as theorigin of the pseudochrysalis, the object of my eager attention. Thecreature, which I kept supplied with additional food as long as itaccepted it, stops eating at last. It becomes motionless, retracts itshead slightly and bends itself into a hook. Then the skin splitsacross the head and down the thorax. The tattered slough is thrustback; and the pseudochrysalis appears in sight, absolutely naked. Itis white at first, as the larva was; but by degrees and fairly rapidlyit turns to the russet hue of virgin wax, with a brighter red at thetips of the various tubercles which indicate the future legs andmouth-parts. This shedding of the skin, which leaves the body of thepseudochrysalis uncovered, recalls the mode of transformation observedin the Oil-beetles and is different from that of the Sitares and theZonites, whose pseudochrysalis remains wholly enveloped in the skin ofthe secondary larva, a sort of bag which is sometimes loose, sometimestight and always unbroken. 

The mist that surrounded us at the outset is dispelled. This is indeeda Meloid, a true Meloid, one of the strangest anomalies among theparasites of its tribe. Instead of living on the honey of a Bee, itfeeds on the skewerful of Mantes provided by a Tachytes. TheNorth-American naturalists have taught us lately that honey is notalways the diet of the Blister-beetles: some Meloidæ in the UnitedStates devour the packets of eggs laid by the Grasshoppers. This is alegitimate acquisition on their part, not an illegal seizure of thefood-stores of others. No one, as far as I am aware, had as yetsuspected the true parasitism of a carnivorous Meloid. It isnevertheless very remarkable to find in the Blister-beetles, on bothsides of the Atlantic, this weakness for the flavour of Locust: onedevours her eggs; the other a representative of the order, in theshape of the Praying Mantis and her kin. 

Who will explain to me this predilection for the Orthopteron in atribe whose chief, the Oil-beetle, accepts nothing but the mess ofhoney? Why do insects which appear close together in all ourclassifications possess such opposite tastes? If they spring from acommon stock, how did the consumption of flesh supplant theconsumption of honey? How did the Lamb become a Wolf? This is thegreat problem which was once set us, in an inverse form, by theSpotted Sapyga, a honey-eating relative of the flesh-eating Scolia. [5]I submit the question to whom it may concern. 

[Footnote 5: The essays on these will appear in the volume, entitled_The Hunting Wasps_, aforementioned. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The following year, at the beginning of June, some of mypseudochrysalids split open transversely behind the head andlengthwise down the whole of the median line of the back, except thelast two or three segments. From it emerges the tertiary larva, which, from a simple examination with the pocket-lens, appears to me, in itsgeneral features, identical with the secondary larva, the one whicheats the Tachytes' provisions. It is naked and pale-yellow, the colourof butter. It is active and wriggles with awkward movements. Ordinarily it lies upon its side, but it can also stand in the normalposition. The creature is then trying to use its legs, without findingsufficient purchase to enable it to walk. A few days later, itrelapses into complete repose. 

Thirteen segments, including the head, which is large, with aquadrilateral cranium, rounded at the sides. Short antennæ, consistingof three knotted joints. Powerful curved mandibles, with two or threelittle teeth at the end, of a fairly bright red. Labial palpi ratherbulky, short and with three joints, like the antennæ. The mouth-parts, labrum, mandibles and palpi are movable and stir slightly, as thoughseeking food. A small brown speck near the base of each antenna, marking the place of the future eyes. Prothorax wider than thesegments that come after it. These are all of one width and aredistinctly divided by a furrow and a slight lateral rim. Legs short, transparent, without a terminal claw. They are three-jointed stumps. Pale stigmata, eight pairs of them, placed as in the pseudochrysalis, that is, the first and largest pair on the line dividing the first twosegments of the thorax and the seven others on the first sevenabdominal segments. The secondary larva and the pseudochrysalis alsohave a very small stigma on the penultimate segment of the abdomen. This stigma has disappeared in the tertiary larva; at least I cannotdetect it with the aid of a good magnifying-glass. 

Lastly, we find the same strong mandibles as in the secondary larva, the same feeble legs, the same appearance of a Weevil-grub. Themovements return, but are less clearly marked than in the primaryform. The passage through the pseudochrysalid state has led to nochange that is really worth describing. The creature, after thissingular phase, is what it was before. The Meloes and Sitares, forthat matter, behave similarly. 

Then what can be the meaning of this pseudochrysalid stage, which, when passed, leads precisely to the point of departure? The Meloidseems to be revolving in a circle: it undoes what it has just done, itdraws back after advancing. The idea sometimes occurs to me to lookupon the pseudochrysalis as a sort of egg of a superior organization, starting from which the insect follows the ordinary law ofentomological phases and passes through the successive stages oflarva, nymph and perfect insect. The first hatching, that of thenormal egg, makes the Meloid go through the larval dimorphism of theAnthrax and the Leucospis. The primary larva finds its way to thevictuals; the secondary larva consumes them. The second hatching, thatof the pseudochrysalis, reverts to the usual course, so that theinsect passes through the three customary forms: larva, nymph, adult. 

The tertiary larval stage is of brief duration, lasting about afortnight. The larva then sheds its skin by a longitudinal rent alongthe back, as did the secondary larva, uncovering the nymph, in whichwe recognize the Beetle, the genus and species being almostdeterminable by the antennæ. 

The second year's development turned out badly. The few nymphs which Iobtained about the middle of June shrivelled up without attaining theperfect form. Some pseudochrysalids remained on my hands withoutshowing any sign of approaching transformation. I attributed thisdelay to lack of warmth. I was in fact keeping them in the shade, on awhat-not, in my study, whereas under natural conditions they areexposed to the hottest sun, beneath a layer of sand a few inches deep. To imitate these conditions without burying my charges, whose progressI wished to follow comfortably, I placed the pseudochrysalids thatremained on a layer of fresh sand at the bottom of a glass receiver. Direct exposure to the sun was impracticable: it would have been fatalat a period when life is subterranean. To avoid it, I tied over themouth of the receiver a few thicknesses of black cloth, to representthe natural screen of sand; and the apparatus thus prepared wasexposed for some weeks to the most brilliant sunshine in my window. Under the cloth cover, which, owing to its colour, favours theabsorption of heat, the temperature, during the day-time, became thatof an oven; and yet the pseudochrysalids persisted in remainingstationary. The end of July was near and nothing indicated a speedyhatching. Convinced that my attempts at heating would be fruitless, Ireplaced the pseudochrysalids in the shade, on the shelves, in glasstubes. Here they passed a second year, still in the same condition. 

June returned once more and with it the appearance of the tertiarylarva, followed by the nymph. For the second time this stage ofdevelopment was not exceeded; the one and only nymph that I succeededin obtaining shrivelled, like those of the year before. Will these twofailures, arising no doubt from the overdry atmosphere of myreceivers, conceal from us the genus and the species of theMantis-eating Meloid? Fortunately, no. The riddle is easily solved bydeduction and comparison. 

The only Melodiæ in my part of the country which, though their habitsare still unknown, might correspond in size with either the larva orthe pseudochrysalis in question are the Twelve-pointed Mylabris andSchaeffer's Cerocoma. I find the first in July on the flowers of thesea scabious; I find the second at the end of May and in June on theheads of the Îles d'Hyères everlasting. This last date is best-suitedto explain the presence of the parasitic larva and its pseudochrysalisin the Tachytes' burrows from July onwards. Moreover, the Cerocoma isvery abundant in the neighbourhood of the sand-heaps haunted by theTachytes, while the Mylabris does not occur there. Nor is this all:the few nymphs obtained have curious antennæ, ending in a full, irregular tuft, the like of which is found only in the antennæ of themale Cerocoma. The Mylabris, therefore, must be eliminated; theantennæ, in the nymph, must be regularly jointed, as they are in theperfect insect. There remains the Cerocoma. 

Any lingering doubts may be dispelled: by good fortune, a friend ofmine, Dr. Beauregard, who is preparing a masterly work upon theBlister-beetles, had some pseudochrysalids of Schreber's Cerocoma inhis possession. Having visited Sérignan for the purpose of scientificinvestigations, he had searched the Tachytes' sand-heaps in my companyand taken back to Paris a few pseudochrysalids of grubs fed on Mantes, in order to follow their development. His attempts, like mine, hadmiscarried; but, on comparing the Sérignan pseudochrysalids with thoseof Schreber's Cerocoma, which came from Aramon, near Avignon, he wasable to establish the closest resemblance between the two organisms. Everything therefore confirms the supposition that my discovery canrelate only to Schaeffer's Cerocoma. As for the other, it must beeliminated: its extreme rarity in my neighbourhood is a sufficientreason. 

It is tiresome that the diet of the Aramon Meloid is not known. If Iallowed myself to be guided by analogy, I should be inclined to regardSchreber's Cerocoma as a parasite of _Tachytes tarsina_, who buriesher hoards of young Locusts in the high sandy banks. In that case, thetwo Cerocomæ would have a similar diet. But I leave it to Dr. Beauregard to elucidate this important characteristic. 

The riddle is deciphered: the Meloid that eats Praying Mantes isSchaeffer's Cerocoma, of whom I find plenty, in the spring, on theblossoms of the everlasting. Whenever I see it, my attention isattracted by an unusual peculiarity: the great difference of size thatis able to exist between one specimen and another, albeit of the samesex. I see stunted creatures, females as well as males, which arebarely one third the length of their better-developed companions. TheTwelve-spotted Mylabris and the Four-spotted Mylabris presentdifferences quite as pronounced in this respect. 

The cause which makes a dwarf or a giant of the same insect, irrespective of its sex, can be only the smaller or greater quantityof food. If the larva, as I suspect, is obliged to find the Tachytes'game-larder for itself and to visit a second and a third, when thefirst is too frugally furnished, it may be imagined that the hazard ofthe road does not favour all in the same way, but rather allotsabundance to one and penury to another. The grub that does not eat itsfill remains small, while the one that gluts itself grows fat. Thesedifferences of size, in themselves, betray parasitism. If a mother'spains had amassed the food, or if the family had had the industry toobtain it direct instead of robbing others, the ration would bepractically equal for all; and the inequalities in size would bereduced to those which often occur between the two sexes. 

They speak, moreover, of a precarious, risky parasitism, wherein theMeloid is not sure of finding its food, which the Sitaris finds sodeftly, getting itself carried by the Anthophora, after being born atthe very entrance to the Bee's galleries and leaving its retreat onlyto slip into its host's fleece. A vagabond obliged to find for itselfthe food that suits it, the Cerocoma incurs the risk of Lenten fare. 

One chapter is lacking to complete the history of Schaeffer'sCerocoma: that which treats of the beginning, the laying of the eggs, the egg itself and the primary larva. While watching the developmentof the Mantis-eating parasite, I took my precautions, in the firstyear, to discover its starting-point. By eliminating what was known tome and seeking among the Meloidæ of my neighbourhood for the size thatcorresponded with the pseudochrysalids unearthed from the Tachytes'burrows, I found, as I have said, only Schaeffer's Cerocoma and theTwelve-spotted Mylabris. I undertook to rear these in order to obtaintheir eggs. 

As a standard of comparison, the Four-spotted Mylabris, of a moreimposing size, was added to the first two. A fourth, _Zonitis mutica_, whom I did not need to consult, knowing that she was not connectedwith the matter in hand and being familiar with her pseudochrysalis, completed my school of egg-layers. I proposed, if possible, to obtainher primary larva. Lastly, I had formerly reared some Cantharides withthe object of observing their egg-laying. In all, five species ofBlister-beetles, reared in a breeding-cage, have left a few lines ofnotes in my records. 

The method of rearing is of the simplest. Each species is placed undera large wire-gauze dome standing in a basin filled with earth. In themiddle of the enclosure is a bottle full of water, in which the foodsoaks and keeps fresh. For the Cantharides, this is a bundle ofash-twigs; for the Four-spotted Mylabris, a bunch of bindweed(_Convolvus arvensis_) or psoralea (_P. Biluminosa_), of which theinsect nibbles only the corollæ. For the Twelve-spotted Mylabris, Iprovide blossoms of the scabious (_Scabiosa maritima_); for theZonitis, the full-blown heads of the eryngo (_Eryngium campestre_);for Schaeffer's Cerocoma, the heads of the Îles d'Hyères everlasting(_Helichrysum stoechas_). These three last nibble more particularlythe anthers, more rarely the petals, never the leaves. 

A sorry intellect and sorry manners, which hardly repay the minutecares involved in the rearing. To browse, to love her lord, to dig ahole in the earth and carelessly to bury her eggs in it: that is thewhole life of the adult Meloid. The dull creature acquires a littleinterest only at the moment when the male begins to toy with his mate. Every species has its own ritual in declaring its passion; and it isnot beneath the dignity of the observer to witness the manifestations, sometimes so very strange, of the universal Eros, who rules the worldand brings a tremor to even the lowest of the brute creation. This isthe ultimate aim of the insect, which becomes transfigured for thissolemn function and then dies, having no more to do. 

A curious book might be written on the subject of love among thebeasts. Long ago the subject tempted me. For a quarter of a century mynotes have been slumbering, dustily, in a corner of my library. Iextract from them the following details concerning the Cantharides. Iam not the first, I know, to describe the amorous preludes of theMeloid of the Ash-tree; but the change of narrator may give thenarrative a certain value: it confirms what has already been said andthrows light upon some points which may have escaped notice. 

A female Cantharides is peacefully nibbling her leaf. A lover comesupon the scene, approaches her from behind, suddenly mounts upon herback and embraces her with his two pairs of hind-legs. Then with hisabdomen, which he lengthens as much as possible, he energeticallyslaps that of the female, on the right side and the left by turns. Itis like the strokes of a washerwoman's bat, delivered with frenziedrapidity. With his antennæ and his fore-legs, which remain free, hefuriously lashes the neck of the victim. While the blows fall thick ashail, in front and behind, the head and corselet of the amorous swainare shaken by an extravagant swaying and trembling. You would thinkthat the creature was having an epileptic fit. 

Meanwhile, the beloved makes herself small, opening her wing-casesslightly, hiding her head and tucking her abdomen under her, as thoughto escape the erotic thunderstorm that is bursting upon her back. Butthe paroxysm calms down. The male extends his fore-legs, shaken by anervous tremor, like the arms of a cross and in this ecstatic postureseems to call upon the heavens to witness the ardour of his desires. The antennæ and the belly are held motionless, in a straight line; thehead and the corselet alone continue to heave rapidly up and down. This period of repose does not last long. Short as it is, the female, her appetite undisturbed by the passionate protestations of her wooer, imperturbably resumes the nibbling of her leaf. 

Another paroxysm bursts forth. Once more the male's blows rain uponthe neck of the tightly-clasped victim, who hastens to bow her headupon her breast. But he has no intention of allowing his lady-love toescape. With his fore-legs, using a special notch placed at thejuncture of the leg and the tarsus, he seizes both her antennæ. Thetarsus folds back; and the antennæ are held as in a vice. The suitorpulls; and the callous one is forced to raise her head. In thisposture the male reminds one of a horseman proudly sitting his steedand holding the reins in both hands. Thus mastering his mount, he issometimes motionless and sometimes frenzied in his demonstrations. Then, with his long abdomen, he lashes the female's hinder-parts, first on one side, then on the other; the front part he flogs, hammersand pounds with blows of his antennæ, head and feet. The object of hisdesires will be unfeeling indeed if she refuse to surrender to sopassionate a declaration. 

Nevertheless she still requires entreating. The impassioned loverresumes his ecstatic immobility, with his quivering arms outstretchedlike the limbs of a cross. At brief intervals the amorous outbursts, with blows conscientiously distributed, recur in alternation withperiods of repose, during which the male holds his fore-legscrosswise, or else masters the female by the bridle of her antennæ. Atlast the flagellated beauty allows herself to be touched by the charmattendant on his thumps. She yields. Coupling takes place and lastsfor twenty hours. The heroic part of the male's performance is over. Dragged backwards behind the female, the poor fellow strives touncouple himself. His mate carts him about from leaf to leaf, wherevershe pleases, so that she may choose the bit of green stuff to hertaste. Sometimes he also takes a gallant resolve and, like the female, begins to browse. You lucky creatures, who, so as not to lose a momentof your four or five weeks' existence, yoke together the cravings oflove and hunger! Your motto is, "A short life and a merry one. "

The Cerocoma, who is a golden green like the Cantharides, seems tohave partly adopted the amorous rites of her rival in dress. The male, always the elegant sex in the insect tribe, wears special ornaments. The horns or antennæ, magnificently complicated, form as it were twotufts of a thick head of hair. It is to this that the name Cerocomarefers: the creature crested with its horns. When a bright sun shinesinto the breeding-cage, it is not long before the insects form coupleson the bunch of everlastings. Hoisted on the female, whom he embracesand holds with his two pairs of hind-legs, the male sways his head andcorselet up and down, all in a piece. This oscillatory movement hasnot the fiery precipitation of that of the Cantharides; it is calmerand as it were rhythmical. The abdomen moreover remains motionless andseems unskilled in those slaps, as of a washerwoman's bat, which theamorous denizen of the ash-tree so vigorously distributes with hisbelly. 

While the front half of the body swings up and down, the fore-legsexecute magnetic passes on either side of the tight-clasped female, moving with a sort of twirl, so rapidly that the eye can hardly followthem. The female appears insensible to this flagellatory twirl. Sheinnocently curls her antennæ. The rejected suitor leaves her and moveson to another. His dizzy, twirling passes, his protestations areeverywhere refused. The moment has not yet arrived, or rather the spotis not propitious. Captivity appears to weigh upon the future mothers. Before listening to their wooers they must have the open air, thesudden joyful flight from cluster to cluster on the sunlit slope, allgold with everlastings. Apart from the idyll of the twirling passes, amitigated form of the Cantharides' blows, the Cerocoma refused toyield before my eyes to the last act of the bridal. 

Among males the same oscillations of the body and the same lateralflagellations are frequently practised. While the upper one makes atremendous to-do and whirls his legs, the one under him keeps quiet. Sometimes a third scatterbrain comes on the scene, sometimes even afourth, and mounts upon the heap of his predecessors. The uppermostbobs up and down and makes swift rowing-strokes with his fore-legs;the others remain motionless. Thus are the sorrows of the rejectedbeguiled for a moment. 

The Zonites, a rude clan, grazing on the heads of the prickly eryngo, despise all tender preliminaries. A few rapid vibrations of theantennæ on the males' part; and that is all. The declaration could notbe briefer. The pairing, with the creatures placed end to end, lastsnearly an hour. 

The Mylabres also must be very expeditious in their preliminaries, somuch so that my cages, which were kept well-stocked for two summers, provided me with numerous batches of eggs without giving me a singleopportunity of catching the males in the least bit of a flirtation. Let us therefore consider the egg-laying. 

This takes place in August for our two species of Mylabres. In thevegetable mould which does duty as a floor to the wire-gauze dome, themother digs a pit four-fifths of an inch deep and as wide as her body. This is the place for the eggs. The laying lasts barely half an hour. I have seen it last thirty-six hours with Sitares. This quickness ofthe Mylabris points to an incomparably less numerous family. Thehiding-place is next closed. The mother sweeps up the rubbish with herfore-legs, collects it with the rake of her mandibles and pushes itback into the pit, into which she now descends to stamp upon thepowdery layer and cram it down with her hind-legs, which I see swiftlyworking. When this layer is well packed, she starts raking togetherfresh material to complete the filling of the hole, which is carefullytrampled stratum by stratum. 

I take the mother from her pit while she is engaged in filling it up. Delicately, with the tip of a camel-hair pencil, I move her a coupleof inches. The Beetle does not return to her batch of eggs, does noteven look for it. She climbs up the wire gauze and proceeds to grazeamong her companions on the bindweed or scabious, without troublingherself further about her eggs, whose hiding-place is onlyhalf-filled. A second mother, whom I move only one inch, is no longerable to return to her task, or rather does not think of doing so. Itake a third, after shifting her just as slightly, and, while theforgetful creature is climbing up the trellis-work, bring her back tothe pit. I replace her with her head at the opening. The mother standsmotionless, looking thoroughly perplexed. She sways her head, passesher front tarsi through her mandibles, then moves away and climbs tothe top of the dome without attempting anything. In each of thesethree cases I have to finish filling in the pit myself. What then arethis maternity, which the touch of a brush causes to forget itsduties, and this memory, which is lost at a distance of an inch fromthe spot? Compare with these shortcomings of the adult the expertmachinations of the primary larva, which knows where its victuals areand as its first action introduces itself into the dwelling of thehost that is to feed it. How can time and experience be factors ofinstinct? The newborn animalcule amazes us with its foresight; theadult insect astonishes us with its stupidity. 

With both Mylabres, the batch consists of some forty eggs, a verysmall number compared with those of the Oil-beetle and the Sitaris. This limited family was already foreseen, judging by the short spaceof time which the egg-layer spends in her underground lodging. Theeggs of the Twelve-spotted Mylabris are white, cylindrical, rounded atboth ends and measure a millimetre and a half in length by half amillimetre in width. [6] Those of the Four-spotted Mylabris are strawcoloured and of an elongated oval, a trifle fuller at one end than atthe other. Length, two millimetres; width, a little under onemillimetre. [7]

[Footnote 6: . 058 x . 019 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 7: . 078 x . 039 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Of all the batches of eggs collected, one alone hatched. The rest wereprobably sterile, a suspicion corroborated by the lack of pairing inthe breeding-cage. Laid at the end of July, the eggs of theTwelve-spotted Mylabris began to hatch on the 5th of September. Theprimary larva of this Meloid is still unknown, so far as I am aware;and I shall describe it in detail. It will be the starting-point of achapter which perhaps will give us some fresh sidelights upon thehistory of the hypermetamorphosis. 

The larva is nearly 2 millimetres long. [8] Coming out of a good-sizedegg, it is endowed with greater vigour than the larvæ of the Sitaresand Oil-beetles. The head is large, rounded, slightly wider than theprothorax and of a rather brighter red. Mandibles powerful, sharp, curved, with the ends crossing, of the same colour as the head, darkerat the tips. Eyes black, prominent, globular, very distinct. Antennæfairly long, with three joints, the last thinner and pointed. Palpivery much pronounced. 

[Footnote 8: . 078 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The first thoracic segment has very nearly the same diameter as thehead and is much longer than those which come after. It forms a sortof cuirass equal in length to almost three abdominal segments. It issquared off in front in a straight line and is rounded at the sidesand at the back. Its colour is bright red. The second ring is hardly athird as long as the first. It is also red, but a little browner. Thethird is dark brown, with a touch of green to it. This tint isrepeated throughout the abdomen, so that in the matter of colouringthe creature is divided into two sections: the front, which is afairly bright red, includes the head and the first two thoracicsegments; the second, which is a greenish brown, includes the thirdthoracic segment and the nine abdominal rings. 

The three pairs of legs are pale red, strong and long, considering thecreature's smallness. They end in a single long, sharp claw. 

The abdomen has nine segments, all of an olive brown. The membranousspaces which connect them are white, so that, from the second thoracicring downwards, the tiny creature is alternatively ringed with whiteand olive brown. All the brown rings bristle with short, sparse hairs. The anal segment, which is narrower than the rest, bears at the tiptwo long cirri, very fine, slightly waved and almost as long as thewhole abdomen. 

This description enables us to picture a sturdy little creature, capable of biting lustily with its mandibles, exploring the countrywith its big eyes and moving about with six strong harpoons as asupport. We no longer have to do with the puny louse of theOil-beetle, which lies in ambush on a cichoriaceous blossom in orderto slip into the fleece of a harvesting Bee; nor with the black atomof the Sitaris, which swarms in a heap on the spot where it ishatched, at the Anthophora's door. I see the young Mylabris stridingeagerly up and down the glass tube in which it was born. 

What is it seeking? What does it want? I give it a Bee, a Halictus, [9]to see if it will settle on the insect, as the Sitares and Oil-beetleswould not fail to do. My offer is scorned. It is not a wingedconveyance that my prisoners require. 

[Footnote 9: Cf. _Bramble-bees and Others_: chaps. Xii. Toxiv. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The primary larva of the Mylabris therefore does not imitate those ofthe Sitaris and the Oil-beetle; it does not settle in the fleece ofits host to get itself carried to the cell crammed with victuals. Thetask of seeking and finding the heap of food falls upon its ownshoulders. The small number of the eggs that constitute a batch alsoleads to the same conclusion. Remember that the primary larva of theOil-beetle, for instance, settles on any insect that happens to pay amomentary visit to the flower in which the tiny creature is on thelook-out. Whether this visitor be hairy or smooth-skinned, amanufacturer of honey, a canner of animal flesh or without anydetermined calling, whether she be Spider, Butterfly, Fly or Beetlemakes no difference: the instant the little yellow louse espies thenew arrival, it perches on her back and leaves with her. And now itall depends on luck! How many of these stray travellers must be lost;how many will never be carried into a warehouse full of honey, theirsole food! Therefore, to remedy this enormous waste, the motherproduces an innumerable family. The Oil-beetle's batch of eggs isprodigious. Prodigious too is that of the Sitaris, who is exposed tosimilar misadventures. 

If, with her thirty or forty eggs, the Mylabris had to run the samerisks, perhaps not one larva would reach the desired goal. For sostrictly limited a family a safer method is needed. The young larvamust not get itself carried to the game-basket, or more probably tothe honey-pot, at the risk of never reaching it; it must travel on itsown legs. Allowing myself to be guided by the logic of things, I shalltherefore complete the story of the Twelve-spotted Mylabris asfollows. 

The mother lays her eggs underground near the spots frequented by thefoster-mothers. The recently-hatched young grubs leave their lodgingsin September and travel within a restricted radius in search ofburrows containing food. The little creature's sturdy legs allow ofthese underground investigations. The mandibles, which are just asstrong, necessarily play their part. The parasite, on forcing its wayinto the food-pit, finds itself faced with either the egg or the younglarva of the Bee. These are competitors, whom it is important to getrid of as quickly as possible. The hooks of the mandibles now comeinto play, tearing the egg or the defenceless grub. After this act ofbrigandage, which may be compared with that of the primary larva ofthe Sitaris ripping open and drinking the contents of the Anthophora'segg, the Meloid, now the sole possessor of the victuals, doffs itsbattle array and becomes the pot-bellied grub, the consumer of theproperty so brutally acquired. These are merely suspicions on my part, nothing more. Direct observation will, I believe, confirm them, soclose is their connection with the known facts. 

Two Zonites, both visitors of the eryngo-heads during the heats ofsummer, are among the Meloidæ of my part of the country. They are_Zonitis mutica_ and _Z. Præusta_. I have spoken of the first inanother volume;[10] I have mentioned its pseudochrysalis found in thecells of two Osmiæ, namely, the Three-pronged Osmia, which piles itscells in a dry bramble-stem, and the Three-horned Osmia and alsoLatreille's Osmia, both of which exploit the nests of the Chalicodomaof the Sheds. The second Zonitis is to-day adding its quota ofevidence to a story which is still very incomplete. I have obtainedthe Burnt Zonitis, in the first place, from the cotton pouches of_Anthidium scapulare_, who, like the Three-toothed Osmia, makes hernests in the brambles; in the second place, from the wallets of_Megachile sericans_, made with little round disks of the leaves ofthe common acacia; in the third place, from the cells which _Anthidiumbellicosum_[11] builds with partitions of resin in the shell of a deadSnail. This last Anthidium is the victim also of the Unarmed Zonitis. Thus we have two closely-related exploiters for the same victim. 

[Footnote 10: Cf. _Bramble-bees and Others_: chaps. I. , iii. Andx. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 11: For the Cotton-bee, Leaf-cutter and Resin-bee mentioned, cf. _Bramble-bees and Others_: _passim_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

During the last fortnight of July, I witness the emergence of theBurnt Zonitis from the pseudochrysalis. The latter is cylindrical, slightly curved and rounded at both ends. It is closely wrapped in thecast skin of the secondary larva, a skin consisting of a diaphanousbag, without any outlet, with running along each side a white trachealthread which connects the various stigmatic apertures. I easilyrecognize the seven abdominal stigmata; they are round and diminishslightly in width from front to back. I also detect the thoracicstigma. Lastly, I perceive the legs, which are quite small, with weakclaws, incapable of supporting the creature. Of the mouth-parts I seeplainly only the mandibles, which are short, weak and brown. In short, the secondary larva was soft, white, big-bellied, blind, withrudimentary legs. Similar results were furnished by the shed skin ofthe secondary larva of _Zonitis mutica_, consisting, like the other, of a bag without an opening, fitting closely over the pseudochrysalis. 

Let us continue our examination of the relics of the Burnt Zonitis. The pseudochrysalis is red, the colour of a cough-lozenge. It remainsintact after opening, except in front, where the adult insect hasemerged. In shape it is a cylindrical bag, with firm, elastic walls. The segmentation is plainly visible. The magnifying-glass shows thefine star-shaped dots already observed in the Unarmed Zonitis. Thestigmatic apertures have a projecting, dark-red rim. They are all, even the last, clearly marked. The signs of the legs are mere studs, hardly protruding, a little darker than the rest of the skin. Thecephalic mask is reduced to a few mouldings which are not easy todistinguish. 

At the bottom of this pseudochrysalidal sheath I find a little whitewad which, when placed in water, softened and then patientlyunravelled with the tip of a paint-brush, yields a white, powderysubstance, which is uric acid, the usual product of the work of thenymphosis, and a rumpled membrane, in which I recognize the cast skinof the nymph. There should still be the tertiary larva, of which I seenot a trace. But, on taking a needle and gradually breaking theenvelope of the pseudochrysalis, after soaking it awhile in water, Isee it dividing into two layers, one an outer layer, brittle, horny inappearance and currant-red; the other an inner layer, consisting of atransparent, flexible pellicle. There can be no doubt that this innerlayer represents the tertiary larva, whose skin is left adhering tothe envelope of the pseudochrysalis. It is fairly thick and tough, butI cannot detach it except in shreds, so closely does it adhere to thehorny, crumbly sheath. 

Since I possessed a fair number of pseudochrysalids, I sacrificed afew in order to ascertain their contents on the approach of the finaltransformations. Well, I never found anything that I could detach; Inever succeeded in extracting a larva in its tertiary form, thoughthis larva is so easily obtained from the amber pouches of the Sitaresand, in the Oil-beetles and Cerocomæ, emerges of its own accord fromthe split wrapper of the pseudochrysalis. When, for the first time, the stiff shell encloses a body which does not adhere to the rest, this body is a nymph and nothing else. The wall surrounding it is adull white inside. I attribute this colouring to the cast skin of thetertiary larva, which was inseparably fixed to the shell of thepseudochrysalis. 

The Zonites, therefore, display a peculiarity which is not offered bythe other Meloidæ, namely, a series of tightly-fitting shells, onewithin the other. The pseudochrysalis is enclosed in the skin of thesecondary larva, a skin which forms a pouch without an orifice, fittedvery closely to its contents. The slough of the tertiary larva fitseven more closely to the inner surface of the pseudochrysalid sheath. The nymph alone does not adhere to its envelope. In the Cerocomæ andthe Oil-beetles, each form of the hypermetamorphosis becomes detachedfrom the preceding skin by a complete extraction; the contents areremoved from the ruptured container and have no further connectionwith it. In the Sitares, the successive casts are not ruptured andremain enclosed inside one another, but with an interval between, sothat the tertiary larva can move and turn as it wishes in its multipleenclosure. In the Zonites, there is the same arrangement, with thisdifference, that, until the nymph appears, there is no empty spacebetween one slough and the next. The tertiary larva cannot budge. Itis not free, as witness its cast skin, which fits so precisely to theenvelope of the pseudochrysalis. This form would therefore passunperceived if its existence were not proclaimed by the membrane whichlines the inside of the pseudochrysalid pouch. 

To complete the story of the Zonites, the primary larva is lacking. Ido not yet know it, for, when rearing the insect under wire-gauzecovers, I never succeeded in obtaining a batch of eggs. 

CHAPTER VIITHE CAPRICORN

My youthful meditations owe some happy moments to Condillac's[1]famous statue which, when endowed with the sense of smell, inhales thescent of a rose and out of that single impression creates a wholeworld of ideas. My twenty-year-old mind, full of faith in syllogisms, loved to follow the deductive jugglery of the abbé-philosopher: I saw, or seemed to see, the statue take life in that action of the nostrils, acquiring attention, memory, judgment and all the psychologicalparaphernalia, even as still waters are aroused and rippled by theimpact of a grain of sand. I recovered from my illusion under theinstruction of my abler master, the animal. The Capricorn shall teachus that the problem is more obscure than the abbé led me to believe. 

[Footnote 1: Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, Abbé de Mureaux (1715-1780), the leading exponent of sensational philosophy. His most importantwork is the _Traité des sensations_, in which he imagines a statue, organized like a man, and endows it with the senses one by one, beginning with that of smell. He argues by a process of imaginativereconstruction that all human faculties and all human knowledge aremerely transformed sensation, to the exclusion of any other principle, that, in short, everything has its source in sensation: man is nothingbut what he has acquired. --_Translator's Note_. ]

When wedge and mallet are at work, preparing my provision of firewoodunder the grey sky that heralds winter, a favourite relaxation createsa welcome break in my daily output of prose. By my express orders, thewoodman has selected the oldest and most ravaged trunks in his stack. My tastes bring a smile to his lips; he wonders by what whimsy Iprefer wood that is worm-eaten, _chirouna_, as he calls it, to soundwood, which burns so much better. I have my views on the subject; andthe worthy man submits to them. 

And now to us two, O my fine oak-trunk seamed with scars, gashed withwounds whence trickle the brown drops smelling of the tan-yard. Themallet drives home, the wedges bite, the wood splits. What do yourflanks contain? Real treasures for my studies. In the dry and hollowparts, groups of various insects, capable of living through the badseason of the year, have taken up their winter quarters: in thelow-roofed galleries, galleries built by some Buprestis Beetle, Osmiæ, working their paste of masticated leaves, have piled their cells oneabove the other; in the deserted chambers and vestibules, Megachileshave arranged their leafy jars; in the live wood, filled with juicysaps, the larvæ of the Capricorn (_Cerambyx miles_), the chief authorof the oak's undoing, have set up their home. 

Strange creatures, of a verity, are these grubs, for an insect ofsuperior organization: bits of intestines crawling about! At this timeof year, the middle of autumn, I meet them of two different ages. Theolder are almost as thick as one's finger; the others hardly attainthe diameter of a pencil. I find, in addition, pupæ more or less fullycoloured, perfect insects, with a distended abdomen, ready to leavethe trunk when the hot weather comes again. Life inside the wood, therefore, lasts three years. How is this long period of solitude andcaptivity spent? In wandering lazily through the thickness of the oak, in making roads whose rubbish serves as food. The horse in Jobswallows the ground[2] in a figure of speech; the Capricorn's grubeats its way literally. With its carpenter's-gouge, a strong blackmandible, short, devoid of notches, scooped into a sharp-edged spoon, it digs the opening of its tunnel. The piece cut out is a mouthfulwhich, as it enters the stomach, yields its scanty juices andaccumulates behind the worker in heaps of wormed wood. The refuseleaves room in front by passing through the worker. A labour at onceof nutrition and of road-making, the path is devoured whileconstructed; it is blocked behind as it makes way ahead. That, however, is how all the borers who look to wood for victuals andlodging set about their business. 

[Footnote 2: "Chafing and raging, he swalloweth the ground, neitherdoth he make account when the noise of the trumpet soundeth. "--Job, xxxix, 23 (Douai version). --_Translator's Note_. ]

For the harsh work of its two gouges, or curved chisels, the larva ofthe Capricorn concentrates its muscular strength in the front of itsbody, which swells into a pestle-head. The Buprestis-grubs, thoseother industrious carpenters, adopt a similar form; they evenexaggerate their pestle. The part that toils and carves hard woodrequires a robust structure; the rest of the body, which has but tofollow after, continues slim. The essential thing is that theimplement of the jaws should possess a solid support and a powerfulmotor. The Cerambyx-larva strengthens its chisels with a stout, black, horny armour that surrounds the mouth; yet, apart from its skull andits equipment of tools, the grub has a skin as fine as satin and aswhite as ivory. This dead white comes from a copious layer of greasewhich the animal's spare diet would not lead us to suspect. True, ithas nothing to do, at every hour of the day and night, but gnaw. Thequantity of wood that passes into its stomach makes up for the dearthof nourishing elements. 

The legs, consisting of three pieces, the first globular, the lastsharp-pointed, are mere rudiments, vestiges. They are hardly amillimetre[3] long. For this reason, they are of no use whatever forwalking; they do not even bear upon the supporting surface, being keptoff it by the obesity of the chest. The organs of locomotion aresomething altogether different. The Cetonia-grub[4] has shown us how, with the aid of the hairs and the pad-like excrescences upon itsspine, it manages to reverse the universally-accepted usage and towriggle along on its back. The grub of the Capricorn is even moreingenious: it moves at the same time on its back and belly; instead ofthe useless legs of the thorax, it has a walking-apparatus almostresembling feet, which appear, contrary to every rule, on the dorsalsurface. 

[Footnote 3: . 039 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 4: For the grub of the Cetonia, or Rose-chafer, cf. _TheLife and Love of the Insect_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. Xi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The first seven segments of the abdomen have, both above and below, afour-sided facet, bristling with rough protuberances. This the grubcan either expand or contract, making it stick out or lie flat atwill. The upper facets consist of two excrescences separated by themid-dorsal line; the lower ones have not this divided appearance. These are the organs of locomotion, the ambulacra. When the larvawishes to move forwards, it expands its hinder ambulacra, those on theback as well as those on the belly, and contracts its front ones. Fixed to the side of the narrow gallery by their ridges, the hind-padsgive the grub a purchase. The flattening of the fore-pads, bydecreasing the diameter, allows it to slip forward and to take half astep. To complete the step, the hind-quarters have to be brought upthe same distance. With this object, the front pads fill out andprovide support, while those behind shrink and leave free scope fortheir segments to contract. 

With the double support of its back and belly, with alternate puffingsand shrinkings, the animal easily advances or retreats along itsgallery, a sort of mould which the contents fill without a gap. But, if the locomotory pads grip only on one side, progress becomesimpossible. When placed on the smooth wood of my table, the animalwriggles slowly; it lengthens and shortens without advancing by ahair'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 andwrithes, moves the front part of its body very slowly from left toright and right to left, lifts it a little, lowers it and beginsagain. These are the most extensive movements made. The vestigial legsremain inert and absolutely useless. 

Then why are they there? Better to lose them altogether, if it be truethat crawling inside the oak has deprived the animal of the good legswith which it started. The influence of environment, so well-inspiredin endowing the grub with ambulatory pads, becomes a mockery when itleaves it these ridiculous stumps. Can the structure, perchance, beobeying other rules than those of environment?

Though the useless legs, the germs of the future limbs, persist, thereis no sign in the grub of the eyes wherewith the Cerambyx will berichly gifted. The larva has not the least trace of organs of vision. What would it do with sight, in the murky thickness of a tree-trunk?Hearing is likewise absent. In the never-troubled silence of the oak'sinmost heart, the sense of hearing would be a non-sense. Where soundsare lacking, of what use is the faculty of discerning them? Shouldthere be any doubts, I will reply to them with the followingexperiment. Split lengthwise, the grub's abode leaves a half-tunnelwherein I can watch the occupant's doings. When left alone, it nowgnaws the front of its gallery, now rests, fixed by its ambulacra tothe two sides of the channel. I avail myself of these moments of quietto enquire into its power of perceiving sounds. The banging of hardbodies, the ring of metallic objects, the grating of a file upon a saware tried in vain. The animal remains impassive. Not a wince, not amove of the skin; no sign of awakened attention. I succeed no betterwhen I scratch the wood close by with a hard point, to imitate thesound of some neighbouring larva gnawing the intervening thickness. The indifference to my noisy tricks could be no greater in a lifelessobject. The animal is deaf. 

Can it smell? Everything tells us no. Scent is of assistance in thesearch for food. But the Capricorn-grub need not go in quest ofeatables: it feeds on its home, it lives on the wood that gives itshelter. Let us make an attempt or two, however. I scoop in a log offresh cypress-wood a groove of the same diameter as that of thenatural galleries and I place the worm inside it. Cypress-wood isstrongly-scented; it possesses in a high degree that resinous aromawhich characterizes most of the pine family. Well, when laid in theodoriferous channel, the larva goes to the end, as far as it can go, and makes no further movement. Does not this placid quiescence pointto the absence of a sense of smell? The resinous flavour, so strangeto the grub which has always lived in oak, ought to vex it, to troubleit; and the disagreeable impression ought to be revealed by a certaincommotion, by certain attempts to get away. Well, nothing of the kindhappens: once the larva has found the right position in the groove, itdoes not stir. I do more: I set before it, at a very short distance, in its normal canal, a piece of camphor. Again, no effect. Camphor isfollowed by naphthaline. Still nothing. After these fruitlessendeavours, I do not think that I am going too far when I deny thecreature 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 thegrub's palate appreciate in this monotonous fare? The tannic relish ofa fresh piece, oozing with sap; the uninteresting flavour of anover-dry piece, robbed of its natural condiment: these probablyrepresent the whole gustative scale. 

There remains touch, the far-spreading passive sense common to alllive flesh that quivers under the goad of pain. The sensitive scheduleof the Cerambyx-grub, therefore, is limited to taste and touch, bothexceedingly obtuse. This almost brings us to Condillac's statue. Theimaginary being of the philosopher had one sense only, that of smell, equal in delicacy to our own; the real being, the ravager of the oak, has two, inferior, even when put together, to the former, which soplainly perceived the scent of a rose and distinguished it so clearlyfrom any other. The real case will bear comparison with thefictitious. 

What can be the psychology of a creature possessing such a powerfuldigestive organism combined with such a feeble set of senses? A vainwish has often come to me in my dreams: it is to be able to think, fora few minutes, with the crude brain of my Dog, to see the world withthe faceted eyes of a Gnat. How things would change in appearance!They would change much more if interpreted by the intellect of thegrub. What have the lessons of touch and taste contributed to thatrudimentary receptacle of impressions? Very little; almost nothing. The animal knows that the best bits possess an astringent flavour;that the sides of a passage not carefully planed are painful to theskin. This is the utmost limit of its acquired wisdom. In comparison, the statue with the sensitive nostrils was a marvel of knowledge, aparagon too generously endowed by its inventor. It remembered, compared, judged, reasoned: does the drowsy, digesting paunchremember? Does it compare? Does it reason? I defined theCapricorn-grub as a bit of an intestine that crawls about. Theundeniable accuracy of this definition provides me with my answer: thegrub has the aggregate of sense-impressions that a bit of an intestinemay hope to have. 

And this nothing-at-all is capable of marvellous acts of foresight;this belly, which knows hardly anything of the present, sees veryclearly into the future. Let us take an illustration on this curioussubject. For three years on end, the larva wanders about in the thickof the trunk; it goes up, goes down, turns to this side and that; itleaves one vein for another of better flavour, but without moving toofar from the inner depths, where the temperature is milder and greatersafety reigns. A day is at hand, a dangerous day for the recluseobliged to quit its excellent retreat and face the perils of thesurface. Eating is not everything: we have to get out of this. Thelarva, so well-equipped with tools and muscular strength, finds nodifficulty in going where it pleases, by boring through the wood; butdoes the coming Capricorn, whose short spell of life must be spent inthe open air, possess the same advantages? Hatched inside the trunk, will the long-horned Beetle be able to clear itself a way of escape?

That is the difficulty which the worm solves by inspiration. Lessversed in things of the future, despite my gleams of reason, I resortto experiment with a view to fathoming the question. I begin byascertaining that the Capricorn, when he wishes to leave the trunk, isabsolutely unable to make use of the tunnel wrought by the larva. Itis a very long and very irregular maze, blocked with great heaps ofwormed wood. Its diameter decreases progressively from the final blindalley to the starting-point. The larva entered the timber as slim as atiny bit of straw; it is to-day as thick as one's finger. In its threeyears' wanderings, it always dug its gallery according to the mould ofits body. Evidently, the road by which the larva entered and movedabout cannot be the Capricorn's exit-way: his immoderate antennæ, hislong legs, his inflexible armour-plates would encounter an insuperableobstacle in the narrow, winding corridor, which would have to becleared of its wormed wood and, moreover, greatly enlarged. It wouldbe less fatiguing to attack the untouched timber and dig straightahead. Is the insect capable of doing so? We shall see. 

I make some chambers of suitable size in oak logs chopped in two; andeach of my artificial cells receives a newly-transformed Cerambyx, such as my provisions of firewood supply, when split by the wedge, inOctober. The two pieces are then joined and kept together with a fewbands of wire. June comes. I hear a scraping inside my billets. Willthe Capricorns come out, or not? The delivery does not seem difficultto me: there is hardly three-quarters of an inch to pierce. Not oneemerges. When all is silence, I open my apparatus. The captives, fromfirst to last, are dead. A vestige of sawdust, less than a pinch ofsnuff, represents all their work. 

I expected more from those sturdy tools, their mandibles. But, as wehave seen before, the tool does not make the workman. [5] In spite oftheir boring-implements, the hermits die in my cases for lack ofskill. I subject others to less arduous tests. I enclose them inspacious reed-stumps, equal in diameter to the natal cell. Theobstacle to be pierced is the natural diaphragm, a yielding partitiontwo or three millimetres[6] thick. Some free themselves; otherscannot. The less valiant ones succumb, stopped by the frail barrier. What would it be if they had to pass through a thickness of oak?

[Footnote 5: Cf. _The Life and Love of the Insect_: chap. Iii. "Thetool does not make the workman. The insect exerts its gifts as aspecialist with any kind of tool wherewith it is supplied. It can sawwith a plane or plane with a saw, like the model workman of whomFranklin tells us. "--_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 6: . 078 to . 117 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

We are now persuaded: despite his stalwart appearance, the Capricornis powerless to leave the tree-trunk by his unaided efforts. Ittherefore falls to the worm, to the wisdom of that bit of anintestine, to prepare the way for him. We see renewed, in anotherform, the feats of prowess of the Anthrax, whose pupa, armed withtrepans, bores through rock on the feeble Fly's behalf. Urged by apresentiment that to us remains an unfathomable mystery, theCerambyx-grub leaves the inside of the oak, its peaceful retreat, itsunassailable stronghold, to wriggle towards the outside, where livesthe foe, the Woodpecker, who may gobble up the succulent littlesausage. At the risk of its life, it stubbornly digs and gnaws to thevery bark, of which it leaves no more intact than the thinnest film, aslender screen. Sometimes, even, the rash one opens the window wide. 

This is the Capricorn's doorway. The insect will have but to file thescreen a little with its mandibles, to bump against it with itsforehead, in order to bring it down; it will even have nothing to dowhen the window is free, as often happens. The unskilled carpenter, burdened with his extravagant head-dress, will emerge from thedarkness through this opening when the summer heats arrive. 

After the cares of the future come the cares of the present. Thelarva, which has just opened the aperture of escape, retreats somedistance down its gallery and, in the side of the exit-way, digsitself a transformation-chamber more sumptuously furnished andbarricaded than any that I have ever seen. It is a roomy niche, shapedlike a flattened ellipsoid, the length of which reaches some eighty toa hundred millimetres. [7] The two axes of the cross-section vary: thehorizontal measures twenty-five to thirty millimetres;[8] the verticalmeasures only fifteen. [9] This greater dimension of the cell, wherethe thickness of the perfect insect is concerned, leaves a certainscope for the action of its legs when the time comes for forcing thebarricade, which is more than a close-fitting mummy-case would do. 

[Footnote 7: 3 to 4 inches. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 8: . 975 to 1. 17 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 9: . 585 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The barricade in question, a door which the larva builds to excludethe dangers from without, is two- and even three-fold. Outside, it isa stack of woody refuse, of particles of chopped timber; inside, amineral hatch, a concave cover, all in one piece, of a chalky white. Pretty often, but not always, there is added to these two layers aninner casing of shavings. Behind this compound door, the larva makesits arrangements for the metamorphosis. The sides of the chamber arerasped, thus providing a sort of down formed of ravelled woody fibres, broken into minute shreds. The velvety matter, as and when obtained, is applied to the wall in a continuous felt at least a millimetrethick. [10] The chamber is thus padded throughout with a fineswan's-down, a delicate precaution taken by the rough worm on behalfof the tender pupa. 

[Footnote 10: . 039 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Let us hark back to the most curious part of the furnishing, themineral hatch or inner door of the entrance. It is an ellipticalskull-cap, white and hard as chalk, smooth within and knotted without, resembling more or less closely an acorn-cup. The knots show that thematter is supplied in small, pasty mouthfuls, solidifying outside inslight projections which the animal does not remove, being unable toget at them, and polished on the inside surface, which is within theworm's reach. What can be the nature of that singular lid whereof theCerambyx furnishes me with the first specimen? It is as hard andbrittle as a flake of lime-stone. It can be dissolved cold in nitricacid, discharging little gaseous bubbles. The process of solution is aslow one, requiring several hours for a tiny fragment. Everything isdissolved, except a few yellowish flocks, which appear to be of anorganic nature. As a matter of fact, a piece of the lid, whensubjected to heat, blackens, which proves the presence of an organicglue cementing the mineral matter. The solution becomes muddy ifoxalate of ammonia be added and deposits a copious white precipitate. These signs indicate calcium carbonate. I look for urate of ammonia, that constantly-recurring product of the various stages of themetamorphoses. It is not there: I find not the least trace ofmurexide. The lid, therefore, is composed solely of carbonate of limeand of an organic cement, no doubt of an albuminous character, whichgives consistency to the chalky paste. 

Had circumstances served me better, I should have tried to discover inwhich of the worm's organs the stony deposit dwells. I am, however, convinced: it is the stomach, the chylific ventricle, that suppliesthe chalk. It keeps it separate from the food, either as originalmatter or as a derivative of the ammonium urate; it purges it of allforeign bodies, when the larval period comes to an end, and holds itin reserve until the time comes to disgorge it. This freestone-factorycauses me no astonishment: when the manufacturer undergoes his change, it serves for various chemical works. Certain Oil-beetles, such as theSitaris, locate in it the urate of ammonia, the refuse of thetransformed organism; the Sphex, the Pelopæi, the Scoliæ, [11] use itto manufacture the shellac wherewith the silk of the cocoon isvarnished. Further investigations will only swell the aggregate of theproducts of this obliging organ. 

[Footnote 11: Three species of Digger-wasps. --_Translator's Note_. ]

When the exit-way is prepared and the cell upholstered in velvet andclosed with a three-fold barricade, the industrious worm has concludedits task. It lays aside its tools, sheds its skin and becomes a nymph, a pupa, weakness personified, in swaddling-clothes, on a soft couch. The head is always turned towards the door. This is a trifling detailin appearance; but it is everything in reality. To lie this way orthat in the long cell is a matter of great indifference to the worm, which is very supple, turning easily in its narrow lodging andadopting whatever position it pleases. The coming Capricorn will notenjoy the same privileges. Stiffly girt in his horn cuirass, he willnot be able to turn from end to end; he will not even be capable ofbending, if some sudden wind should make the passage difficult. Hemust absolutely find the door in front of him, lest he perish in thecasket. Should the grub forget this little formality, should it liedown to its nymphal sleep with its head at the back of the cell, theCapricorn is infallibly lost: his cradle becomes a hopeless dungeon. 

But there is no fear of this danger: the knowledge of the bit of anintestine is too sound in things of the future for the grub to neglectthe formality of keeping its head to the door. At the end of spring, the Capricorn, now in possession of his full strength, dreams of thejoys of the sun, of the festivals of light. He wants to get out. Whatdoes he find before him? A heap of filings easily dispersed with hisclaws; next, a stone lid which he need not even break into fragments:it comes undone in one piece; it is removed from its frame with a fewpushes of the forehead, a few tugs of the claws. In fact, I find thelid intact on the threshold of the abandoned cells. Last comes asecond mass of woody remnants as easy to disperse as the first. Theroad is now free: the Cerambyx has but to follow the spaciousvestibule, which will lead him, without the possibility of mistake, tothe exit. Should the window not be open, all that he has to do is tognaw through a thin screen: an easy task; and behold him outside, hislong antennæ aquiver with excitement. 

What have we learnt from him? Nothing from him; much from his grub. This grub, so poor in sensory organs, gives us with its prescience nolittle food for reflection. It knows that the coming Beetle will notbe able to cut himself a road through the oak and it bethinks itselfof opening one for him at its own risk and peril. It knows that theCerambyx, in his stiff armour, will never be able to turn and make forthe orifice of the cell; and it takes care to fall into its nymphalsleep with its head to the door. It knows how soft the pupa's fleshwill be and upholsters the bedroom with velvet. It knows that theenemy is likely to break in during the slow work of the transformationand, to set a bulwark against his attacks, it stores a calcium papinside its stomach. It knows the future with a clear vision, or, to beaccurate, behaves as though it knew the future. Whence did it derivethe motives of its actions? Certainly not from the experience of thesenses. What does it know of the outside world? Let us repeat, as muchas a bit of an intestine can know. And this sense-less creatureastounds us! I regret that the clever logician, instead of conceivinga statue smelling a rose, did not imagine it gifted with someinstinct. How quickly he would have recognized that, quite apart fromsense-impressions, the animal, including man, possesses certainpsychological resources, certain inspirations that are innate and notacquired!

CHAPTER VIIITHE PROBLEM OF THE SIREX

The cherry-tree supports a small jet-black Capricorn, _Cerambyxcerdo_, whose larval habits it was as well to study in order to learnwhether the instincts are modified when the form and the organizationremain identical. Has this pigmy of the family the same talents as thegiant, the ravager of the oak-tree? Does it work on the sameprinciples? The resemblance between the two, both in the larval stateand in that of the perfect insect, is complete; the denizen of thecherry-tree is an exact replica, on a smaller scale, of the denizen ofthe oak. If instinct is the inevitable consequence of the organism, weought to find in the two insects a strict similarity of habits; ifinstinct is, on the other hand, a special aptitude favoured by theorgans, we must expect variations in the industry exercised. For thesecond time the alternative is forced upon our attention: do theimplements govern the practice of the craft, or does the craft governthe employment of the implements? Is instinct derived from the organ, or is the organ instinct's servant? An old dead cherry-tree willanswer our question. 

Beneath its ragged bark, which I lift in wide strips, swarms apopulation of larvæ all belonging to _Cerambyx cerdo_. There are biglarvæ and little larvæ; moreover, they are accompanied by nymphs. These details tell us of three years of larval existence, a durationof life frequent in the Longicorn series. If we hunt the thick of thetrunk, splitting it again and again, it does not show us a single grubanywhere; the entire population is encamped between the bark and thewood. Here we find an inextricable maze of winding galleries, crammedwith packed sawdust, crossing, recrossing, shrinking into littlealleys, expanding into wide spaces and cutting, on the one hand, intothe surface layer of the sap-wood and, on the other, into the thinsheets of the inner bark. The position speaks for itself: the larva ofthe little Capricorn has other tastes than its large kinsman's; forthree years it gnaws the outside of the trunk beneath the thincovering of the bark, while the other seeks a deeper refuge and gnawsthe inside. 

The dissimilarity is yet more marked in the preparations for thenymphosis. Then the worm of the cherry-tree leaves the surface andpenetrates into the wood to a depth of about two inches, leavingbehind it a wide passage, which is hidden on the outside by a remnantof bark that has been discreetly spared. This spacious vestibule isthe future insect's path of release; this screen of bark, easilydestroyed, is the curtain that masks the exit-door. In the heart ofthe wood the larva finally scoops out the chamber destined for thenymphosis. This is an egg-shaped recess an inch and a quarter to aninch and three-quarters in length by two-fifths of an inch indiameter. The walls are bare, that is to say, they are not lined withthe blanket of shredded fibres dear to the Capricorn of the Oak. Theentrance is blocked first by a plug of fibrous sawdust, then by achalky lid, similar, except in point of size, to that with which weare already familiar. A thick layer of fine sawdust packed into theconcavity of the chalky lid, completes the barricade. Need I add thatthe grub lies down and goes to sleep, for the nymphosis, with its headagainst the door? Not one forgets to take this precaution. 

The two Capricorns have, in short, the same system of closing theircells. Note above all the lens-shaped stony lid. In each case we findthe same chemical composition, the same formation, like the cup of anacorn. Dimensions apart, the two structures are identical. But noother genus of Longicorn, so far as I am aware, practises this craft. I will therefore complete the classic description of theCerambyx-beetles by adding one characteristic: they seal theirmetamorphosis-chambers with a chalk slab. 

The similarities of habit go no farther, despite the identity ofstructure. There is even a very sharp contrast between the methodspursued. The Capricorn of the Oak inhabits the deep layers of thetrunk; the Capricorn of the Cherry-tree inhabits the surface. In thepreparations for the transformation, the first ascends from the woodto the bark, the second descends from the bark to the wood; the firstrisks the perils of the outer world, the second shuns them and seeks aretreat inside. The first hangs the walls of its chamber with velvet, the second knows nothing of this luxury. Though the work is almost thesame in its results, it is at least carried out by contrary methods. The tool, therefore, does not govern the trade. This is what the twoCerambyx-beetles tell us. 

Let us vary the testimony of the Longicorns. I am not selecting; I amrecording it in the order of my discoveries. The Shagreen Saperda (_S. Carcharias_) lives in the black poplar; the Scalary Saperda (_S. Scalaris_) lives in the cherry-tree. In both we find the sameorganization and the same implements, as is fitting in twoclosely-related species. The Saperda of the Poplar adopts the methodof the Capricorn of the Oak in its general features. It inhabits theinterior of the trunk. On the approach of the transformation, it makesan exit-gallery, the door of which is open or else masked by a remnantof bark. Then, retracing its steps, it blocks the passage with abarricade of coarse packed shavings; and, at a depth of about eightinches, not far from the heart of the tree, it hollows out a cavityfor the nymphosis without any particular upholstering. The defensivesystem is limited to the long column of shavings. To deliver itself, the insect will only have to push the heap of woody rubbish back, inso many lots; the path will open in front of it ready-made. If somescreen of bark hide the gallery from the outside, its mandibles willeasily dispose of that: it is soft and not very thick. 

The Scalary Saperda imitates the habits of its messmate, the Capricornof the Cherry-tree. Its larva lives between the wood and the bark. Toundergo its transformation, it goes down instead of coming up. In thesap-wood, parallel with the surface of the trunk, under a layer ofwood barely a twenty-fifth of an inch in thickness, it makes acylindrical cell, rounded at the ends and roughly padded with ligneousfibres. A solid plug of shavings barricades the entrance, which is notpreceded by any vestibule. Here the work of deliverance is thesimplest. The Saperda has only to clear the door of his chamber tofind beneath his mandibles the little bit of bark that remains to bepierced. As you see, we once more have to do with two specialists, each working in his own manner with the same tools. 

The Buprestes, as zealous as the Longicorns in the destruction oftrees, whether sound or ailing, tell us the same tale as the Cerambyx-and Saperda-beetles. The Bronze Buprestis (_B. ænea_) is an inmate ofthe black poplar. Her larva gnaws the interior of the trunk. For thenymphosis it installs itself near the surface in a flattened, ovalcell, which is prolonged at the back by the wandering-gallery, firmlypacked with wormed wood, and in front by a short, slightly curvedvestibule. A layer of wood not a twenty-fifth of an inch thick is leftintact at the end of the vestibule. There is no other defensiveprecaution; no barricade, no heap of shavings. In order to come out, the insect has only to pierce an insignificant sheet of wood and thenthe bark. 

The Nine-spotted Buprestis (_Ptosima novemmaculata_) behaves in theapricot-tree precisely as the Bronze Buprestis does in the poplar. Itslarva bores the inside of the trunk with very low-ceilinged galleries, usually parallel with the axis; then, at a distance of an inch and aquarter or an inch and a half from the surface, it suddenly makes asharp turn and proceeds in the direction of the bark. It tunnelsstraight ahead, taking the shortest road, instead of advancing byirregular windings as at first. Moreover, a sensitive intuition ofcoming events inspires its chisel to alter the plan of work. Theperfect insect is a cylinder; the grub, wide in the thorax but slenderelsewhere, is a strap, a ribbon. The first, with its unyieldingcuirass, needs a cylindrical passage; the second needs a very lowtunnel, with a roof that will give a purchase to the ambulatorynipples of the back. The larva therefore changes its manner of boringutterly: yesterday, the gallery, suited to a wandering life in thethickness of the wood, was a wide burrow with a very low ceiling, almost a slot; to-day the passage is cylindrical: a gimlet could notbore it more accurately. This sudden change in the system ofroad-making on behalf of the coming insect once more suggests for ourmeditation the eminent degree of foresight possessed by a bit of anintestine. 

The cylindrical exit-way passes through the strata of wood along theshortest line, almost normally, after a slight bend which connects thevertical with the horizontal, a curve with a radius large enough toallow the stiff Buprestis to tack about without difficulty. It ends ina blind-alley, less than a twelfth of an inch from the surface of thewood. The eating away of the untouched sheet of wood and of the barkis all the labour that the grub leaves the insect to perform. Havingmade these preparations, the larva withdraws, strengthening the woodenscreen, however, with a layer of fine sawdust; it reaches the end ofthe round gallery, which is prolonged by the completely choked flatgallery; and here, scorning a special chamber or any upholstery, itgoes to sleep for the nymphosis, with its head towards the exit. 

I find numbers of specimens of a black Buprestis (_B. Octoguttata_) inthe old stumps of pine-trees left standing in the ground, hard outsidebut soft within, where the wood is as pliable as tinder. In thisyielding substance, which has a resinous aroma, the larvæ spend theirlife. For the metamorphosis they leave the unctuous regions of thecentre and penetrate the hard wood, where they hollow out ovalrecesses, slightly flattened, measuring from twenty-five to thirtymillimetres[1] in length. The major axis of these cells is alwaysvertical. They are continued by a wide exit-path, sometimes straight, sometimes slightly curved, according as the tree is to be quittedthrough the section above or through the side. The exit-channel isnearly always bored completely; the window by which the insect escapesopens directly upon the outside world. At most, in a few rareinstances, the grub leaves the Buprestis the trouble of piercing aleaf of wood so thin as to be translucent. But, if easy paths arenecessary to the insect, protective ramparts are no less needed forthe safety of the nymphosis; and the larva plugs the liberatingchannel with a fine paste of masticated wood, very different from theordinary sawdust. A layer of the same paste divides the bottom of thechamber from the low-ceilinged gallery, the work of the grub's activelife. Lastly, the magnifying-glass reveals upon the walls of the cella tapestry of woody fibres, very finely divided, standing erect andclosely shorn, so as to make a sort of velvet pile. This quiltedlining, of which the Cerambyx of the Oak showed us the first example, is, it seems to me, pretty often employed by the wood-eaters, Buprestes as well as Longicorns. 

[Footnote 1: . 975 to 1. 17 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

After these migrants, which travel from the centre of the tree to thesurface, we will mention some others which from the surface plungeinto the interior. A small Buprestis who ravages the cherry-trees, _Anthaxia nitidula_, passes his larval existence between the wood andthe bark. When the time comes for changing its shape, the pigmyconcerns itself, like the others, with future and present needs. Toassist the perfect insect, the grub first gnaws the under side of thebark, leaving a thin screen of cuticle untouched, and then sinks inthe wood a perpendicular well, blocked with unresisting sawdust. Thatis on behalf of the future: the frail Buprestis will be able to leavewithout hindrance. The bottom of the well, better wrought than therest and ceiled with the aid of an adhesive fluid which holds the finesawdust of the stopper in place, is a thing of the present; it is thenymphosis-chamber. 

A second Buprestis, _Chrysobothrys chrysostigma_, likewise anexploiter of the cherry-tree, between the wood and the bark, althoughmore vigorous, expends less labour on its preparations. Its chamber, with modestly varnished walls, is merely an expanded extension of theordinary gallery. The grub, disinclined for persistent labour, doesnot bore the wood. It confines itself to hollowing a slanting dug-outin the bark, without touching the surface layer, through which theinsect will have to gnaw its own way. 

Thus each species displays special methods, tricks of the trade whichcannot be explained merely by reference to its tools. As these minutedetails have consequences of some importance, I do not hesitate tomultiply them: they all help to throw light upon the subject which weare investigating. Let us once more see what the Longicorns are ableto tell us. 

An inhabitant of old pine-stumps, _Criocephalus ferus_ makes anexit-gallery which yawns widely on the outside world, opening eitheron the section of the stump or on the sides. The road is barricadedabout two inches down with a long plug of coarse shavings. Next comesthe nymph's cylindrical, compressed apartment, which is padded withwoody fibres. It is continued underneath by the labyrinth of thelarva, the burrow crammed full of digested wood. Note also thecomplete boring of the liberating passage, including the bark whenthere is any. 

I find _Stromatium strepens_ in ilex-logs which have been stripped oftheir bark. There is the same method of deliverance, the same passagecurving gently towards the nearest outside point, the same barricadeof shavings above the cell. Was the passage also carried through thebark? The stripped logs leave me ignorant as to this detail. 

_Clytus tropicus_, a sapper of the cherry-tree, _C. Arietis_ and _C. Arvicola_, sappers of the hawthorn, have a cylindrical exit-gallery, with a sharp turn to it. The gallery is masked on the outside by aremnant of bark or wood, hardly a millimetre thick, [2] and widens, notfar from the surface, into a nymphosis-chamber, which is divided fromthe burrow by a mass of packed sawdust. 

[Footnote 2: . 039 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

To continue the subject would entail an excess of monotonousrepetition. The general law stands out very clearly from these fewdata: the wood-eating grubs of the Longicorns and Buprestes preparethe path of deliverance for the perfect insect, which will have merelyin one case to pass a barricade of shavings or wormed wood, or inanother to pierce a slight thickness of wood or bark. Thanks to acurious reversal of its usual attributes, youth is here the season ofenergy, of strong tools, of stubborn work; adult age is the season ofleisure, of industrial ignorance, of idle diversions, without trade orprofession. The infant has its paradise in the arms of its mother, itsprovidence; here the infant, the grub, is the providence of themother. With its patient tooth, which neither the perils of theoutside world nor the difficult task of boring through hard wood areable to deter, it clears a way for her to the supreme delights of thesun. The youngster prepares an easy life for the adult. 

Can these armour-wearers, so sturdy in appearance, be weaklings? Iplace nymphs of all the species that come to hand in glass tubes ofthe same diameter as the natal cell, lined with coarse paper, whichwill provide a good purchase for the boring. The obstacle to bepierced varies: a cork a centimetre thick;[3] a plug of poplar, verymuch softened by decay; a circular disk of sound wood. Most of mycaptives easily pierce the cork and the soft wood; these represent tothem the barricade to be overthrown, the bark curtain to beperforated. A few, however, succumb before the front to be attacked;and all perish, after fruitless attempts, before the disk of hardwood. Thus perished the strongest of them all, the Great Capricorn, inmy artificial oak-wood cells and even in my reed-stumps closed withtheir natural partitions. 

[Footnote 3: . 39 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

They have not the strength, or rather the patient art; and the larva, more highly gifted, works for them. It gnaws with indomitableperseverance, an essential to success even for the strong; it digswith amazing foresight. It knows the future shape of the adult, whether round or oval, and bores the exit-passage accordingly, makingit cylindrical in one case and elliptical in the other. It knows thatthe adult is very impatient to reach the light; and it leads herthither by the shortest way. In its wandering life in the heart of thetree, it loves low-roofed, winding tunnels, just big enough to passthrough, or widening into stations when it strikes a vein with abetter flavour; now, it makes a short, straight, roomy corridor, leading with a sharp bend to the outside world. It had plenty of timeduring its capricious wanderings; the adult has none to spare: hisdays are numbered; he must get out as quickly as he can. Hence theshortest road and as little encumbered by obstacles as is consistentwith safety. The grub knows that the too sudden junction of thehorizontal and the vertical part would stop the stiff, inflexibleinsect and bends it towards the outside with a gentle curve. Thiselbow changing the direction occurs whenever the larva ascends fromthe depths; it is very short when the nymphosis-chamber is next to thesurface, but continues for some length when the chamber is well insidethe trunk. In this case, the path traced by the grub has so regular acurve that you feel inclined to subject the work to geometricalmeasurement. 

For want of sufficient data, I should have left this elbow in theshadow of a note of interrogation, had I had at my disposal only theemergence-galleries of the Longicorns and Buprestes, which are tooshort to lend themselves to trustworthy examination with thecompasses. A lucky find provided me with the factors required. Thiswas the trunk of a dead poplar, riddled, to a height of several yards, with an infinite number of round holes the diameter of a pencil. Theprecious pole, still standing, is uprooted with due respect, in viewof my designs, and carried into my study, where it is sawn intolongitudinal sections planed smooth. 

The wood, while retaining its structure, has been greatly softened bythe presence of the mycelium of a mushroom, the agaric of the poplar. The inside is decayed. The outer layers, to a depth of over fourinches, are in good condition, save for the innumerable curvedpassages that cut through them. In a section involving the wholediameter of the trunk, the galleries of the late occupant produce apleasing effect, of which a sheaf of corn gives us a pretty faithfulimage. Almost straight, parallel with one another and assembled in abundle down the middle, they diverge at the top and spread into acluster of wide curves, each of which ends in one of the holes on thesurface. It is a sheaf of passages which has not the single head of asheaf of corn, but shoots its innumerable sprouts hither and thither, at all heights. 

I am enraptured by this magnificent specimen. The curves, of which Iuncover a layer at every stroke of the plane, far exceed myrequirements; they are strikingly regular; they afford the compassesthe full space needed for accurate measurement. 

Before calling in geometry, let us, if possible, name the creator ofthese beautiful curves. The inhabitants of the poplar havedisappeared, perhaps long ago, as is proved by the mycelium of theagaric; the insect would not gnaw and bore its way through timber allpermeated with the felt-like growth of the cryptogam. A few weaklings, however, have died without being able to escape. I find their remainsswathed in mycelium. The agaric has preserved them from destruction bywrapping them in tight cerements. Under these mummy-bandages, Irecognise a Saw-fly, _Sirex augur_, KLUG. , in the state of the perfectinsect. And--this is an important detail--all these adult remains, without a single exception, occupy spots which have no means ofcommunication with the outside. I find them sometimes in apartly-constructed curved passage, beyond which the wood remainsintact, sometimes at the end of the straight central gallery, chokedwith sawdust, which is not continued in front. These remains, with nothoroughfare before them, tell us plainly that the Sirex adopts forits exit methods not employed by the Buprestes and the Longicorns. 

The larva does not prepare the path of deliverance; it is left for theperfect insect to open itself a passage through the wood. What I havebefore my eyes tells me more or less plainly the sequence of events. The larva, whose presence is proved by galleries blocked with packedsawdust, do not leave the centre of the trunk, a quieter retreat, lesssubject to the vicissitudes of the climate. Metamorphosis is effectedat the junction of the straight gallery and the curved passage whichis not yet made. When strength comes, the perfect insect tunnels aheadfor a distance of more than four inches and opens up the exit-passage, which I find choked, not with compact sawdust, but with loose powderyrubbish. The dead insects which I strip of their mycelium-shrouds areweaklings whose strength deserted them mid-way. The rest of thepassage is lacking because the labourer died on the road. 

With this fact of the insect itself boring the exit passage, theproblem assumes a more troublesome form. If the larva, rich in leisureand satisfied with its sojourn in the interior of the trunk, simplifies the coming emergence by shortening the road, what must notthe adult do, who has so short a time to live and who is in so great ahurry to leave the hateful darkness? He above any other should be ajudge of short cuts. To go from the murky heart of the tree to thesun-steeped bark, why does he not follow a straight line? It is theshortest way. 

Yes, for the compasses, but not perhaps for the sapper. The lengthtraversed is not the only factor of the work accomplished, of thetotal activity expended. We must take into account the resistanceovercome, a resistance which varies according to the depth of the moreor less hard strata and according to the method of attacking the woodyfibres, which are either broken across or divided lengthwise. Underthese conditions, whose value remains to be determined, can there be acurve involving a minimum of mechanical labour in cutting through thewood?

I was already trying to discover how the resistance may vary accordingto depth and direction; I was working out my differentials and myminimum integrals, when a very simple idea overturned my slipperyscaffolding. The calculation of variations has nothing to do with thematter. The animal is not the moving body of the mathematicians, theparticle of matter guided in its trajectory solely by the motiveforces and the resistance of the medium traversed; it bears withinitself conditions which control the others. The adult insect does noteven enjoy the larva's privileges; it cannot bend freely in alldirections. Under its harness it is almost a stiff cylinder. Tosimplify the explanation, we may liken the insect to a section of aninflexible straight line. 

Let us return to the Sirex, reduced by abstraction to its axis. Themetamorphosis is effected not far from the centre of the trunk. Theinsect lies lengthwise in the tree with its head up, very rarely withits head down. It must reach the outside as quickly as possible. Thesection of an inflexible straight line that represents it nibbles awaya little wood in front of it and obtains a shallow cavity wide enoughto allow of a very slight turn towards the outside. An infinitesimaladvance is made; a second follows, the result of a similar cavity anda similar turn in the same direction. In short, each change ofposition is accompanied by the tiny deviation permitted by the slightexcess of width of the hole; and this deviation invariably points thesame way. Imagine a magnetic needle swung out of its position andtending to return to it while moving with a uniform speed through aresisting medium in which a sheath of a diameter slightly greater thanthe needle's opens bit by bit. The Sirex behaves more or less in thesame fashion. His magnetic pole is the light outside. He makes forthat direction by imperceptible deviations as his tooth digs. 

The problem of the Sirex is now solved. The trajectory is composed ofequal elements, with an invariable angle between them; it is the curvewhose tangents, divided by infinitely small distances, retain the sameinclination between each one and the next; the curve, in a word, witha constant angle of contingence. This characteristic betrays thecircumference of the circle. 

It remains to discover whether the facts confirm the logical argument. I take accurate tracings of a score of galleries, selecting thosewhose length best lends itself to the test of the compasses. Well, logic agrees with reality: over lengths which sometimes exceed fourinches, the track of the compasses is identical with that of theinsect. The most pronounced deviations do not exceed the smallvariations which we must reasonably expect in a problem of a physicalnature, a problem incompatible with the absolute accuracy of abstracttruths. 

The Sirex' exit-gallery then is a wide arc of a circle whose lowerextremity is connected with the corridor of the larva and whose upperextremity is prolonged in a straight line which ends at the surfacewith a perpendicular or slightly oblique incidence. The wideconnecting arc enables the insect to tack about. When, starting from aposition parallel with the axis of the tree, the Sirex has passedgradually to a transversal position, he completes his course in astraight line, which is the shortest road. 

Does the trajectory imply the minimum of work? Yes, under theconditions of the insect's existence. If the larva had taken theprecaution to place itself in a different direction when preparing forthe nymphosis, to turn its head towards the nearest point of the barkinstead of turning it lengthwise with the trunk, obviously the adultwould escape more easily: he would merely have to gnaw straight infront of him in order to pass through the minimum thickness. Butreasons of convenience whereof the grub is the sole judge, reasonsdictated perhaps by weight, cause the vertical to precede thehorizontal position. In order to pass from the former to the latter, the insect veers round by describing the arc of a circle. When thisturn has been effected, the distance is completed in a straight line. 

Let us consider the Sirex at his starting-point. His stiffness ofnecessity compels him to turn gradually. Here the insect can donothing of its own initiative; everything is mechanically determined. But, being free to pivot on its axis and to attack the wood on eitherside of the sheath, it has the option of attempting this reversal in ahost of different ways, by a series of connected arcs, not in the sameplane. Nothing prevents it from describing winding curves by revolvingupon itself: spirals, loops constantly changing their direction, infact, the complicated route of a creature that has lost its way. Itmight wander in a tortuous maze, making fresh attempts here, there andeverywhere, groping for ever so long without succeeding. 

But it does not grope and it succeeds very well. Its gallery is stillcontained within one plane, the first condition of the minimum oflabour. Moreover, of the different vertical planes that can passthrough the eccentric starting-point, one, the plane which passesthrough the axis of the tree, corresponds on the one side with theminimum of resistance to be overcome and on the other with themaximum. Nothing prevents the Sirex from tracing his path in any oneof the multitude of planes on which the path would possess anintermediate value between the shortest and the longest. The insectrefuses them all and constantly adopts the one which passes throughthe axis, choosing, of course, the side that entails the shortestpath. In brief, the Sirex' gallery is contained in a plane pointingtowards the axis of the tree and the starting-point; and of the twoportions of this plane the channel passes through the less extensive. Under the conditions, therefore, imposed upon him by his stiffness thehermit of the poplar-tree releases himself with the minimum ofmechanical labour. 

The miner guides himself by the compass in the unknown depthsunderground, the sailor does the same in the unknown ocean solitudes. How does the wood-eating insect guide itself in the thickness of atree-trunk? Has it a compass? One would almost say that it had, sosuccessfully does it keep to the quickest road. Its goal is the light. To reach this goal, it suddenly chooses the economical planetrajectory, after spending its larval leisure in roaming tortuouspassages full of irregular curves; it bends it in an arc which allowsit to turn about; and, with its head held plumb with the adjacentsurface, it goes straight ahead by the nearest way. 

The most extraordinary obstacles are powerless to turn it aside fromits plane and its curve, so imperative is its guiding force. It willgnaw metal, if need be, rather than turn its back upon the light, which it feels to be close at hand. The entomological records placethis incredible fact beyond a doubt. At the time of the Crimean War, the Institut de France received some packets of cartridges in whichthe bullets had been perforated by _Sirex juvencus_; a little later, at the Grenoble Arsenal, _S. Gigas_ carved himself a similar exit. Thelarva was in the wood of the cartridge-boxes; and the adult insect, faithful to its direction of escape, had bored through the leadbecause the nearest daylight was behind that obstacle. 

There is an exit-compass, that is incontestable, both for the larvæpreparing the passage of deliverance and for the adult insect, theSirex obliged to make that passage for himself. What is it? Here theproblem becomes surrounded with a darkness which is perhapsimpenetrable; we are not well enough equipped with means of receivingimpressions even to imagine the causes which guide the creature. Thereis, in certain events, another world of the senses in which our organsperceive nothing, a world which is closed to us. The eye of the camerasees the invisible and photographs the image of the ultra-violet rays;the tympanum of the microphone hears what to us is silence. Ascientific toy, a chemical contrivance surpass us in sensibility. Would it be rash to attribute similar faculties to the delicateorganization of the insect, even with regard to agencies unknown toour science, because they do not fall within the domain of our senses?To this question there is no positive reply; we have suspicions andnothing more. Let us at least dispel a few false notions that mightoccur to us. 

Does the wood guide the insect, adult or larva, by its structure?Gnawed across the grain, it must produce a certain impression; gnawedlengthwise, it must produce a different impression. Is there notsomething here to guide the sapper? No, for in the stump of a treeleft standing the emergence takes place, according to the proximity ofthe light, sometimes by way of the horizontal section, by means of arectilinear path running along the grain, and sometimes by way of theside, by means of a curved road cutting across the grain. 

Is the compass a chemical influence, or electrical, or calorific, orwhat not? No, for in an upright trunk the emergence is effected asoften by the north face, which is always in the shade, as by the southface, which receives the sun all day long. The exit-door opens in theside which is nearest, without any other condition. Can it be thetemperature? Not that either, for the shady side, though cooler, isutilized as often as the side facing the sun. 

Can it be sound? Not so. The sound of what, in the silence ofsolitude? And are the noises of the outside world propagated throughhalf an inch of wood in such a way as to make differences perceptible?Can it be weight? No again, for the trunk of the poplar shows us morethan one Sirex travelling upside down, with his head towards theground, without any change in the direction of the curved passages. 

What then is the guide? I have no idea. It is not the first time thatthis obscure question has been put to me. When studying the emergenceof the Three-pronged Osmia from the bramble-stems shifted from theirnatural position by my wiles, I recognized the uncertainty in whichthe evidence of physical science leaves us; and, in the impossibilityof finding any other reply, I suggested a special sense, the sense ofopen space. Instructed by the Sirex, the Buprestes, the Longicorns, Iam once again compelled to make the same suggestion. It is not that Icare for the expression: the unknown cannot be named in any language. It means that the hermits in the dark know how to find the light bythe shortest road; it is the confessions of an ignorance which nohonest observer will blush to share. Now that the evolutionists'interpretations of instinct have been recognized as worthless, we allcome to that stimulating maxim of Anaxagoras', which laconically sumsup the result of my researches:

"[Greek: Nous pánta diekosmése]. Mind orders all things. "

CHAPTER IXTHE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS

To travel the world, by land and sea, from pole to pole; tocross-question life, under every clime, in the infinite variety of itsmanifestations: that surely would be glorious luck for him that haseyes to see; and it formed the radiant dream of my young years, at thetime when _Robinson Crusoe_ was my delight. These rosy illusions, richin voyages, were soon succeeded by dull, stay-at-home reality. Thejungles of India, the virgin forests of Brazil, the towering crests ofthe Andes, beloved by the Condor, were reduced, as a field forexploration, to a patch of pebbles enclosed within four walls. 

Heaven forfend that I should complain! The gathering of ideas does notnecessarily imply distant expeditions. Jean-Jacques Rousseau[1]herborized with the bunch of chick-weed whereon he fed his Canary;Bernardin de Saint-Pierre[2] discovered a world on a strawberry-plantthat grew by accident in a corner of his window; Xavier de Maistre, [3]using an arm-chair by way of post-chaise, made one of the most famousof journeys around his room. 

[Footnote 1: Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778), author of the_Confessions_, _La Nouvelle Héloise_, etc. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 2: Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (1737-1814), author of _Paul et Virginie_, _La Chaumière idienne_ and _Etudes de lanature_. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 3: Xavier de Maistre (1763-1852), best known for his _Voyageautour de ma chambre_ (1795). --_Translator's Note_. ]

This manner of seeing country is within my means, always excepting thepost-chaise, which is too difficult to drive through the bushes. I gothe circuit of my enclosure over and over again, a hundred times, byshort stages; I stop here and I stop there; patiently, I put questionsand, at long intervals, I receive some scrap of a reply. 

The smallest insect village has become familiar to me: I know eachfruit-branch where the Praying Mantis[4] perches; each bush where thepale Italian Cricket[5] strums amid the calmness of the summer nights;each downy plant scraped by the Anthidium, that maker of cotton bags;each cluster of lilac worked by the Megachile, the Leaf-cutter. 

[Footnote 4: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. Vi. Toix. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 5: Cf. _idem_: chap. Xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

If cruising among the nooks and corners of the garden do not suffice, a longer voyage shows ample profit. I double the cape of theneighbouring hedges and, at a few hundred yards, enter into relationswith the Sacred Beetle, [6] the Capricorn, the Geotrupes, [7] theCopris, [8] the Decticus, [9] the Cricket, [10] the GreenGrasshopper, [11] in short, with a host of tribes the telling of whosestory would exhaust a lifetime. Certainly, I have enough and even toomuch to do with my near neighbours, without leaving home to rove indistant lands. 

[Footnote 6: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps i. Tovi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 7: Cf. _idem_: chaps. Xii. To xiv. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 8: Cf. _idem_: chaps. Ix. And xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 9: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. Xi. Toxiii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 10: Cf. _idem_: chaps. Xv. And xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 11: Cf. _idem_: chap. Xiv. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Besides, roaming the world, scattering one's attention over a host ofsubjects, is not observing. The travelling entomologist can sticknumerous species, the joy of the collector and the nomenclator, intohis boxes; but to gather circumstantial evidence is a very differentmatter. A Wandering Jew of science, he has no time to stop. Where aprolonged stay would be necessary to study this or that fact, he ishurried past the next stage. We must not expect the impossible of himunder these conditions. Let him pin his specimens to cork tablets, lethim steep them in jars of spirit, and leave to the sedentary thepatient observations that require time. 

This explains the extreme penury of history outside the drydescriptions of the nomenclator. Overwhelming us with its numbers, theexotic insect nearly always preserves the secret of its manners. Nevertheless, it were well to compare what happens under our eyes withthat which happens elsewhere; it were excellent to see how, in thesame guild of workers, the fundamental instinct varies with climaticconditions. 

Then my longing to travel returns, vainer to-day than ever, unless onecould find a seat on that carpet of which we read in the _ArabianNights_, the famous carpet whereon one had but to sit to be carriedwhithersoever he pleased. O marvellous conveyance, far preferable toXavier de Maistre's post-chaise! If I could only find just a littlecorner on it, with a return-ticket!

I do find it. I owe this unexpected good fortune to a Brother of theChristian Schools, to Brother Judulien, of the La Salle College atBuenos Aires. His modesty would be offended by the praises which hisdebtor owes him. Let us simply say that, acting on my instructions, his eyes take the place of mine. He seeks, finds, observes, sends mehis notes and his discoveries. I observe, seek and find with him, bycorrespondence. 

It is done; thanks to this first-rate collaborator, I have my seat onthe magic carpet. Behold me in the pampas of the Argentine Republic, eager to draw a parallel between the industry of the Sérignan[12]Dung-beetles and that of their rivals in the western hemisphere. 

[Footnote 12: Sérignan, in Provence, where the author ended hisdays. --_Translator's Note_. ]

A glorious beginning! An accidental find procures me, to begin with, the Splendid Phanæus (_P. Splendidulus_), who combines a copperyeffulgence with the sparkling green of the emerald. One is quiteastonished to see so rich a gem load its basket with ordure. It is thejewel on the dung-hill. The corselet of the male is grooved with awide hollow and he sports a pair of sharp-edged pinions on hisshoulders; on his forehead he plants a horn which vies with that ofthe Spanish Copris. While equally rich in metallic splendour, his matehas no fantastic embellishments, which are an exclusive prerogative ofmasculine dandyism among the Dung-beetles of La Plata as among ourown. 

Now what can the gorgeous foreigner do? Precisely what the LunaryCopris[13] does with us. Settling, like the other, under a flat cakeof Cow-dung, the South American Beetle kneads egg-shaped loavesunderground. Not a thing is forgotten: the round belly with thelargest volume and the smallest surface; the hard rind which acts as apreservative against premature desiccation; the terminal nipple wherethe egg is lodged in a hatching-chamber; and, at the end of thenipple, the felt stopper which admits the air needed by the germ. 

[Footnote: 13: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap. Xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

All these things I have seen here and I see over there, almost at theother end of the world. Life, ruled by inflexible logic, repeatsitself in its works, for what is true in one latitude cannot be falsein another. We go very far afield in search of a new spectacle tomeditate upon; and we have an inexhaustible specimen before our eyes, between the walls of our enclosure. 

Settled under the sumptuous dish dropped by the Ox, the Phanæus, onewould think, ought to make the very best use of it and to stock herburrow with a number of ovoids, after the example of the LunaryCopris. She does nothing of the sort, preferring to roam from one findto the other and to take from each the wherewithal to model a singlepellet, which is left to itself for the soil to incubate. She is notdriven to practise economy even when she is working the produce of theSheep far from the pastures of the Argentine. 

Can this be because the jewel of the pampas dispenses with thefather's collaboration? I dare not follow up the argument, for theSpanish Copris would give me the lie, by showing me the motheroccupied alone in settling the family and nevertheless stocking herone pit with a number of pellets. Each has her share of customs thesecret of which escapes us. 

The two next, _Megathopa bicolor_ and _M. Intermedia_, have certainpoints of resemblance with the Sacred Beetle, for whose ebon hue theysubstitute a blue black. The first besides brightens his corselet withmagnificent copper reflections. With their long legs, their foreheadwith its radiating denticulations and their flattened wing-cases, theyare fairly successful smaller editions of the famous pill-roller. 

They also share her talent. The work of both is once again a sort ofpear, but constructed in a more ingenious fashion, with an almostconical neck and without any elegant curves. From the point of view ofbeauty, it falls short of the Sacred Beetle's work. Considering thetools, which have ample free play and are well adapted for clasping, Iexpected something better from the two modellers. No matter: the workof the Megathopæ conforms with the fundamental art of the otherpill-rollers. 

A fourth, _Bolbites onitoides_, compensates us for repetitions which, it is true, widen the scope of the problem but teach us nothing new. She is a handsome Beetle with a metallic costume, green or copper-redaccording as the light happens to fall. Her four-cornered shape andher long, toothed fore-legs make her resemble our Onites. [14]

[Footnote 14: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap. Xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

In her, the Dung-beetles' guild reveals itself under a very unexpectedaspect. We know insects that knead soft loaves; and here are somewhich, to keep their bread fresh, discover ceramics and becomepotters, working clay in which they pack the food of the larvæ. Beforemy housekeeper, before any of us, they knew how, with the aid of around jar, to keep the provisions from drying during the summer heats. The work of the Bolbites is an ovoid, hardly differing in shape fromthat of the Copres; but this is where the ingenuity of the Americaninsect shines forth. The inner mass, the usual dung-cake furnished bythe Cow or the Sheep, is covered with a perfectly homogeneous andcontinuous coating of clay, which makes a piece of solid potteryimpervious to evaporation. 

The earthen pot is exactly filled by its contents, without theslightest interval along the line of junction. This detail tells usthe worker's method. The jar is moulded on the provisions. After thefood-pellet has been formed in the ordinary baker's fashion and theegg laid in its hatching-chamber, the Bolbites takes some armfuls ofthe clay near at hand, applies it to the foodstuff and presses itdown. When the work is finished and smoothed to perfection withindefatigable patience, the tiny pot, built up piecemeal, looks asthough made with the wheel and rivals our own earthenware inregularity. 

The hatching-chamber, in which the egg lies, is, as usual, contrivedin the nipple at the end of the pear. How will the germ and the younglarva manage to breathe under that clay casing, which intercepts theaccess of the air?

Have no fears: the pot-maker knows quite well how matters stand. Shetakes good care not to close the top with the plastic earth whichsupplied her with the walls. At some distance from the tip of thenipple, the clay ceases to play its part and makes way for fibrousparticles, for tiny scraps of undigested fodder, which, arranged oneabove the other with a certain order, form a sort of thatched roofover the egg. The inward and outward passage of the air is assuredthrough this coarse screen. 

One is set thinking in the presence of this layer of clay, whichprotects the fresh provisions, and this vent-hole stopped with a trussof straw, which admits the air freely, while defending the entrance. There is the eternal question, if we do not rise above thecommonplace: how did the insect acquire so wise an art?

Not one fails in obeying those two laws, the safety of the egg andready ventilation; not one, not even the next on my list, whose talentopens up a new horizon: I am now speaking of Lacordaire's Gromphas. Let not this repellant name of Gromphas (the old sow) give us a wrongnotion of the insect. On the contrary, it is, like the last, anelegant Dung-beetle, dark-bronze, thickset, square-shaped like ourBison Onitis[15] and almost as large. It also practises the sameindustry, at least as regards the general effect of the work. 

[Footnote 15: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap. Xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Its burrow branches into a small number of cylindrical cells, formingthe homes of as many larvæ. For each of these the provisions consistof a parcel of Cow-dung, about an inch deep. The material is carefullypacked and fills the bottom of the cavity, just as a soft paste woulddo when pressed down in a mould. Until now the work is similar to thatof the Bison Onitis; but the resemblance goes no farther and isreplaced by profound and curious differences, having no connectionwith what the Dung-beetles of our own parts show us. 

As we know, our sausage-makers, Onites and Geotrupes alike, place theegg at the lower end of their cylinder, in a cell contrived in thevery midst of the mass of foodstuffs. Their rival in the pampas adoptsa diametrically opposite method: she places the egg above thevictuals, at the upper end of the sausage. In order to feed, the grubdoes not have to work upwards; on the contrary, it works downwards. 

More remarkable still: the egg does not lie immediately on top of theprovisions; it is installed in a clay chamber with a wall aboutone-twelfth of an inch in thickness. This wall forms anhermetically-sealed lid, curves into a cup and then rises and bendsover to make a vaulted ceiling. 

The germ is thus enclosed in a mineral box, having no connection withthe provision-store, which is kept strictly shut. The newborn grubmust employ the first efforts of its teeth to break the seals, to cutthrough the clay floor and to make a trap-door which will take it tothe underlying cake. 

A rough beginning for the feeble mandible, even though the material tobe bored through is a fine clay. Other grubs bite at once into a softbread which surrounds them on every side; this one, on leaving theegg, has to make a breach in a wall before taking nourishment. 

Of what use are these obstacles? I do not doubt that they have theirpurpose. If the grub is born at the bottom of a closed pot, if it hasto chew through brick to reach the larder, I feel sure that certainconditions of its well-being demand this. But what conditions? Tobecome acquainted with them would call for an examination on the spot;and all the data that I possess are a few nests, lifeless things verydifficult to interrogate. However, it is possible to catch a glimpseof one or two points. 

The Gromphas' burrow is shallow; those little cylinders, her loaves, are greatly exposed to drought. Over there, as here, the drying up ofthe victuals constitutes a mortal danger. To avert this peril, by farthe most sensible course is to enclose the food in absolutely shutvessels. 

Well, the receptacle is dug in very fine, homogeneous, water-tightearth, with not a bit of gravel, not an atom of sand in it. Togetherwith the lid that forms the bottom of its round chamber, in which theegg is lodged, this cavity becomes an urn whose contents are safe fromdrought for a long time, even under a scorching sun. However late thehatching, the new-born grub, on finding the lid, will have under itsteeth provisions as fresh as though they dated from that very day. 

The clay food-pit, with its closely-fitting lid, is an excellentmethod, than which our agricultural experts have discovered no betterway of preserving fodder; but it possesses one drawback: to reach thestack of food, the grub has first to open a passage through the floorof its chamber. Instead of the pap called for by its weakly stomach, it begins by finding a brick to chew. 

The rude task would be avoided if the egg lay directly on top of thevictuals, inside the case itself. Here our logic is at fault: itforgets an essential point, which the insect is careful not todisregard. The germ breathes. Its development requires air; and theperfectly-closed clay urn does not allow any air to enter. The grubhas to be born outside the pot. 

Agreed. But, in the matter of breathing, the egg is no better off forbeing shut up, on top of the provisions, in a clay casket quite asair-tight as the jar itself. Examine the thing more closely, however, and you will receive a satisfactory reply. The walls of thehatching-chamber are carefully glazed inside. The mother has takenmeticulous pains to give them a stucco-like finish. The vaultedceiling alone is rugged, because the building-tool now works from theoutside and is unable to reach the inner surface of the lid and smoothit. Moreover, in the centre of this curved and embossed ceiling, asmall opening has been made. This is the air-hole, which allows ofgaseous exchanges between the atmosphere inside the box and thatoutside. 

If it were entirely free, this opening would be dangerous: someplunderer might take advantage of it to enter the casket. The motherforesees the risk. She blocks the breathing-hole with a plug made ofthe ravelled vegetable fibres of the Cow-dung, a stopper which iseminently permeable. It is an exact repetition of that which thevarious modellers have shown us at the top of their calabashes andpears. All of them are acquainted with the nice secret of the feltstopper as a means of ventilating the egg in a water-tight enclosure. 

Your name is not an attractive one, my pretty Dung-beetle of thepampas, but your industrial methods are most remarkable. I know someamong your fellow-countrymen, however, who surpass you in ingenuity. One of these is _Phanæus Milon_, a magnificent insect, blue-black allover. 

The male's corselet juts forward. On the head is a short, broad, flattened horn, ending in a trident. The female replaces this ornamentby simple folds. Both carry on the forehead two spikes which form atrusty digging-implement and also a scalpel for dissecting. Theinsect's squat, sturdy, four-cornered build resembles that of _OnitisOlivieri_, one of the rarities of the neighbourhood of Montpellier. 

If similarity of shape implied purity of work, we ought unhesitatinglyto attribute to _Phanæus Milon_ short, thick puddings like those madeby Olivier's Onitis. [16] Alas, structure is a bad guide where instinctis concerned! The square-chined, short-legged Dung-beetle excels inthe art of manufacturing gourds. The Sacred Beetle herself suppliesnone that are more correctly shaped nor, above all, more capacious. 

[Footnote 16: I owe this detail on the work of Olivier's Onitis to anote and a sketch communicated by Professor Valéry-Mayer, of theMontpellier School of Agriculture. --_Author's Note_. ]

The thickset insect astonishes me with the elegance of its work, whichis irreproachable in its geometry: the neck is shorter, butnevertheless combines grace with strength. The model seems derivedfrom some Indian calabash, the more so as it has an open mouth and thebelly is engraved with an elegant engine-turned pattern, produced bythe insect's tarsi. One seems to see a pitcher protected by awickerwork covering. The whole attains and even exceeds the size of aHen's egg. 

It is a very curious piece of work and of a rare perfection, especially when we consider the artist's clumsy and massive build. No, once again, the tool does not make the workman, among Dung-beetles anymore than among ourselves. To guide the modeller there is somethingbetter than a set of tools: there is what I have called the bump, thegenius of the animal. 

_Phanæus Milon_ scoffs at difficulties. He does much more than that:he laughs at our classifications. The word Dung-beetle implies a loverof dung. He sets no value on it, either for his own use or for that ofhis offspring. What he wants is the sanies of corpses. He is to befound under the carcasses of birds, Dogs or Cats, in the company ofthe undertakers-in-ordinary. The gourd which I will presently describewas lying in the earth under the remains of an Owl. 

Let him who will explain this conjunction of the appetites of theNecrophorus[17] with the talents of the Sacred Beetle. As for me, baffled by tastes which no one would suspect from the mere appearanceof the insect, I give it up. 

[Footnote 17: Or Burying-beetle. Cf. Chapters XI. And XII. Of thepresent volume. --_Translator's Note_. ]

I know in my neighbourhood one Dung-beetle and one alone who alsoworks among carrion. This is _Onthophagus ovatus_, LIN. , a constantfrequenter of dead Moles and Rabbits. But the dwarf undertaker doesnot on that account scorn stercoraceous fare: he feasts upon it likethe other Onthophagi. Perhaps there is a twofold diet here: the bunfor the adult; the highly-spiced, far-gone meat for the grub. 

Similar facts are encountered elsewhere, with differing tastes. TheHunting Wasp takes her fill of honey drawn from the nectaries of theflowers, but feeds her little ones on game. Game first and then sugar, for the same stomach! How that digestive pouch must change duringdevelopment! And yet no more than our own, which scorns in later lifethe food that delighted it when young. 

Let us now examine the work of _Phanæus Milon_ more thoroughly. Thecalabashes reached me in a state of complete desiccation. They arevery nearly as hard as stone; their colour inclines to a palechocolate. Neither inside nor out does the lens discover the slightestligneous particle pointing to a vegetable residue. The strangeDung-beetle does not, therefore, use cakes of Cow-dung or anythinglike them; he handles products of another class, which at first arerather difficult to specify. 

Held to the ear and shaken, the object rattles slightly, as would theshell of a dry fruit with a stone lying free inside it. Does itcontain the grub, shrivelled by desiccation? Does it contain the deadinsect? I thought so, but I was wrong. It contains something much moreinstructive than that. 

I carefully rip up the gourd with the point of a knife. Within ahomogenous wall, whose thickness is over three-quarters of an inch inthe largest of my three specimens, is encased a spherical kernel, which fills the cavity exactly, but without sticking to the wall atany part. The small amount of free play allowed to this kernelaccounts for the rattling which I heard when I shook the thing. 

In the colour and general appearance of the whole, the kernel does notdiffer from the wrapper. But break it open and minutely examine thepieces. We now recognize tiny fragments of bone, flocks of down, threads of wool, scraps of flesh, the whole mixed in an earthy pasteresembling chocolate. 

This paste, when placed on hot charcoal, sifted under the lens anddeprived of its particles of dead bodies, becomes much darker, iscovered with shiny bubbles and sends forth puffs of that acrid smokeby which we so readily recognize burnt animal matter. The whole massof the kernel, therefore, is strongly impregnated with sanies. 

Treated in the same manner, the wrapper also turns black, but not tothe same extent; it hardly smokes; it does not become covered withjet-black bubbles; lastly, it would not anywhere contain bits ofcarcase similar to those in the central kernel. In both cases, theresidue after calcination is a fine, reddish clay. 

This brief analysis tells us all about the table of _Phanæus Milon_. The fare served to the grub is a sort of meat-pie. The sausage-meatconsists of a mince of all that the two scalpels of the forehead andthe toothed knives of the fore-legs have been able to remove from thecorpse: hair and down, small crushed bones, strips of flesh and skin. Now hard as brick, the thickening of this mincemeat was originally apaste of fine clay steeped in the liquor of corruption. Lastly, thelight crust of our meat-pies is here represented by a covering of thesame clay, less rich in extract of meat than the other. 

The pastry-cook gives his work an elegant shape; he decorates it withrosettes, with twists, with scrolls. _Phanæus Milon_ is no stranger tothese culinary æsthetics. She turns the crust of her meat-pie into asplendid gourd, with a finger-print ornamentation. 

The outer covering, an unprofitable crust, insufficiently steeped insavoury juices, is not, we can easily guess, intended for consumption. It is possible that, somewhat later, when the stomach becomes robustand is not repelled by coarse fare, the grub scrapes a little from thesides of its pasty walls; but, until the adult insect emerges, thecalabash as a whole remains intact, having acted at first as asafeguard of the freshness of the force-meat and all the while as aprotecting casket for the recluse. 

Above the cold pastry, right at the base of the neck of the gourd, iscontrived a round cell with a clay wall continuing the general wall. Afairly thick floor, made of the same material, separates it from thestore-room. This is the hatching-chamber. Here is laid the egg, whichI find in its place but dried up; here is hatched the grub, which, toreach the ball of food, must first open a trap-door through thepartition that separates the two stories. 

We have here, in short, the edifice of the Gromphas, in a differentstyle of architecture. The grub is born in a casket surmounting thestack of food but not communicating with it. The budding larva musttherefore, at the opportune moment, itself pierce the covering of thepot of preserves. As a matter of fact, later, when the grub is on thesausage-meat, we find the floor perforated with a hole just largeenough for it to pass through. 

Wrapped all round in a thick casing of pottery, the meat keeps freshas long as is required by the duration of the hatching-process, adetail which I have not ascertained; in its cell, which is also ofclay, the egg lies safe. Capital; so far, all is well. _Phanæus Milon_is thoroughly acquainted with the secrets of fortification and thedanger of victuals evaporating too soon. There remain the germ'srespiratory requirements. 

To satisfy these, the insect has been equally well-inspired. The neckof the calabash is pierced, in the direction of its axis, with a tinychannel which would admit at most the slenderest of straws. Inside, this conduit opens at the top of the dome of the hatching-chamber;outside, at the tip of the nipple, it spreads into a wide mouth. Thisis the ventilating-shaft, protected against intruders by its extremenarrowness and by grains of dust which obstruct it a little withoutstopping it up. I said it was simply marvellous. Was I wrong? If aconstruction of this sort is a fortuitous result, we must admit thatblind chance is gifted with extraordinary powers of foresight. 

How does the clumsy insect manage to accomplish so delicate andcomplex a piece of building? Exploring the pampas as I do through theeyes of an intermediary, my only guide in this question is thestructure of the work, a structure whence we can deduct the workman'smethod without going far astray. I therefore imagine the building toproceed in this manner: a small carcase is found, the oozing of whichhas softened the underlying loam. The insect collects more or less ofthis loam, according to the richness of the vein. There are no preciselimits here. If the plastic material be plentiful, the collector islavish with it and the provision-box becomes all the more solid. Thenenormous calabashes are obtained, exceeding a Hen's egg in volume andformed of an outer wall three-quarters of an inch thick. But a mass ofthis description is beyond the strength of the modeller, is badlyhandled and betrays, in its shape, the awkwardness attendant on anover-difficult task. If the material be rare, the insect confines itsharvesting to what is strictly necessary; and then, freer in itsmovements, it obtains a magnificently regular gourd. 

The loam is probably first kneaded into a ball and then scooped outinto a large and very thick cup by the pressure of the fore-legs andthe work of the forehead. Even thus do the Copris and the SacredBeetle act when preparing, on the top of their round pill, the bowl inwhich the egg will be laid before the final manipulation of the ovoidor pear. 

In this first business, the Phanæus is simply a potter. So long as itbe plastic, any clay serves her turn, however meagrely saturated withthe juices running from the carcase. 

She now becomes a pork-butcher. With her toothed knife, she carves, she saws some tiny shreds from the rotten animal; she tears off, cutsaway what she deems best suited to the grub's entertainment. Shecollects all these fragments and mixes them with choice loam in thespots where the sanies abounds. The whole, cunningly kneaded andsoftened, becomes a ball made on the spot, without anyrolling-process, in the same way as the sphere of the otherpill-manufacturers. Let us add that this ball, a ration calculated bythe needs of the grub, is very nearly constant in size, whatever thedimensions of the final calabash. 

The sausage-meat is now ready. It is set in place in the wide-openclay bowl. Loosely packed, without compression, the food will remainfree, will not stick to its wrapper. 

Next, the potter's work is renewed. The insect presses the thick lipsof the clay cup, rolls them out and applies them to the preparedforce-meat, which is eventually contained by a thin partition at thetop end and by a thick layer every elsewhere. A wide circular pad isleft on the top partition, which is thin in view of the weakness ofthe grub that is to perforate it later, when making for theprovisions. Manipulated in its turn, this pad is converted into ahemispherical hollow, in which the egg is forthwith laid. 

The work is completed by rolling out and joining the edges of thelittle crater, which closes and becomes the hatching-chamber. Here, especially, a delicate dexterity becomes essential. At the same timethat the nipple of the calabash is being shaped, the insect, whenpacking the material, must leave the little channel which is to formthe ventilating-shaft, following the line of the axis. This narrowconduit, which an ill-calculated pressure might stop up beyond hope ofremedy, seems to me extremely difficult to obtain. The most skilful ofour potters could not manage it without the aid of a needle, which hewould afterwards withdraw. The insect, a sort of jointed automaton, makes its channel through the massive nipple of the gourd without somuch as a thought. If it did give it a thought, it would not succeed. 

The calabash is made: there remains the decoration. This is the workof patient after-touches which perfect the curves and leave on thesoft loam a series of stippled impressions similar to those which thepotter of prehistoric days distributed over his big-bellied jars withthe ball of his thumb. 

That finishes the work. The insect will begin all over again under afresh carcase; for each burrow has one calabash and no more, even aswith the Sacred Beetle and her pears. 

Here is another of these artists of the pampas. All black and as bigas the largest of our Onthophagi, [18] whom she greatly resembles ingeneral build, _Canthon bispinus_ is likewise an exploiter of deadbodies, if not always on her own behalf, at least on that of heroffspring. 

[Footnote 18: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chaps. Xi. Xvii. , and xviii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

She introduces very original innovations into the pill-maker's art. Her work, strewn like the aforementioned with finger-prints, is thepilgrim's gourd, the double-bellied gourd. Of the two stories, whichare joined together by a fairly plainly-marked groove, the upper isthe smaller and contains the egg in an incubating-chamber; the lowerand bulkier is the food-stack. 

Imagine the Sisyphus' little pear with its hatching-chamber swolleninto a globule a trifle smaller than the sphere at the other end;suppose the two protuberances to be divided by a sort of wide opengroove like that of a pulley; and we shall have something very likethe Canthon's work in shape and size. 

When placed on burning charcoal, this double-bellied gourd turnsblack, becomes covered with shiny warts that look like jet beads, emits a smell like that of grilled meat and leaves a residue of redclay. It is therefore formed of clay and sanies. Moreover, the pasteis sprinkled with little scraps of dead flesh. At the smaller end isthe egg, in a chamber with a very porous roof, to allow the air toenter. 

The little undertaker has something better to show than her doublesausage. Like the Bison Onitis, the Sisyphus and the Lunary Copris, she enjoys the collaboration of the father. Each burrow containsseveral cradles, with the father and mother invariably present. Whatare the two inseparables doing? They are watching their brood and, bydint of assiduous repairs, keeping the little sausages, which are inconstant danger of cracking or drying up, in good condition. 

The magic carpet which has allowed me to take this trip to the pampassupplies me with nothing else worth noting. Besides, the New World ispoor in pill-rollers and cannot compare with Senegambia and theregions of the Upper Nile, that paradise of Copres and Sacred Beetles. Nevertheless we owe it one precious detail: the group which iscommonly known by the name of Dung-beetles is divided into twocorporations, one of which exploits dung, the other corpses. 

With very few exceptions, the latter has no representatives in ourclimes. I have mentioned the little Oval Onthophagus as a lover ofcarrion corruption; and my memory does not recall any other example ofthe kind. We have to go to the other world to find such tastes. 

Can it be that there was a schism among the primitive scavengers andthat these, at first addicted to the same industry, afterwards dividedthe hygienic task, some burying the ordure of the intestines, theothers the ordure of death? Can the comparative frequency of this orthe other provender have brought about the formation of twotrade-guilds?

That is not admissible. Life is inseparable from death; wherever acorpse is, there also, scattered at random, are the digestive residuesof the live animal; and the pill-roller is not fastidious as to theorigin of this waste matter. Dearth therefore plays no part in theschism, if the true dung-worker has actually turned himself into anundertaker, or if the undertaker has turned himself into a truedung-worker. At no time have materials for the work been lacking ineither case. 

Nothing, not the scarcity of provisions, nor the climate, nor thereversed seasons, would explain this strange divergence. We mustperforce regard it as a matter of original specialities, of tastes notacquired but prescribed from the beginning. And what prescribed themwas anything but the structure. 

I would defy the greatest expert to tell me, simply from the insect'sappearance and without learning the facts by experiment, the manner ofindustry to which _Phanæus Milon_, for instance, devotes himself. Remembering the Onites, who are very similar in shape and whomanipulate stercoral matter, he would look upon the foreigner asanother manipulator of dung. He would be mistaken: the analysis of themeat-pie has told us so. 

The shape does not make the real Dung-beetle. I have in my collectiona magnificent insect from Cayenne, known to the nomenclators as_Phanæus festivus_, a brilliant Beetle in festive attire, charming, beautiful, glorious to behold. How well he deserves his name! Hiscolouring is a metallic red, which flashes with the fire of rubies;and he sets off this splendid jewellery by studding his corselet withgreat spots of glowing black. 

What trade do you follow under your torrid sun, O gleaming carbuncle?Have you the bucolic tastes of your rival in finery, the SplendidPhanæus? Can you be a knacker, a worker in putrid sausage-meat, like_Phanæus Milon_? Vainly do I consider you and marvel at you: yourequipment tells me nothing. No one who has not seen you at work iscapable of naming your profession. I leave the matter to theconscientious masters, to the experts who are able to say: I do notknow. They are scarce, in our days; but after all there are some, lesseager than others in the unscrupulous struggle which creates upstarts. 

This excursion to the pampas leans to one conclusion of someimportance. We find in another hemisphere, with reversed seasons, adifferent climate and dissimilar biological conditions, a series oftrue dung-workers whose habits and industry repeat, in their essentialfacts, the habits and industry of our own. Prolonged investigations, made at first hand and not, like mine, at second hand, would addgreatly to the list of similar workers. 

And it is not only in the grassy plains of La Plata that the modellersof dung proceed according to the principles usual over here; we maysay, without fear of being mistaken, that the magnificent Copres ofEthiopia and the big Sacred Beetles of Senegambia work exactly likeour own. 

The same similarity of industry exists in other entomological series, however distant their country. My books give details of a Pelopæus[19]in Sumatra, who is an ardent Spider-huntress like our own, who buildsmud cells inside houses and who, like her, is fond of the loosehangings of the window-curtains for the shifting foundation of hernests. They tell me of a Scolia[20] in Madagascar who serves each ofher grubs with a fat rasher, an Oryctes-larva, [21] even as our ownScoliæ feed their family on prey of similar organization, with ahighly concentrated nervous system, such as the larvæ of Cetoniæ, Anoxiæ and even Oryctes. They tell me that in Texas a Pepsis, ahuntress of big game akin to the Calicurgi, gives chase to aformidable Tarantula and vies in daring with our RingedCalicurgus, [22] who stabs the Black-bellied Lycosa. [23] They tell methat the Sphex-wasps of the Sahara, a rival of our own White-bandedSphex, [24] operate on Locusts. But we must limit these quotations, which could easily be multiplied. 

[Footnote 19: Cf. _The Mason-wasps_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated byAlexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. Iii. To vi. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

[Footnote 20: The chapters on the Scoliæ will appear in _More HuntingWasps_. Meanwhile, cf. _The Life and Love of the Insect_, by J. HenriFabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. Xi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 21: The larva of the Rhinoceros Beetle. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

[Footnote 22: For the Pompilus, or Ringed Calicurgus, cf. _The Lifeand Love of the Insect_: chap. Xii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 23: For the Narbonne Lycosa, or Black-bellied Tarantula, cf. _The Life of the Spider_: chaps. I. And iii. To vii. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

[Footnote 24: Cf. _The Life of the Fly_: chap. I. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

For producing variations of animal species to suit our theorists thereis nothing so convenient as the influence of environment. It is avague, elastic phrase, which does not compromise us by compelling usto be too precise and it supplies an apparent explanation of theinexplicable. But is this influence so powerful as they say?

I grant you that to some small extent it modifies the shape, the furor feather, the colouring, the outward accessories. To go fartherwould be to fly in the face of facts. If the surroundings become tooexacting, the animal protests against the violence endured andsuccumbs rather than change. If they go to work gently, the creaturesubjected to them adapts itself as best it can, but invincibly refusesto cease to be what it is. It must live in the form of the mouldwhence it issued, or it must die: there is no other alternative. 

Instinct, one of the higher characteristics, is no less rebellious tothe injunctions of environment than are the organs, which serve itsactivity. Innumerable guilds divide the work of the entomologicalworld; and each member of one of these corporations is subject torules which not climate, nor latitude, nor the most seriousdisturbances of diet are able to alter. 

Look at the Dung-beetles of the pampas. At the other end of the world, in their vast flooded pastures, so different from our scantygreenswards, they follow, without notable variations, the same methodsas their colleagues in Provence. A profound change of surroundings inno way effects the fundamental industry of the group. 

Nor do the provisions available affect it. The staple food to-day ismatter of bovine origin. But the Ox is a newcomer in the land, animportation of the Spanish conquest. What did the Megathopæ, theBolbites, the Splendid Phanæus eat and knead, before the arrival ofthe present purveyor? The Llama, that denizen of the uplands, was notable to feed the Dung-beetles confined to the plains. In days of old, the foster-father was perhaps the monstrous Megatherium, adung-factory of incomparable prodigality. 

And from the produce of the colossal beast, whereof naught remains buta few rare skeletons, the modellers passed to the produce of the Sheepand the Ox, without altering their ovoids or their gourds, even as ourSacred Beetle, without ceasing to be faithful to her pear, accepts theCow's flat cake in the absence of the favourite morsel, the Sheep'sbannock. 

In the south as in the north, at the antipodes as here, every Coprisfashions ovoids with the egg at the smaller end; every Sacred Beetlemodels pears or gourds with a hatching-chamber in the neck; but thematerials employed vary greatly according to the season and localityand can be furnished by the Megatherium, the Ox, the Horse, the Sheepor by man and several others. 

We must not allow this diversity to lead us to believe in changes ofinstinct: that would be to strain at a Gnat and swallow a Camel. Theindustry of the Megachiles, for instance, consists of manufacturingwallets with bits of leaves; that of the Cotton-bees of making bags ofwadding with the flock gathered from certain plants. Whether thepieces be cut from the leaves of this shrub or that, or at need fromthe petals of some flower; whether the cotton-wool be collected hereor there, as chance may direct the encounter, the industry undergoesno essential changes. 

In the same manner, nothing changes in the art of the Dung-beetle, victualling himself with materials in this mine or that. Here in truthwe have immutable instinct, here we behold the rock which ourtheorists are unable to shake. 

And why should it change, this instinct, so logical in its workings?Where could it find, even with chance assisting, a better plan? Inspite of an equipment which varies in the different genera, itsuggests to every modelling Dung-beetle the spherical shape, afundamental structure which is hardly affected when the egg is placedin position. 

From the outset, without the use of compasses, without any mechanicalrolling, without shifting the thing on its base, one and all obtainthe ball, the delicately executed compact body supremely favourable tothe grub's well-being. To the shapeless lump, demanding no pains, theyall prefer the sphere, lovingly fashioned and calling for muchmanipulation, the globe which is the preeminent form and best-adaptedfor the preservation of energy, in the case of a sun and of aDung-beetle's cradle alike. 

When Macleay[25] gave the Sacred Beetle the name of Heliocantharus, the Black-beetle of the Sun, what had he in mind? The radiatingdenticulations of the forehead, the insect's gambols in the brightsunlight? Was he not thinking rather of the symbol of Egypt, theScarab who, on the pediment of the temples, lifts towards the sky, byway of a pill, a vermilion sphere, the image of the sun?

[Footnote 25: William Sharp Macleay (1792-1865), author of _HoræEntomologicæ_; or, _Essays on Annulose Animals_ (1819-1821), on whichI quote the _Dictionary of National Biography_:

"He propounded the circular or quinary system, a forcedly artificialattempt at a natural system of classification, which soon became abyword among naturalists. "--_Translator's Note_. ]

The comparison between the mighty bodies of the universe and theinsect's humble pellet was not distasteful to the thinkers on thebanks of the Nile. For them supreme splendour found its effigy inextreme abjection. Were they very wrong?

No, for the pill-roller's work propounds a grave problem to whoso iscapable of reflection. It compels us to accept this alternative:either to credit the Dung-beetle's flat head with the signal honour ofhaving of itself solved the geometrical problem of preserved food, orelse to fall back upon a harmony ruling all things under the eye of anIntelligence Which, knowing everything, has provided for everything. 

CHAPTER XINSECT COLOURING

_Phanæus splendidulus_, the glittering, the resplendent: this is theepithet selected by the official nomenclators to describe thehandsomest Dung-beetle of the pampas. The name is not at allexaggerated. Combining the fire of gems with metallic lustre, theinsect, according to the incidence of the light, emits the greenreflections of the emerald or the gleam of ruddy copper. Themuck-raker would do honour to the jeweller's show-cases. 

For the rest, our own Dung-beetles, though usually modest in theirattire, also have a leaning toward luxurious ornament. One Onthophagusdecorates his corselet with Florentine bronze; another wears garnetson his wing-cases. Black above, the Mimic Geotrupes is the colour ofcopper pyrites below; also black in all parts exposed to the light ofday, the Stercoraceous Geotrupes displays a ventral surface of aglorious amethyst violet. 

Many other series, of greatly varied habits, Carabi, [1] Cetoniæ, Buprestes, Chrysomelæ, [2] rival and even surpass the magnificentDung-beetles in the matter of jewellery. At times we encountersplendours which the imagination of a lapidary would not venture todepict. The Azure Hoplia, [3] the inmate of the osier-beds and eldersby the banks of the mountain streams, is a wonderful blue, tendererand softer to the eye than the azure of the heavens. You could notfind an ornament to match it save on the throats of certainHumming-birds and the wings of a few Butterflies in equatorial climes. 

[Footnote 1: Cf. Chapter XIV. Of the present volume. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

[Footnote 2: Golden Apple-beetles. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 3: A genus of Cockchafer. Cf. _The Life of the Fly_: chap. Vii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

To adorn itself like this, in what Golconda does the insect gather itsgems? In what diggings does it find its gold nuggets? What a prettyproblem is that of a Buprestis' wing-case! Here the chemistry ofcolours ought to reap a delightful harvest; but the difficulties aregreat, it seems, so much so that science cannot yet tell us the whyand the wherefore of the humblest costume. The answer will come in aremote future, if indeed it ever comes completely, for life'slaboratory may well contain secrets denied to our retorts. For themoment, I shall perhaps be contributing a grain of sand to the futurepalace if I describe the little that I have seen. 

My basic observation dates a long way back. I was at that time busywith the Hunting Wasps, following their larval development from theegg to the cocoon. Let us take an instance from my notes, which covernearly all the game-hunters of my district. I will choose the larva ofthe Yellow-winged Sphex, [4] which, with its convenient size, willfurnish an easy object-lesson. 

[Footnote 4: Cf. _The Hunting Wasps_: chap. Iv. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Under the transparent skin of the larva, which has been recentlyhatched and is consuming its first Cricket, we soon perceive some finewhite spots, which rapidly increase in size and number and eventuallycover the whole body, except the first two or three segments. Ondissecting the grub, we find that these spots have to do with theadipose layer, of which they form a considerable part, for, far frombeing scattered only on the surface, they run through its wholethickness and are present in such numbers that the forceps cannotseize the least fragment of this tissue without picking up a few ofthem. 

Though perfectly visible without the help of a lens, these puzzlingspots call for the microscope if we wish to study them in detail. Wethen find that the adipose tissue is made up of two kinds of vesicles:some, bright yellow and transparent, are filled with oily drops; therest, opaque and starch-white, are distended with a very fine powder, which spreads in a cloudy trail when the vesicle containing it isbroken on the object-slide. Intermingled without apparent order, thetwo kinds of bags are of the same shape and the same size. The firstgo to make up the nutritive reserves, the fatty tissue properlyso-called; the second form the white dots which we will study for amoment. 

An inspection under the microscope tells us that the contents of thewhite cells are composed of very fine, opaque grains, insoluble inwater and of greater density. The use of chemical reagents on theobject-slide proves that nitric acid dissolves these grains, witheffervescence and without leaving the least residue, even when theyare still enclosed in their vesicles. On the other hand, the truefatty cells suffer in no way when attacked by this acid; they merelyturn a little yellower. 

Let us take advantage of this property to operate on a larger scale. The adipose tissue taken from a number of larvæ is treated with nitricacid. The effervescence is as lively as if the reaction were takingeffect on a bit of chalk. When it has subsided, some yellow clots arefloating on the surface. These are easily separated. They come fromthe fatty substance and the cellular membranes. There remains a clearliquid containing the white granules in solution. 

The riddle of these granules was being presented to me for the firsttime; my predecessors had provided no physiological or anatomical datato guide me; great therefore was my joy when, after a little fumbling, I succeeded in hitting upon their characteristic feature. 

The solution is evaporated in a small porcelain capsule, placed on thehot embers. On the residue I pour a few drops of ammonia, or elsesimply water. A glorious crimson colour at once makes its appearance. The problem is solved: the colouring-matter which has just formed ismurexide; and consequently the powdery substance which filled thecells was none other than uric acid, or more precisely ammonium urate. 

A physiological fact of this importance can hardly stand alone. Indeed, since this basic experiment I have discovered grains of uricacid in the adipose tissue of the larvæ of all the Hunting Wasps ofour parts, as well as in the Bees at the moment of the nymphosis. Ihave observed them in many other insects, either in the larval or inthe perfect state; but in this respect there is none to equal the grubof the game-hunting Wasp, which is all speckled with white. I think Isee the reason. 

Let us consider two larvæ which eat live prey: that of the Sphex andthat of the Hydrophilus. [5] Uric acid, the inevitable product of thevital transformations, or at all events one of its analogues, must beformed in both. But the Hydrophilus' larva shows no accumulation of itin its adipose layer, whereas the Sphex' is full of it. 

[Footnote 5: The Great Water-beetle. --_Translator's Note_. ]

In the latter the duct through which the solid excretions pass is notyet in working order; the digestive apparatus, tied at the lower end, is not discharging an atom. The urinary products, being unable, forwant of an open outlet, to flow away as formed, accumulate in theadipose tissue, which thus serves as a common store-house for theresidues of the present and the plastic material of the future organicprocesses. Here something occurs analogous to what we see in thehigher animals after the removal of the kidneys; the urea at firstcontained in the blood, in imperceptible quantities accumulates andbecomes manifest when the means by which it is eliminated disappear. 

In the larva of the Hydrophilus, on the other hand, the excretionsenjoy a free outlet from the beginning; and the urinary productsescape as and when formed and are no longer deposited in the adiposetissue. But during the intense labour of the metamorphosis, anyexcretion becomes impossible; the uric acid must and does collect inthe adipose substance of the different larvæ. 

It would be out of place, despite its importance, to pursue theproblem of the uric residues any further. Our subject is coloration. Let us return to it with the evidence supplied by the Sphex. Heralmost transparent larva has the neutral tint of fluid white of egg. Under its fine translucid skin there is nothing coloured, save thelong digestive pouch, which is swollen a deep purple by the pulp ofthe consumed Crickets. But against this indefinite, vitreousbackground the opaque white uric cells stand out distinctly in theirmyriads; and the effect of this stippling is a sketchy but by no meansinelegant costume. It is skimpy in the extreme, but at any rate it issomething. 

With the urinary broth of which its intestine is unable to get rid, the larva has discovered a means of making itself look a little smart. The Anthidia have shown us how, in their cotton-wool wallets, theymanufacture a sort of jewellery with their ordure. The robe studdedwith grains of alabaster is a no less ingenious invention. 

To beautify themselves cheaply by using up their own refuse is a verycommon method even among insects endowed with all that is wanted forevacuating waste matter. While the larvæ of the Hunting Wasps, unableto do better, stipple themselves with uric acid, there are plenty ofindustrious creatures that are able to make themselves a superb dressby preserving their excretions in spite of their own open sewers. Witha view to self-embellishment, they collect and treasure up the drosswhich others hasten to expel. They turn filth into finery. 

One of these is the White-faced Decticus (_D. Albifrons_, FAB. ), thebiggest sabre-bearer of the Provençal fauna. A magnificent insect isthis Grasshopper, with a broad ivory face, a full, creamy-white bellyand long wings flecked with brown. In July, the season for thewedding-dress, let us dissect him under water. 

The adipose tissue, which is abundant and yellowish white, consists ofa lace of wide, irregular, criss-cross meshes. It is a tubular networkswollen with a powdery matter which condenses into minute chalk-whitespots, standing out very plainly against a transparent background. When crushed in a drop of water, a fragment of this fabric yields amilky cloud in which the microscope shows an infinite number of opaquefloating atoms, without revealing the smallest blob of oil, the signof fatty matter. 

Here again we have ammonium urate. Treated with nitric acid, theadipose tissue of the Decticus produces an effervescence similar tothat of chalk and yields enough murexide to redden a tumblerful ofwater. A strange adipose body, this bundle of lace crammed with uricacid without a trace of fatty matter! What would the Decticus do withnutritive reserves, seeing that he is near his end, now that thenuptial season has arrived? Delivered from the necessity of saving forthe future, he has only to spend in gaiety the few days left to him;he has only to adorn himself for the supreme festival. 

He therefore converts into a paint-factory what at first was awarehouse for storing up foodstuffs; and with his chalk-like uric pulphe lavishly daubs his belly, which turns a creamy white, and smears iton his forehead, his face, his cheeks, until they assume theappearance of old ivory. All those parts, in fact, which lieimmediately under the translucid skin are covered with a layer ofpigment which can be turned into murexide and is identical in naturewith the white powder of the adipose lace. 

Biological chemistry can hardly offer a simpler and more strikingexperiment than this analysis of the Decticus' finery. To those whohave not this curious Grasshopper handy, I recommend the Ephippiger ofthe Vines, who is much more widely distributed. His ventral surface, which also is of a creamy white, likewise owes its colour to aplastering of uric acid. In the Grasshopper family many other speciesof smaller size and requiring more delicate handling would give us thesame results in varying degrees. 

White, slightly tinged with yellow, is all that the urinary palette ofthe Locustidæ shows us. A caterpillar, the Spurge Hawk-moth's, willtake us a little farther. Dappled red, black, white and yellow, itslivery is the most remarkable in our part of the country. Réaumur infact calls it _la Belle_. The flattering title is well-deserved. Onthe black background of the larva, vermillion-red, chrome-yellow andchalk-white figure side by side in circles, spots, freckles andstripes, as clearly marked as the glaring patches of a harlequin'sdress. 

Let us dissect the caterpillar and apply the lens to its mosaic. Onthe inner surface of the skin, except in the portions coloured black, we observe a pigmentary layer, a coating here red, there yellow orwhite. We will cut a strip from this coat of many colours, afterdepriving it of its muscular fibres, and subject it to the action ofnitric acid. The pigment, no matter what its hue, dissolves witheffervescence and afterwards yields murexide. Here again, then, it isto uric acid, present, however, in small quantities in the adiposetissue, that the caterpillar's rich livery is due. 

The black parts are an exception. Unassailable by nitric acid, theyretain their sombre tint after treatment as before, whereas theportions stripped of their pigment by the reagent become almost astransparent as glass. The skin of the handsome caterpillar thus hastwo sorts of coloured patches. 

Those of an intense black may be likened to dyers' products: they arecompletely impregnated with the colouring matter, which is part andparcel of the molecular constitution and cannot be isolated by thenitric solvent. The others, red, yellow or white, are actuallypainted: on a translucid sheet is a wash of urinary pigment, which isdischarged by the minute ducts issuing from the adipose layer. Whenthe action of the nitric acid has ceased, the transparent circles ofthe latter stand out against the black background of the former. 

Yet one more example taken from a different order. As regards eleganceof costume, the Banded Epeira[6] is the most highly favoured of ourSpiders. On the upper surface of her corpulent belly alternate, intransversal bands, bright black, a vivid yellow like that of yolk ofegg and a dazzling white like that of snow. The black and yellow alsoshow underneath, but arranged differently. The yellow, in particular, forms two longitudinal ribbons, ending in orange-red on either side ofthe spinnerets. A pale purple is faintly diffused over the sides. 

[Footnote 6: Cf. _The Life of the Spider_: chaps. Ii. , vii. , xi. Andxiii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Examined from the outside with the lens, the black parts revealnothing out of the common. The black is homogeneous and everywhere ofequal depth. On the other hand, in the coloured portions, we seelittle polygonal, granular masses, forming a close-meshed network. Bycutting round the circumference of the abdomen with a pair ofscissors, the horny integument of the dorsal surface may readily beremoved in one piece, without any shreds of the organs which itprotected. This large strip of skin is transparent in the zones thatcorrespond with the white bands in the natural state; it is black oryellow on the black or yellow bands. These last indeed owe theircolouring to a layer of pigment which the point of a paintbrush willeasily loosen and remove. 

As for the white bands, their origin is this: once the skin has beenremoved, the dorsal surface of the abdomen, whose graceful mosaic isnot in any way disturbed, reveals a layer of polygonal white spots, distributed in belts, here densely and there less so. The denser beltscorrespond with the white bands. It is their magnificent opaque whitegranulations which, seen through the transparent skin, form thesnow-white stripes in the live Spider. 

Treated with nitric acid on the microscopic slide, they do notdissolve nor produce effervescence. Uric acid then is not present inthis case; and the substance must be guanine, an alkaloid known to bethe urinary product of the Spiders. The same is true of the yellow, black, purple or orange pigment that forms a coating under the skin. In short, by utilizing, in a different chemical combination, the wasteproducts of animal oxidization, the magnificent Spider rivals themagnificent caterpillar; she beautifies herself with guanine as theother does with its uric acid. 

Let us abridge this dry subject; let us be content with these fewdata, which could if necessary be corroborated by many others. Whatdoes the little that we have learnt teach us? It tells us that thematerials rejected by the organism, guanine, uric acid and other drossfrom life's refinery, play an important part in the coloration of theinsect. 

Two cases are distinguishable, according as the colour is dyed orsimply painted. The skin, itself colourless and transparent, is inplaces illumined by a coloured varnish, which can be removed by atouch with a paintbrush. Here we have paint, the result of the urinarycompound laid on the inner surface of the covering, just as thechromatic ingredients of our glass-painters are laid on ourstained-glass windows. 

At other places the skin is coloured in its very substance; thecolouring-matter forms an integral part of it and can no longer beswept away with a camel-hair brush. Here we have a dyed fabric, represented in our windows by the panes of coloured glass which thecrucible decorates uniformly with this or that tint, by means of theincorporated metallic oxides. 

Whereas, in these two cases, there is a profound difference in thedistribution of the chromatic materials, is this true of theirchemical nature as well? The suggestion is hardly admissible. Theworker in stained glass dyes or paints with the same oxides. Life, that incomparable artist, must even more readily obtain an infinitevariety of results by uniformity of method. 

It shows us, on the back of the Spurge Caterpillar, [7] black spotsjumbled up with other spots, white, yellow or red. Paints and dyes lieside by side. Is there on this side of the dividing line a paint-stuffand on the other side a dye-stuff, absolutely different in characterfrom the first? While chemistry is not yet in a position todemonstrate, with its reagents, the common origin of the twosubstances, at least the most convincing analogies point to it. 

[Footnote 7: The caterpillar of the Spurge Hawk-moth. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

In this delicate problem of the insect's colouring, one single pointthus far comes within the domain of observed facts: the progressiveadvance of chromatic evolution. The carbuncle of the Dung-Beetle ofthe Pampas suggested the question. Let us then inquire of his nearneighbours, who will perhaps enable us to advance a step farther. 

Newly stripped of his cast-off nymphal skin, the Sacred Beetlepossesses a strange costume, bearing no resemblance to the ebony blackwhich will be the portion of the mature insect. The head, legs andthorax are a bright rusty red; the wing-cases and abdomen are white. As a colour, the red is almost that of the Spurge Caterpillar, but itis the result of a dye on which nitric acid has no effect as adetector of urates. The same chromatic principle must certainly existin a more elaborate form and under a different molecular arrangementin the skin of the abdomen and the wing-cases which will presentlyreplace white by red. 

In two or three days the colourless becomes the coloured, a processwhose rapidity implies a fresh molecular structure rather than achange of composition. The building-stone remains the same, but isarranged in a different order; and the structure alters in appearance. 

The Scarabæus is now all red. The first brown stains show themselveson the denticulations of the forehead and fore-legs, the sign of anearlier maturity in the implements of labour, which are to acquire anexceptional hardness. The smoky tinge spreads more or less all overthe insect, replaces the red, turns darker and finally becomes theregulation black. In less than a week the colourless insect turns arusty red, next a sooty brown and then an ebony black. The process iscompleted; the insect possesses its normal colouring. 

Even so do the Copres, the Gymnopleuri, [8] the Onites, the Onthophagiand many others behave; even so must the jewel of the pampas, theSplendid Phanæus set to work. With as much certainty as though I hadhim before my eyes at the moment when he divests himself of hisnymphal swaddling-bands, I see him a dull red, rusty or crimson, excepting on the wing-covers and the abdomen, which are at firstcolourless and presently turn the same colour as the rest. In theSacred Beetle this initial red is followed by black; the Phanæusreplaces it by the brilliance of copper and the reflections of theemerald. Ebony, metal, the gem: have they the same origin here then?Evidently. 

[Footnote 8: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap. Viii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The metallic lustre does not call for a change of nature; a merenothing is enough to produce it. Silver, when very finely subdividedby the methods whereof chemistry knows the secret, becomes a dust aspoor to look at as soot. When pressed between two hard bodies, thisdirty powder, which might be dried mud, at once acquires the metallicsheen and again becomes the silver which we know. A mere molecularcontact has wrought the miracle. 

Dissolved in water, the murexide derived from uric acid is amagnificent crimson. Solidified by crystallization, it rivals insplendour the gold-green of the Cantharides. The widely-used fuschineaffords a well-known example of like properties. 

Everything, then, appears to show that the same substance, derivedfrom urinary excretions, yields, according to the mode in which itsultimate particles are grouped, the metallic red of the Phanæus, aswell as the white, the dull red and the black of the Sacred Beetle. Itbecomes black on the dorsal surface of the Stercoraceous Geotrupes andthe Mimic Geotrupes; and, with a quick change, it turns into amethystunder the belly of the first and into copper pyrites under the bellyof the second. It covers the back of _Cetonia floricola_ with goldenbronze and the under surface with metallic purple. According to theinsect, according to the part of the body, it remains a dingy compoundor sparkles with reflections even more vivid and varied than thosepossessed by the metals. 

Light seems irrelevant to the development of these splendours; itneither accelerates nor retards them. Since direct exposure to thesun, owing to the excess of heat, is fatal to the delicate process ofthe nymphosis, I shaded the solar rays with a screen of watercontained between slips of glass; and to the bright light thusmoderated in temperature I daily, throughout the period of chromaticevolution, subjected a number of Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes andCetoniæ. As standards of comparison I had witnesses of whom I keptsome in diffused light and others in complete darkness. My experimentshad no appreciable result. The development of the colours took placein the sunlight and in the dark alike, neither more rapidly nor moreslowly and without difference in the tints. 

This negative result was easy to foresee. The Buprestis emerging fromthe depths of the trunk in which he has spent his larval life; theGeotrupes and the Phanæus leaving their natal burrows possess theirfinal adornments, which will not become richer in the rays of the sun, at the time when they make their appearance in the open air. Theinsect does not claim the assistance of the light for its colourchemistry, not even the Cicada, [9] who bursts her larval scabbard andchanges from pale green to brown as easily in the darkness of myapparatus as in the sunlight, in the usual manner. 

[Footnote 9: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. I. Tov. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The chromatics of the insect, having as its basis the urinary wasteproducts, might well be found in various animals of a higher order. Weknow of at least one example. The pigment of a small American lizardis converted into uric acid under the prolonged action of boilinghydrochloric acid. [10] This cannot be an isolated instance; and thereis reason to believe that the reptilian class daubs its garments withsimilar products. 

[Footnote 10: A. B. Griffiths, Transactions of the Académie dessciences, 26 November, 1894. --_Author's Note_. ]

From the reptile to the bird is no great distance. Then theWood-pigeon's iridescent hues, the eyes on the Peacock's tail, theKingfisher's sea-blue, the Flamingo's carmine are more or less closelyconnected with the urinary excretions? Why not? Nature, that sublimeeconomist, delights in these vast antitheses which upset all ourconceptions of the values of things. Of a pinch of common charcoal shemakes a diamond; of the same clay which the potter fashions into abowl for the Cat's supper she makes a ruby; of the filthy wasteproducts of the organism she makes the splendours of the insect andthe bird. The metallic marvels of the Buprestis and the Ground-beetle;the amethyst, ruby, sapphire, emerald and topaz of the Humming-bird;glories which would exhaust the language of the lapidary jeweller:what are they in reality? Answer: a drop of urine. 

CHAPTER XITHE BURYING-BEETLES: THE BURIAL

Beside the footpath in April lies the Mole, disembowelled by thepeasant's spade; at the foot of the hedge the pitiless urchin hasstoned to death the Lizard, who was about to don his green, pearl-embellished costume. The passer-by has thought it a meritoriousdeed to crush beneath his heel the chance-met Adder; and a gust ofwind has thrown a tiny unfledged bird from its nest. What will becomeof these little bodies and so many other pitiful remnants of life?They will not long offend our sense of sight and smell. The sanitaryofficers of the fields are legion. 

An eager freebooter, ready for any task, the Ant is the first to comehastening and begin, particle by particle, to dissect the corpse. Soonthe odour attracts the Fly, the genitrix of the odious maggot. At thesame time, the flattened Silpha, [1] the glistening, slow-trottingCellar-beetle, the Dermestes, [2] powdered with snow upon the abdomen, and the slender Staphylinus, [3] all, whence coming no one knows, hurryhither in squads, with never-wearied zeal, investigating, probing anddraining the infection. 

[Footnote 1: Or Carrion-beetle. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 2: Or Bacon-beetle. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 3: Or Rove-beetle. --_Translator's Note_. ]

What a spectacle, in the spring, beneath a dead Mole! The horror ofthis laboratory is a beautiful sight for one who is able to observeand to meditate. Let us overcome our disgust; let us turn over theunclean refuse with our foot. What a swarming there is beneath it, what a tumult of busy workers! The Silphæ, with wing-cases wide anddark, as though in mourning, flee distraught, hiding in the cracks inthe soil; the Saprini, [4] of polished ebony which mirrors thesunlight, jog hastily off, deserting their workshop; the Dermestes, ofwhom one wears a fawn-coloured tippet flecked with white, seek to flyaway, but, tipsy with the putrid nectar, tumble over and reveal theimmaculate whiteness of their bellies, which forms a violent contrastwith the gloom of the rest of their attire. 

[Footnote 4: The Saprinus is a very small carnivorous Beetle. Cf. _TheLife of the Fly_: chap. Xvi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

What were they doing there, all these feverish workers? They weremaking a clearance of death on behalf of life. Transcendentalchemists, they were transforming that horrible putrescence into aliving and inoffensive product. They were draining the dangerouscorpse to the point of rendering it as dry and sonorous as the remainsof an old slipper hardened on the refuse-heap by the frosts of winterand the heats of summer. They were working their hardest to render thecarrion innocuous. 

Others will soon put in their appearance, smaller creatures and morepatient, who will take over the relic and exploit it ligament byligament, bone by bone, hair by hair, until the whole has beenrestored to the treasury of life. All honour to these purifiers! Letus put back the Mole and go our way. 

Some other victim of the agricultural labours of spring, aShrew-mouse, Field-mouse, Mole, Frog, Adder, or Lizard, will provideus with the most vigorous and famous of these expurgators of the soil. This is the Burying-beetle, the Necrophorus, so different from thecadaveric mob in dress and habits. In honour of his exalted functionshe exhales an odour of musk; he bears a red tuft at the tip of hisantennæ; his breast is covered with nankeen; and across his wing-caseshe wears a double, scalloped scarf of vermillion. An elegant, almostsumptuous costume, very superior to that of the others, but yetlugubrious, as befits your undertaker's man. 

He is no anatomical dissector, cutting his subject open, carving itsflesh with the scalpel of his mandibles; he is literally agrave-digger, a sexton. While the others--Silphæ, Dermestes, Cellar-beetles--gorge themselves with the exploited flesh, without, ofcourse, forgetting the interests of the family, he, a frugal eater, hardly touches his find on his own account. He buries it entire, onthe spot, in a cellar where the thing, duly ripened, will form thediet of his larvæ. He buries it in order to establish his progeny. 

This hoarder of dead bodies, with his stiff and almost heavymovements, is astonishingly quick at storing away wreckage. In a shiftof a few hours, a comparatively enormous animal, a Mole, for instance, disappears, engulfed by the earth. The others leave the dried, emptiedcarcass to the air, the sport of the winds for months on end; he, treating it as a whole, makes a clean job of things at once. Novisible trace of his work remains but a tiny hillock, a burial-mound, a tumulus. 

With his expeditious method, the Necrophorus is the first of thelittle purifiers of the fields. He is also one of the most celebratedof insects in respect of his psychical capacities. This undertaker isendowed, they say, with intellectual faculties approaching to reason, such as are not possessed by the most gifted of the Bees and Wasps, the collectors of honey or game. He is honoured by the two followinganecdotes, which I quote from Lacordaire's[5] _Introduction al'entomologie_, the only general treatise at my disposal:

"Clairville, " says the author, "reports that he saw a _Necrophorusvespillo_, who, wishing to bury a dead Mouse and finding the soil onwhich the body lay too hard, went to dig a hole at some distance, insoil more easily displaced. This operation completed, he attempted tobury the Mouse in the cavity, but, not succeeding, he flew away andreturned a few moments later, accompanied by four of his fellows, whoassisted him to move the Mouse and bury it. "

[Footnote 5: Jean Théodore Lacordaire (1801-1870), author of _Generades coléoptères_ (1854-1876) and of the work quoted above(1837-1839). --_Translator's Note_. ]

In such actions, Lacordaire adds, we cannot refuse to admit theintervention of reason. 

"The following case, " he continues, "recorded by Gleditsch, [6] hasalso every indication of the intervention of reason. One of hisfriends, wishing to desiccate a Frog, placed it on the top of a stickthrust into the ground, in order to make sure that the Necrophorishould not come and carry it off. But this precaution was of noeffect; the insects, being unable to reach the Frog, dug under thestick and, having caused it to fall, buried it as well as thebody. "[7]

[Footnote 6: Johann Gottlieb Gleditsch (1714-1786), the Germanbotanist. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 7: _Suites à Buffon. Introduction a l'entomologie_, vol. Ii. , pp. 460-61. --_Author's Note_. ]

To grant, in the intellect of the insect, a lucid understanding of therelations between cause and effect, between the end and the means, isto make a statement of serious import. I know of scarcely any moresuited to the philosophical brutalities of my time. But are these twoanecdotes really true? Do they involve the consequences deduced fromthem? Are not those who accept them as sound evidence just a littletoo simple?

To be sure, simplicity is needed in entomology. Without a good dose ofthis quality, a mental defect in the eyes of practical folk, who wouldbusy himself with the lesser creatures? Yes, let us be simple, withoutbeing childishly credulous. Before making insects reason, let usreason a little ourselves; let us, above all, consult the experimentaltest. A fact gathered at random, without criticism, cannot establish alaw. 

I do not propose, O valiant grave-diggers, to depreciate your merits;such is far from being my intention. I have that in my notes, on theother hand, which will do you more honour than the story of the gibbetand the Frog; I have gleaned, for your benefit, examples of prowesswhich will shed a new lustre upon your reputation. 

No, my intention is not to belittle your renown. Besides, it is notthe business of impartial history to maintain a given thesis; itfollows facts. I wish simply to question you upon the power of logicattributed to you. Do you or do you not enjoy gleams of reason? Haveyou within you the humble germ of human thought? That is the problembefore us. 

To solve it we will not rely upon the accidents which good fortune maynow and again procure for us. We must employ the breeding-cage, whichwill permit of assiduous visits, continuous enquiry and a variety ofartifices. But how to stock the cage? The land of the olive-tree isnot rich in Necrophori. To my knowledge it possesses only a singlespecies, _N. Vestigator_, HERSCH. ; and even this rival of thegrave-diggers of the north is pretty scarce. The discovery of three orfour in the spring was as much as my hunting-expeditions yielded inthe old days. This time, if I do not resort to the ruses of thetrapper, I shall obtain no more than that, whereas I stand in need ofat least a dozen. 

These ruses are very simple. To go in search of the sexton, who existsonly here and there in the country-side, would be nearly always awaste of time; the favourable month, April, would be past before mycage was suitably stocked. To run after him is to trust too much toaccident; so we will make him come to us by scattering in the orchardan abundant collection of dead Moles. To this carrion, ripened by thesun, the insect will not fail to hasten from the various points of thehorizon, so accomplished is he in detecting such a delicacy. 

I make an arrangement with a gardener in the neighbourhood, who, twoor three times a week, makes up for the penury of my two acres ofstony ground by providing me with vegetables raised in a better soil. I explain to him my urgent need of Moles in unlimited numbers. Battling daily with trap and spade against the importunate excavatorwho uproots his crops, he is in a better position than any one toprocure for me what I regard for the moment as more precious than hisbunches of asparagus or his white-heart cabbages. 

The worthy man at first laughs at my request, being greatly surprisedby the importance which I attribute to the abhorrent animal, the_Darboun_; but at last he consents, not without a suspicion at theback of his mind that I am going to make myself a gorgeous winterwaist-coat with the soft, velvety skins of the Moles. A thing likethat must be good for pains in the back. Very well. We settle thematter. The essential thing is that the _Darbouns_ reach me. 

They reach me punctually, by twos, by threes, by fours, packed in afew cabbage-leaves, at the bottom of the gardener's basket. Theexcellent fellow who lent himself with such good grace to my strangewishes will never guess how much comparative psychology will owe him!In a few days I was the possessor of thirty Moles, which werescattered here and there, as they reached me, in bare spots of theorchard, among the rosemary-bushes, the strawberry-trees and thelavender-beds. 

Now it only remained to wait and to examine, several times a day, theunder-side of my little corpses, a disgusting task which any one wouldavoid whose veins were not filled with the sacred fire of enthusiasm. Only little Paul, of all the household, lent me the aid of his nimblehand to seize the fugitives. I have already said that the entomologistneeds simplicity of mind. In this important business of theNecrophori, my assistants were a small boy and an illiterate. 

Little Paul's visits alternating with mine, we had not long to wait. The four winds of heaven bore forth in all directions the odour of thecarrion; and the undertakers hurried up, so that the experiments, begun with four subjects, were continued with fourteen, a number notattained during the whole of my previous searches, which wereunpremeditated and in which no bait was used as decoy. My trapper'sruse was completely successful. 

Before I report the results obtained in the cage, let us stop for amoment to consider the normal conditions of the labours that fall tothe lot of the Necrophori. The Beetle does not select his head ofgame, choosing one in proportion to his strength, as do the HuntingWasps; he accepts what chance offers. Among his finds some are small, such as the Shrew-mouse; some medium-sized, such as the Field-mouse;some enormous, such as the Mole, the Sewer-rat and the Snake, any ofwhich exceeds the digging-powers of a single sexton. In the majorityof cases, transportation is impossible, so greatly disproportioned isthe burden to the motive-power. A slight displacement, caused by theeffort of the insects' backs, is all that can possibly be effected. 

Ammophila and Cerceris, [8] Sphex and Pompilus excavate their burrowswherever they please; they carry their prey on the wing, or, if tooheavy, drag it afoot. The Necrophorus knows no such facilities in histask. Incapable of carting the monstrous corpse, no matter whereencountered, he is forced to dig the grave where the body lies. 

[Footnote 8: Cf. _The Hunting Wasps_: chaps. I. To iii. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

This obligatory place of sepulture may be in stony soil or in shiftingsand; it may occupy this or that bare spot, or some other where thegrass, especially the couch-grass, plunges into the ground itsinextricable network of little cords. There is a great probability, too, that a bristle of stunted brambles may be supporting the body atsome inches above the soil. Slung by the labourer's spade, which hasjust broken his back, the Mole falls here, there, anywhere, at random;and where the body falls, no matter what the obstacles, provided thatthey be not insurmountable, there the undertaker must utilize it. 

The difficulties of inhumation are capable of such variety as causesus already to foresee that the Necrophorus cannot employ fixed methodsin performing his task. Exposed to fortuitous hazards, he must be ableto modify his tactics within the limits of his modest discernment. Tosaw, to break, to disentangle, to lift, to shake, to displace: theseare so many means which are indispensable to the grave-digger in apredicament. Deprived of these resources, reduced to uniformity ofprocedure, the insect would be incapable of pursuing its calling. 

We see at once how imprudent it would be to draw conclusions from anisolated case in which rational co-ordination or premeditatedintention might appear to play its part. Every instinctive action nodoubt has its motive; but does the animal in the first place judgewhether the action is opportune? Let us begin by a carefulconsideration of the creature's labours; let us support each piece ofevidence by others; and then we shall perhaps be able to answer thequestion. 

First of all, a word as to diet. A general scavenger, theBurying-beetle refuses no sort of cadaveric putrescence. All is goodto his senses, feathered game or furry, provided that the burden donot exceed his strength. He exploits the batrachian or the reptilewith no less animation. He accepts without hesitation extraordinaryfinds, probably unknown to his race, as witness a certain Goldfish, ared Chinese Carp, whose body, placed in one of my cages, was forthwithconsidered an excellent tit-bit and buried according to the rules. Noris butcher's meat despised. A mutton-cutlet, a strip of beef-steak, inthe right stage of maturity, disappeared beneath the soil, receivingthe same attentions as those lavished on the Mole or the Mouse. Inshort, the Necrophorus has no exclusive preferences; anything putridhe conveys underground. 

The maintenance of his industry, therefore, presents no sort ofdifficulty. If one kind of game be lacking, some other, the first tohand, will very well replace it. Nor is there much trouble in fixingthe site of his industry. A capacious wire-gauze cover, resting on anearthen pan filled to the brim with fresh, heaped sand, is sufficient. To obviate criminal attempts on the part of the Cats, whom the gamewould not fail to tempt, the cage is installed in a closedglass-house, which in winter shelters the plants and in summer servesas an entomological laboratory. 

Now to work. The Mole lies in the centre of the enclosure. The soil, easily shifted and homogeneous, realizes the best conditions forcomfortable work. Four Necrophori, three males and a female, are therewith the body. They remain invisible, hidden beneath the carcase, which from time to time seems to return to life, shaken from end toend by the backs of the workers. An observer not in the secret wouldbe somewhat astonished to see the dead creature move. From time totime, one of the sextons, almost always a male, comes out and walksround the animal, which he explores, probing its velvet coat. Hehurriedly returns, appears again, once more investigates and creepsback under the corpse. 

The tremors become more pronounced; the carcase oscillates, while acushion of sand, pushed out from below, grows up all around it. TheMole, by reason of his own weight and the efforts of thegrave-diggers, who are labouring at their task underneath, graduallysinks, for lack of support, into the undermined soil. 

Presently the sand which has been pushed out quivers under the thrustof the invisible miners, slips into the pit and covers the interredMole. It is a clandestine burial. The body seems to disappear ofitself, as though engulfed by a fluid medium. For a long time yet, until the depth is regarded as sufficient, the body will continue todescend. 

It is, on the whole, a very simple operation. As the diggers belowdeepen the cavity into which the corpse, shaken and tugged above, sinks without the direct intervention of the sextons, the grave fillsof itself by the mere slipping of the soil. Stout shovels at the tipsof their claws, powerful backs, capable of creating a littleearthquake: the diggers need nothing more for the practice of theirprofession. Let us add--for this is an essential point--the art ofcontinually jerking the body, so as to pack it into a lesser volumeand make it glide through difficult passages. We shall soon see thatthis art plays a leading part in the industry of the Necrophori. 

Although he has disappeared, the Mole is still far from having reachedhis destination. Let us leave the undertakers to finish their job. What they are now doing below ground is a continuation of what theydid on the surface and would teach us nothing new. We will wait fortwo or three days. 

The moment has come. Let us inform ourselves of what is happening downthere. Let us visit the place of corruption. I shall never inviteanybody to the exhumation. Of those about me, only little Paul has thecourage to assist me. 

The Mole is a Mole no longer, but a greenish horror, putrid, hairless, shrunk into a sort of fat, greasy rasher. The thing must haveundergone careful manipulation to be thus condensed into a smallvolume, like a fowl in the hands of the cook, and, above all, to be socompletely deprived of its furry coat. Is this culinary procedureundertaken in respect of the larvæ, which might be incommoded by thefur? Or is it just a casual result, a mere loss of hair due toputridity? I am not certain. But it is always the case that theseexhumations, from first to last, have revealed the furry game furlessand the feathered game featherless, except for the pinion- andtail-feathers. Reptiles and fish, on the other hand, retain theirscales. 

Let us return to the unrecognizable thing that was once a Mole. Thetit-bit lies in a spacious crypt, with firm walls, a regular workshop, worthy of being the bake-house of a Copris. Except for the fur, whichlies scattered about in flocks, it is intact. The grave-diggers havenot eaten into it: it is the patrimony of the sons, not the provisionof the parents, who, to sustain themselves, levy at most a fewmouthfuls of the ooze of putrid humours. 

Beside the dish which they are kneading and protecting are twoNecrophori; a couple, no more. Four collaborated in the burial. Whathas become of the other two, both males? I find them hidden in thesoil, at a distance, almost on the surface. 

This observation is not an isolated one. Whenever I am present at afuneral undertaken by a squad in which the males, zealous one and all, predominate, I find presently, when the burial is completed, only onecouple in the mortuary cellar. After lending their assistance, therest have discreetly retired. 

These grave-diggers, in truth, are remarkable fathers. They havenothing of the happy-go-lucky paternal carelessness that is thegeneral rule among insects, which pester the mother for a moment withtheir attentions and then leave her to care for the offspring! Butthose who would be idlers in the other castes here labour valiantly, now in the interest of their own family, now in that of another's, without distinction. If a couple is in difficulties, helpers arrive, attracted by the odour of carrion; anxious to serve a lady, they creepunder the body, work at it with back and claw, bury it and then gotheir ways, leaving the master and mistress of the house to theirhappiness. 

For some time longer these two manipulate the morsel in concert, stripping it of fur or feather, trussing it and allowing it to simmerto the grub's taste. When everything is in order, the couple go forth, dissolving their partnership; and each, following his fancy, beginsagain elsewhere, even if only as a mere auxiliary. 

Twice and no oftener hitherto have I found the father preoccupied bythe future of his sons and labouring in order to leave them rich: ithappens with certain dung-workers and with the Necrophori, who burydead bodies. Scavengers and undertakers both have exemplary morals. Who would look for virtue in such a quarter?

What follows--the larval existence and the metamorphosis--is asecondary and, for that matter, a familiar detail. It is a dry subjectand I will deal with it briefly. At the end of May, I exhume a BrownRat, buried by the grave-diggers a fortnight earlier. Transformed intoa black, sticky mass, the horrible dish provides me with fifteen larvæalready, for the most part, of the normal size. A few adults, unquestionably connections of the brood, are also swarming amid theputrescence. The laying-time is over now and victuals are plentiful. Having nothing else to do, the foster-parents have sat down to thefeast with the nurslings. 

The undertakers are quick at rearing a family. It is at most afortnight since the Rat was laid in the earth; and here already is avigorous population on the verge of the metamorphosis. This precocityamazes me. It would seem as though carrion liquefaction, deadly to anyother stomach, were in this case a food productive of special energy, which stimulates the organism and accelerates its growth, so that thefare may be consumed before its approaching conversion into mould. Living chemistry makes haste to outstrip the ultimate reactions ofmineral chemistry. 

White, naked, blind, possessing the customary attributes of life spentin the dark, the larva, with its tapering outline, is slightlyreminiscent of the Ground-beetles'. The mandibles are black andpowerful and make excellent dissecting-scissors. The limbs are short, but capable of a quick, toddling gait. The segments of the abdomen areclad on the upper surface in a narrow red plate, armed with fourlittle spikes, whose office apparently is to furnish points of supportwhen the larva quits the natal dwelling and dives into the soil, thereto undergo the transformation. The thoracic segments are provided withwider plates, but unarmed. 

The adults discovered in the company of their larval family, in thisputrescence which was a Rat, are all abominably verminous. So shinyand neat in their attire, when at work under the first Moles of April, the Necrophori, when June approaches, become odious to look upon. Alayer of parasites envelops them; insinuating itself into the joints, it forms an almost continuous crust. The insect presents a misshapenappearance under this overcoat of vermin, which my hair-pencil canhardly brush aside. Driven off the belly, the horde runs round thesufferer, perches on his back and refuses to let go. 

I recognize the Beetle's Gamasus, the Tick who so often soils theventral amethyst of our Geotrupes. No, life's prizes do not go to theuseful. Necrophori and Geotrupes devote themselves to the generalhealth; and these two corporations, so interesting in their hygienicfunctions, so remarkable for their domestic morals, fall victims tothe vermin of poverty. Alas, of this discrepancy between the servicesrendered and the harshness of life there are many other examplesoutside the world of scavengers and undertakers!

The Burying-beetles display an exemplary domestic morality, but itdoes not continue till the end. In the first fortnight of June, thefamily being sufficiently provided, the sextons strike work and mycages are deserted on the surface, in spite of new arrivals of Miceand Sparrows. From time to time, some grave-digger leaves the subsoiland comes crawling languidly into the fresh air. 

Another rather curious fact now attracts my attention. All those whoclimb up from underground are maimed, with limbs amputated at thejoints, some higher up, some lower down. I see one cripple who hasonly one leg left entire. With this odd limb and the stumps of theothers, lamentably tattered, scaly with vermin, he rows, as it were, over the sheet of dust. A comrade emerges, better off for legs, whofinishes the invalid and cleans out his abdomen. Thus do my thirteenremaining Necrophori end their days, half-devoured by theircompanions, or at least shorn of several limbs. The pacific relationsof the outset are succeeded by cannibalism. 

History tells us that certain peoples, the Massagetæ and others, usedto kill off their old men to save them from senile misery. The fatalblow on the hoary skull was in their eyes an act of filial piety. TheNecrophori have their share of these ancient barbarities. Full of daysand henceforth useless, dragging out a weary existence, they mutuallyexterminate one another. Why prolong the agony of the impotent and theimbecile?

The Massagetæ might plead, as an excuse for their atrocious custom, adearth of provisions, which is an evil counsellor; not so theNecrophori, for, thanks to my generosity, victuals are more thanplentiful, both beneath the soil and on the surface. Famine plays nopart in this slaughter. What we see is an aberration due toexhaustion, the morbid fury of a life on the point of extinction. Asis generally the case, work bestows a peaceable disposition on thegrave-digger, while inaction inspires him with perverted tastes. Having nothing left to do, he breaks his kinsman's limbs and eats himup, heedless of being maimed or eaten himself. It is the finaldeliverance of verminous old age. 

This murderous frenzy, breaking out late in life, is not peculiar tothe Necrophorus. I have described elsewhere the perversity of theOsmia, so placid in the beginning. Feeling her ovaries exhausted, shesmashes her neighbours' cells and even her own; she scatters the dustyhoney, rips open the egg, eats it. The Mantis devours the lovers whohave played their parts; the mother Decticus willingly nibbles a thighof her decrepit husband; the merry Crickets, once the eggs are laid inthe ground, indulge in tragic domestic quarrels and with not the leastcompunction slash open one another's bellies. When the cares of thefamily are finished, the joys of life are finished likewise. Theinsect then sometimes becomes depraved; and its disordered mechanismends in aberrations. 

The larva has nothing striking to show in the way of industry. When ithas fattened to the desired extent, it leaves the charnel-house of thenatal crypt and descends into the earth, far from the putrefaction. Here, working with its legs and its dorsal armour, it presses back thesand around it and makes itself a close cabin wherein to rest for themetamorphosis. When the lodge is ready and the torpor of theapproaching moult arrives, it lies inert; but, at the least alarm, itcomes to life and turns round on its axis. 

Even so do several nymphs spin round and round when disturbed, notablythat of _Ægosomus scabricornis_ which I have now before my eyes inJuly. It is always a fresh surprise to see these mummies suddenlythrow off their immobility and gyrate on their own axis with amechanism whose secret deserves to be fathomed. The science ofrational mechanics might find something here to whet its finesttheories upon. The strength and litheness of a clown cannot comparewith those of this budding flesh, this hardly coagulated glair. 

Once isolated in its cell, the larva of the Necrophorus becomes anymph in ten days or so. I lack the evidence furnished by directobservation, but the story is completed of itself. The Necrophorusmust assume the adult form in the course of the summer; like theDung-beetle, he must enjoy in the autumn a few days of revelry freefrom family cares. Then, when the cold weather draws near, he goes toearth in his winter quarters, whence he emerges as soon as springarrives. 

CHAPTER XIITHE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS

Let us come to the feats of reason which have earned for theNecrophorus the best part of his fame and, to begin with, submit thecase related by Clairville, that of the too hard soil and the call forassistance, to the test of experiment. 

With this object I pave the centre of the space beneath the cover, flush with the soil, with a brick, which I sprinkle with a thin layerof sand. This will be the soil that cannot be dug. All around it, forsome distance and on the same level, lies the loose soil, which iseasy to delve. 

In order to approach the conditions of the anecdote, I must have aMouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the removal would perhaps presenttoo much difficulty. To obtain one, I place my friends and neighboursunder requisition; they laugh at my whim but none the less proffertheir traps. Yet, the moment a very common thing is needed, it becomesrare. Defying decency in his speech, after the manner of hisancestors' Latin, the Provençal says, but even more crudely than in mytranslation:

"If you look for dung, the Donkeys become constipated!"

At last I possess the Mouse of my dreams! She comes to me from thatrefuge, furnished with a truss of straw, in which official charitygrants a day's hospitality to the pauper wandering over the face ofthe fertile earth, from that municipal hostel whence one inevitablyissues covered with Lice. O Réaumur, [1] who used to invitemarchionesses to see your caterpillars change their skins, what wouldyou have said of a future disciple conversant with such squalor asthis? Perhaps it is well that we should not be ignorant of it, so thatwe may have compassion with that of the beast. 

[Footnote 1: René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur (1683-1757), theinventor of the Réaumur thermometer and author of _Mémoires pourservir à l'histoire naturelle des insectes_(1734-1742). --_Translator's Note_. ]

The Mouse so greatly desired is mine. I place her upon the centre ofthe brick. The grave-diggers under the wire cover are now seven innumber, including three females. All have gone to earth; some areinactive, close to the surface; the rest are busy in their crypts. Thepresence of the fresh corpse is soon perceived. About seven o'clock inthe morning, three Necrophori come hurrying up, two males and afemale. They slip under the Mouse, who moves in jerks, a sign of theefforts of the burying-party. An attempt is made to dig into the layerof sand which hides the brick, so that a bank of rubbish accumulatesround the body. 

For a couple of hours the jerks continue without results. I profit bythe circumstance to learn the manner in which the work is performed. The bare brick allows me to see what the excavated soil would concealfrom me. When it is necessary to move the body, the Beetle turns over;with his six claws he grips the hair of the dead animal, props himselfupon his back and pushes, using his forehead and the tip of hisabdomen as a lever. When he wants to dig, he resumes the normalposition. So, turn and turn about, the sexton strives, now with hislegs in the air, when it is a question of shifting the body ordragging it lower down; now with his feet on the ground, when it isnecessary to enlarge the grave. 

The point at which the Mouse lies is finally recognized asunassailable. A male appears in the open. He explores the corpse, goesround it, scratches a little at random. He goes back; and immediatelythe dead body rocks. Is he advising his collaborators of what he hasdiscovered? Is he arranging the work with a view to their establishingthemselves elsewhere, on propitious soil?

The facts are far from confirming this idea. When he shakes the body, the others imitate him and push, but without combining their effortsin a given direction, for, after advancing a little towards the edgeof the brick, the burden goes back again, returning to the point ofdeparture. In the absence of a concerted understanding, their effortsof leverage are wasted. Nearly three hours are occupied byoscillations which mutually annul one another. The Mouse does notcross the little sand-hill heaped about her by the rakes of theworkers. 

For the second time, a male appears and makes a round of exploration. A boring is effected in loose earth, close beside the brick. This is atrial excavation, to learn the nature of the soil, a narrow well, ofno great depth, into which the insect plunges to half its length. Thewell-sinker returns to the other workers, who arch their backs, andthe load progresses a finger's-breadth towards the point recognized asfavourable. Have we done the trick this time? No, for after a whilethe Mouse recoils. There is no progress towards a solution of thedifficulty. 

Now two males come out in search of information, each of his ownaccord. Instead of stopping at the point already sounded, a point mostjudiciously chosen, it seemed, on account of its proximity, whichwould save laborious carting, they precipitately scour the whole areaof the cage, trying the soil on this side and on that and ploughingsuperficial furrows in it. They get as far from the brick as thelimits of the enclosure permit. 

They dig, by preference, against the base of the cover; here they makeseveral borings, without any reason, so far as I can see, the bed ofsoil being everywhere equally assailable away from the brick; thefirst point sounded is abandoned for a second, which is rejected inits turn. A third and fourth are tried; then another. At the sixthpoint the choice is made. In all these cases the excavation is by nomeans a grave destined to receive the Mouse, but a mere trial boring, of inconsiderable depth and of the diameter of the digger's body. 

Back again to the Mouse, who suddenly shakes, swings, advances, recoils, first in one direction, then in another, until in the end thehillock of sand is crossed. Now we are free of the brick and onexcellent soil. Little by little the load advances. This is no cartageby a team hauling in the open, but a jerky removal, the work ofinvisible levers. The body seems to shift of its own accord. 

This time, after all those hesitations, the efforts are concerted; atleast, the load reaches the region sounded far more rapidly than Iexpected. Then begins the burial, according to the usual method. It isone o'clock. It has taken the Necrophori halfway round the clock toascertain the condition of the locality and to displace the Mouse. 

In this experiment it appears, in the first place, that the males playa major part in the affairs of the household. Better-equipped, perhaps, than their mates, they make investigations when a difficultyoccurs; they inspect the soil, recognize whence the check arises andchoose the spot at which the grave shall be dug. In the lengthyexperiment of the brick, the two males alone explored the surroundingsand set to work to solve the difficulty. Trusting her assistants, thefemale, motionless beneath the Mouse, awaited the result of theirenquiries. The tests which are to follow will confirm the merits ofthese valiant auxiliaries. 

In the second place, the points where the Mouse lies being recognizedas presenting an insurmountable resistance, there is no grave dug inadvance, a little farther off, in the loose soil. All the attempts arelimited, I repeat, to shallow soundings, which inform the insect ofthe possibility of inhumation. 

It is absolute nonsense to speak of their first preparing the grave towhich the body will afterwards be carted. In order to excavate thesoil, our sextons have to feel the weight of their dead upon theirbacks. They work only when stimulated by the contact of its fur. Never, never in this world, do they venture to dig a grave unless thebody to be buried already occupies the site of the cavity. This isabsolutely confirmed by my two months and more of daily observations. 

The rest of Clairville's anecdote bears examination no better. We aretold that the Necrophorus in difficulties goes in search of assistanceand returns with companions who assist him to bury the Mouse. This, inanother form, is the edifying story of the Sacred Beetle whose pellethas rolled into a rut. Powerless to withdraw his booty from the abyss, the wily Dung-beetle summons three or four of his neighbours, whokindly pull out the pellet and return to their labours when the workof salvage is done. [2]

[Footnote 2: For the confutation of this theory, cf. _The SacredBeetle and Others_: chap. I. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The ill-interpreted exploit of the thieving pill-roller sets me on myguard against that of the undertaker. Shall I be too particular if Iask what precautions the observer took to recognize the owner of theMouse on his return, when he reappears, as we are told, with fourassistants? What sign denotes that one of the five who was able, in sorational a manner, to call for help? Can we even be sure that the oneto disappear returns and forms one of the band? There is nothing totell us so; and this was the essential point which a sterling observerwas bound not to neglect. Were they not rather five chance Necrophoriwho, guided by the smell, without any previous understanding, hastenedto the abandoned Mouse to exploit her on their own account? I inclineto this opinion, the likeliest of all in the absence of exactinformation. 

Probability becomes certainty if we check the fact by experiment. Thetest with the brick already tells us something. For six hours my threespecimens exhausted themselves in efforts before they succeeded inremoving their booty and placing it on practicable soil. In this longand heavy job, helpful neighbours would have been most welcome. Fourother Necrophori, buried here and there under a little sand, comradesand acquaintances, fellow-workers of the day before, were occupyingthe same cage; and not one of the busy ones thought of calling on themto assist. Despite their extreme embarrassment, the owners of theMouse accomplished their task to the end, without the least help, though this could have been so easily requisitioned. 

Being three, one might say, they deemed themselves strong enough; theyneeded no one else to lend them a hand. The objection does not holdgood. On many occasions and under conditions even more difficult thanthose presented by a hard soil, I have again and again seen isolatedNecrophori wearing themselves out against my artifices; yet not oncedid they leave their workshop to recruit helpers. Collaborators, it istrue, often arrive, but they are summoned by their sense of smell, notby the first occupant. They are fortuitous helpers; they are nevercalled in. They are received without strife but also withoutgratitude. They are not summoned; they are tolerated. 

In the glazed shelter where I keep the cage I happened to catch one ofthese chance assistants in the act. Passing that way in the night andscenting dead flesh, he had entered where none of his kind had yetpenetrated of his own accord. I surprised him on the dome of thecover. If the wire had not prevented him, he would have set to workincontinently, in company with the rest. Had my captives invited thisone? Assuredly not. Heedless of others' efforts, he hastened up, attracted by the odour of the Mole. So it was with those whoseobliging assistance is extolled. I repeat, in respect of theirimaginary prowess, what I have said elsewhere of the Sacred Beetle's:it is a child's story, worthy to rank with any fairytale for theamusement of the simple. 

A hard soil, necessitating the removal of the body, is not the onlydifficulty with which the Necrophori are acquainted. Frequently, perhaps more often than not, the ground is covered with grass, aboveall with couch-grass, whose tenacious rootlets form an inextricablenetwork below the surface. To dig in the interstices is possible, butto drag the dead animal through them is another matter: the meshes ofthe net are too close to give it passage. Will the grave-digger findhimself helpless against such an obstacle, which must be an extremelycommon one? That could not be. 

Exposed to this or that habitual impediment in the exercise of itscalling, the animal is always equipped accordingly; otherwise itsprofession would be impracticable. No end is attained without thenecessary means and aptitudes. Besides that of the excavator, theNecrophorus certainly possesses another art: the art of breaking thecables, the roots, the stolons, the slender rhizomes which check thebody's descent into the grave. To the work of the shovel and the pickmust be added that of the shears. All this is perfectly logical andmay be clearly foreseen. Nevertheless, let us call in experiment, thebest of witnesses. 

I borrow from the kitchen-range an iron trivet whose legs will supplya solid foundation for the engine which I am devising. This is acoarse network made of strips of raffia, a fairly accurate imitationof that of the couch-grass. The very irregular meshes are nowhere wideenough to admit of the passage of the creature to be buried, whichthis time is a Mole. The machine is planted by its three feet in thesoil of the cage, level with the surface. A little sand conceals theropes. The Mole is placed in the centre; and my bands of sextons arelet loose upon the body. 

The burial is performed without a hitch in the course of an afternoon. The raffia hammock, almost the equivalent of the natural network ofthe couch-grass, scarcely disturbs the burying-process. Matters do notproceed quite so quickly; and that is all. No attempt is made to shiftthe Mole, who sinks into the ground where he lies. When the operationis finished, I remove the trivet. The network is broken at the spotwhere the corpse was lying. A few strips have been gnawed through; asmall number, only as many as were strictly necessary to permit thepassage of the body. 

Well done, my undertakers! I expected no less of your skill and tact. You foiled the experimenter's wiles by employing the resources whichyou use against natural obstacles. With mandibles for shears, youpatiently cut my strings as you would have gnawed the threads of thegrass-roots. This is meritorious, if not deserving of exceptionalglorification. The shallowest of the insects that work in earth wouldhave done as much if subjected to similar conditions. 

Let us ascend a stage in the series of difficulties. The Mole is nowfixed by a strap of raffia fore and aft to a light horizontalcross-bar resting on two firmly-planted forks. It is like a joint ofvenison on the spit, eccentrically fastened. The dead animal touchesthe ground throughout the length of its body. 

The Necrophori disappear under the corpse and, feeling the contact ofits fur, begin to dig. The grave grows deeper and an empty spaceappears; but the coveted object does not descend, retained as it is bythe cross-bar which the two forks keep in place. The digging slackens, the hesitations become prolonged. 

However, one of the grave-diggers climbs to the surface, wanders overthe Mole, inspects him and ends by perceiving the strap at the back. He gnaws and ravels it tenaciously. I hear the click of the shearsthat completes the rupture. Crack! The thing is done. Dragged down byhis own weight, the Mole sinks into the grave, but slantwise, with hishead still outside, kept in place by the second strap. 

The Beetles proceed with the burial of the hinder part of the Mole;they twitch and jerk it now in this direction, now in that. Nothingcomes of it; the thing refuses to give. A fresh sortie is made by oneof them, to find out what is happening overhead. The second strap isperceived, is severed in turn; and henceforth the work goes on as wellas could be wished. 

My compliments, perspicacious cable-cutters! But I must notexaggerate. The Mole's straps were for you the little cords with whichyou are so familiar in turfy soil. You broke them, as well as thehammock of the previous experiment, just as you sever with the bladesof your shears any natural thread stretching across your catacombs. Itis an indispensable trick of your trade. If you had had to learn it byexperience, to think it out before practising it, your race would havedisappeared, killed by the hesitations of its apprenticeship, for thespots prolific of Moles, Frogs, Lizards and other viands to your tasteare usually covered with grass. 

You are capable of much better things still; but, before setting forththese, let us examine the case when the ground bristles with slenderbrushwood, which holds the corpse at a short distance from the ground. Will the find thus hanging where it chances to fall remain unemployed?Will the Necrophori pass on, indifferent to the superb morsel whichthey see and smell a few inches above their heads, or will they makeit drop from its gibbet?

Game does not abound to such a point that it can be despised if a fewefforts will obtain it. Before I see the thing happen, I am persuadedthat it will fall, that the Necrophori, often confronted with thedifficulties of a body not lying on the soil, must possess theinstinct to shake it to the ground. The fortuitous support of a fewbits of stubble, of a few interlaced twigs, so common in the fields, cannot put them off. The drop of the suspended body, if placed toohigh, must certainly form part of their instinctive methods. For therest, let us watch them at work. 

I plant in the sand of the cage a meagre tuft of thyme. The shrub isat most some four inches in height. In the branches I place a Mouse, entangling the tail, the paws and the neck among the twigs to increasethe difficulty. The population of the cage now consists of fourteenNecrophori and will remain the same until the close of myinvestigations. Of course they do not all take part simultaneously inthe day's work: the majority remain underground, dozing or occupied insetting their cellars in order. Sometimes only one, often two, threeor four, rarely more, busy themselves with the corpse which I offerthem. To-day, two hasten to the Mouse, who is soon perceived overheadon the tuft of thyme. 

They gain the top of the plant by way of the trelliswork of the cage. Here are repeated, with increased hesitation, due to the inconvenientnature of the support, the tactics employed to remove the body whenthe soil is unfavourable. The insect props itself against a branch, thrusting alternately with back and claws, jerking and shakingvigorously until the point whereat it is working is freed from itsfetters. In one brief shift, by dint of heaving their backs, the twocollaborators extricate the body from the tangle. Yet another shake;and the Mouse is down. The burial follows. 

There is nothing new in this experiment: the find has been treatedjust as though it lay on soil unsuitable for burial. The fall is theresult of an attempt to transport the load. 

The time has come to set up the Frog's gibbet made famous byGleditsch. The batrachian is not indispensable; a Mole will serve aswell or even better. With a ligament of raffia I fix him, by hishind-legs, to a twig which I plant vertically in the ground, insertingit to no great depth. The creature hangs plumb against the gibbet, itshead and shoulders making ample contact with the soil. 

The grave-diggers set to work beneath the part which lies along theground, at the very foot of the stake; they dig a funnel into whichthe Mole's muzzle, head and neck sink little by little. The gibbetbecomes uprooted as they descend and ends by falling, dragged over bythe weight of its heavy burden. I am assisting at the spectacle of theoverturned stake, one of the most astonishing feats of reason withwhich the insect has ever been credited. 

This, for one who is considering the problem of instinct, is anexciting moment. But let us beware of forming conclusions just yet; wemight be in too great a hurry. Let us first ask ourselves whether thefall of the stake was intentional or accidental. Did the Necrophorilay it bare with the express purpose of making it fall? Or did they, on the contrary, dig at its base solely in order to bury that part ofthe Mole which lay on the ground? That is the question, which, for therest, is very easy to answer. 

The experiment is repeated; but this time the gibbet is slanting andthe Mole, hanging in a vertical position, touches the ground at acouple of inches from the base of the apparatus. Under theseconditions, absolutely no attempt is made to overthrow it. Not theleast scrape of a claw is delivered at the foot of the gibbet. Theentire work of excavation is performed at a distance, under the body, whose shoulders are lying on the ground. Here and here only a hole isdug to receive the front of the body, the part accessible to thesextons. 

A difference of an inch in the position of the suspended animaldestroys the famous legend. Even so, many a time, the most elementarysieve, handled with a little logic, is enough to winnow a confusedmass of statements and to release the good grain of truth. 

Yet another shake of this sieve. The gibbet is slanting orperpendicular, no matter which; but the Mole, fixed by his hind-legsto the top of the twig, does not touch the soil; he hangs a fewfingers'-breadths from the ground, out of the sextons' reach. 

What will they do now? Will they scrape at the foot of the gibbet inorder to overturn it? By no means; and the ingenuous observer wholooked for such tactics would be greatly disappointed. No attention ispaid to the base of the support. It is not vouchsafed even a stroke ofthe rake. Nothing is done to overturn it, nothing, absolutely nothing!It is by other methods that the Burying-beetles obtain the Mole. 

These decisive experiments, repeated under many different forms, provethat never, never in this world, do the Necrophori dig, or even give asuperficial scrape, at the foot of the gallows, unless the hangingbody touch the ground at that point. And, in the latter case, if thetwig should happen to fall, this is in no way an intentional result, but a mere fortuitous effect of the burial already commenced. 

What, then, did the man with the Frog, of whom Gleditsch tells us, really see? If his stick was overturned, the body placed to dry beyondthe assaults of the Necrophori must certainly have touched the soil: astrange precaution against robbers and damp! We may well attributemore foresight to the preparer of dried Frogs and allow him to hanghis animal a few inches off the ground. In that case, as all myexperiments emphatically declare, the fall of the stake undermined bythe sextons is a pure matter of imagination. 

Yet another of the fine arguments in favour of the reasoning-power ofinsects flies from the light of investigation and founders in theslough of error! I wonder at your simple faith, O masters who takeseriously the statements of chance-met observers, richer inimagination than in veracity; I wonder at your credulous zeal, when, without criticism, you build up your theories on such absurdities!

Let us continue. The stake is henceforth planted perpendicularly, butthe body hanging on it does not reach the base: a condition enough toensure that there will never be any digging at this point. I make useof a Mouse, who, by reason of her light weight, will lend herselfbetter to the insect's manoeuvres. The dead animal is fixed by thehind-legs to the top of the apparatus with a raffia strap. It hangsplumb, touching the stick. 

Soon two Necrophori have discovered the morsel. They climb the greasedpole; they explore the prize, poking their foreheads into its fur. Itis recognized as an excellent find. To work, therefore. Here we haveagain, but under more difficult conditions, the tactics employed whenit was necessary to displace the unfavourably situated body: the twocollaborators slip between the Mouse and the stake and, taking a gripof the twig and exerting a leverage with their backs, they jerk andshake the corpse, which sways, twirls about, swings away from thestake and swings back again. All the morning is passed in vainattempts, interrupted by explorations on the animal's body. 

In the afternoon, the cause of the check is at last recognized; notvery clearly, for the two obstinate gallow-robbers first attack theMouse's hind-legs, a little way below the strap. They strip them bare, flay them and cut away the flesh about the foot. They have reached thebone, when one of them finds the string of raffia beneath hismandibles. This, to him, is a familiar thing, representing thegrass-thread so frequent in burials in turfy soil. Tenaciously theshears gnaw at the bond; the fibrous fetter is broken; and the Mousefalls, to be buried soon after. 

If it stood alone, this breaking of the suspending tie would be amagnificent performance; but considered in connection with the sum ofthe Beetle's customary labours it loses any far-reaching significance. Before attacking the strap, which was not concealed in any way, theinsect exerted itself for a whole morning in shaking the body, itsusual method. In the end, finding the cord, it broke it, as it wouldhave broken a thread of couch-grass encountered underground. 

Under the conditions devised for the Beetle, the use of the shears isthe indispensable complement of the use of the shovel; and the modicumof discernment at his disposal is enough to inform him when it will bewell to employ the clippers. He cuts what embarrasses him, with nomore exercise of reason than he displays when lowering his dead Mouseunderground. So little does he grasp the relation of cause and effectthat he tries to break the bone of the leg before biting the raffiawhich is knotted close beside him. The difficult task is attemptedbefore the extremely easy one. 

Difficult, yes, but not impossible, provided that the Mouse be young. I begin over again with a strip of iron wire, on which the insect'sshears cannot get a grip, and a tender Mousekin, half the size of anadult. This time a tibia is gnawed through, sawed in two by theBeetle's mandibles, near the spring of the heel. The detached legleaves plenty of space for the other, which readily slips from themetal band; and the little corpse falls to the ground. 

But, if the bone be too hard, if the prize suspended be a Mole, anadult Mouse or a Sparrow, the wire ligament opposes an insurmountableobstacle to the attempts of the Necrophori, who, for nearly a week, work at the hanging body, partly stripping it of fur or feather anddishevelling it until it forms a lamentable object, and at lastabandon it when desiccation sets in. And yet a last resource remained, one as rational as infallible: to overthrow the stake. Of course, notone dreams of doing so. 

For the last time let us change our artifices. The top of the gibbetconsists of a little fork, with the prongs widely opened and measuringbarely two-fifths of an inch in length. With a thread of hemp, lesseasily attacked than a strip of raffia, I bind the hind-legs of anadult Mouse together, a little above the heels; and I slip one of theprongs in between. To bring the thing down one has only to slide it alittle way upwards; it is like a young Rabbit hanging in the window ofa poulterer's shop. 

Five Necrophori come to inspect what I have prepared. After muchfutile shaking, the tibiæ are attacked. This, it seems, is the methodusually employed when the corpse is caught by one of its limbs in somenarrow fork of a low-growing plant. While trying to saw through thebone--a heavy job this time--one of the workers slips between theshackled legs; in this position, he feels the furry touch of the Mouseagainst his chine. No more is needed to arouse his propensity tothrust with his back. With a few heaves of the lever the thing isdone: the Mouse rises a little, slides over the supporting peg andfalls to the ground. 

Is this manoeuvre really thought out? Has the insect indeed perceived, by the light of a flash of reason, that to make the morsel fall it wasnecessary to unhook it by sliding it along the peg? Has it actuallyperceived the mechanism of the hanging? I know some persons--indeed, Iknow many--who, in the presence of this magnificent result, would besatisfied without further investigation. 

More difficult to convince, I modify the experiment before drawing aconclusion. I suspect that the Necrophorus, without in any wayforeseeing the consequences of his action, heaved his back merelybecause he felt the animal's legs above him. With the system ofsuspension adopted, the push of the back, employed in all cases ofdifficulty, was brought to bear first upon the point of support; andthe fall resulted from this happy coincidence. That point, which hasto be slipped along the peg in order to unhook the object, oughtreally to be placed at a short distance from the Mouse, so that theNecrophori may no longer feel her directly on their backs when theypush. 

A wire binds together now the claws of a Sparrow, now the heels of aMouse and is bent, three-quarters of an inch farther away, into alittle ring, which slips very loosely over one of the prongs of thefork, a short, almost horizontal prong. The least push of this ring isenough to bring the hanging body to the ground; and because it standsout it lends itself excellently to the insect's methods. In short, thearrangement is the same as just now, with this difference, that thepoint of support is at a short distance from the animal hung up. 

My trick, simple though it be, is quite successful. For a long timethe body is repeatedly shaken, but in vain; the tibiæ, the hard clawsrefuse to yield to the patient saw. Sparrows and Mice grow dry andshrivel, unused, upon the gallows. My Necrophori, some sooner, somelater, abandon the insoluble mechanical problem: to push, ever solittle, the movable support and so to unhook the coveted carcase. 

Curious reasoners, in faith! If, just now, they had a lucid idea ofthe mutual relations between the tied legs and the suspending peg; ifthey made the Mouse fall by a reasoned manoeuvre, whence comes it thatthe present artifice, no less simple than the first, is to them aninsurmountable obstacle? For days and days they work on the body, examining it from head to foot, without noticing the movable support, the cause of their mishap. In vain I prolong my watch; I never see asingle one of them push the support with his foot or butt it with hishead. 

Their defeat is not due to lack of strength. Like the Geotrupes, theyare vigorous excavators. When you grasp them firmly in your hand, theyslip into the interstices of the fingers and plough up your skin so asto make you quickly loose your hold. With his head, a powerfulploughshare, the Beetle might very easily push the ring off its shortsupport. He is not able to do so, because he does not think of it; hedoes not think of it, because he is devoid of the faculty attributedto him, in order to support their theories, by the dangerousgenerosity of the evolutionists. 

Divine reason, sun of the intellect, what a clumsy slap in thy augustcountenance, when the glorifiers of the animal degrade thee with suchdenseness!

Let us now examine the mental obscurity of the Necrophori underanother aspect. My captives are not so satisfied with their sumptuouslodging that they do not seek to escape, especially when there is adearth of labour, that sovran consoler of the afflicted, man or beast. Internment within the wire cover palls upon them. So, when the Mole isburied and everything in order in the cellar, they stray uneasily overthe trellised dome; they clamber up, come down, go up again and taketo flight, a flight which instantly becomes a fall, owing to collisionwith the wire grating. They pick themselves up and begin all overagain. The sky is splendid; the weather is hot, calm and propitiousfor those in search of the Lizard crushed beside the footpath. Perhapsthe effluvia of the gamy tit-bit have reached them from afar, imperceptible to any other sense than that of the grave-diggers. MyNecrophori therefore would be glad to get away. 

Can they? Nothing would be easier, if a glimmer of reason were to aidthem. Through the trelliswork, over which they have so often strayed, they have seen, outside, the free soil, the promised land which theywant to reach. A hundred times if once have they dug at the foot ofthe rampart. There, in vertical wells, they take up their station, drowsing whole days on end while unemployed. If I give them a freshMole, they emerge from their retreat by the entrance-corridor and cometo hide themselves beneath the belly of the beast. The burial over, they return, one here, one there, to the confines of the enclosure anddisappear underground. 

Well, in two and a half months of captivity, despite long stays at thebase of the trellis, at a depth of three-quarters of an inch beneaththe surface, it is rare indeed for a Necrophorus to succeed incircumventing the obstacle, in prolonging his excavation beneath thebarrier, in digging an elbow and bringing it out on the other side, atrifling task for these vigorous creatures. Of fourteen only onesucceeds in escaping. 

A chance deliverance and not premeditated; for, if the happy event hadbeen the result of a mental combination, the other prisoners, practically his equals in powers of perception, would all, from firstto last, have discovered by rational means the elbowed path leading tothe outer world; and the cage would promptly be deserted. The failureof the great majority proves that the single fugitive was simplydigging at random. Circumstances favoured him; and that is all. Wemust not put it to his credit that he succeeded where all the othersfailed. 

We must also beware of attributing to the Necrophori a dullerunderstanding than is usual in insect psychology. I find the ineptnessof the undertaker in all the Beetles reared under the wire cover, onthe bed of sand into which the rim of the dome sinks a little way. With very rare exceptions, fortuitous accidents, not one thinks ofcircumventing the barrier by way of the base; not one manages to getoutside by means of a slanting tunnel, not even though he be a minerby profession, as are the Dung-beetles _par excellence_. Captivesunder the wire dome and anxious to escape, Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes, Copres, Gymnopleuri, [3] Sisyphi, [4] all see about them the free space, the joys of the open sunlight; and not one thinks of going round underthe rampart, which would present no difficulty to their pickaxes. 

[Footnote 3: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap. Vii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 4: Cf. _idem_: chap. Xv. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Even in the higher ranks of animality, examples of similar mentalobfuscation are not lacking. Audubon[5] tells us how, in his days, wild Turkeys were caught in North America. In a clearing known to befrequented by these birds, a great cage was constructed with stakesdriven into the ground. In the centre of the enclosure opened a shorttunnel, which dipped under the palisade and returned to the surfaceoutside the cage by a gentle slope, which was open to the sky. Thecentral opening, wide enough to give a bird free passage, occupiedonly a portion of the enclosure, leaving around it, against the circleof stakes, a wide unbroken zone. A few handfuls of maize werescattered in the interior of the trap, as well as round about it, andin particular along the sloping path, which passed under a sort ofbridge and led to the centre of the contrivance. In short, theTurkey-trap presented an ever-open door. The bird found it in order toenter, but did not think of looking for it in order to go out. 

[Footnote 5: John James Audubon (1780-1851), the noted Americanornithologist, of French descent, author of _Birds of America_(1827-1830) and _Ornithological Biography_ (1831-1839). --_Translator'sNote_. ]

According to the famous American ornithologist, the Turkeys, lured bythe grains of maize, descended the insidious slope, entered the shortunderground passage and beheld, at the end of it, plunder and thelight. A few steps farther and the gluttons emerged, one by one, frombeneath the bridge. They distributed themselves about the enclosure. The maize was abundant; and the Turkeys' crops grew swollen. 

When all was gathered, the band wished to retreat, but not one of theprisoners paid any attention to the central hole by which he hadarrived. Gobbling uneasily, they passed again and again across thebridge whose arch was yawning beside them; they circled round againstthe palisade, treading a hundred times in their own footprints; theythrust their necks, with their crimson wattles, through the bars; andthere, with their beaks in the open air, they fought and struggleduntil they were exhausted. 

Remember, O inept one, what happened but a little while ago; think ofthe tunnel that led you hither! If that poor brain of yours containsan atom of ability, put two ideas together and remind yourself thatthe passage by which you entered is there and open for your escape!You will do nothing of the kind. The light, an irresistibleattraction, holds you subjugated against the palisade; and the shadowof the yawning pit, which has but lately permitted you to enter andwill quite as readily permit you to go out, leaves you indifferent. Torecognize the use of this opening you would have to reflect a little, to recall the past; but this tiny retrospective calculation is beyondyour powers. So the trapper, returning a few days later, will find arich booty, the entire flock imprisoned!

Of poor intellectual repute, does the Turkey deserve his name forstupidity? He does not appear to be more limited than another. Audubondepicts him as endowed with certain useful ruses, in particular whenhe has to baffle the attacks of his nocturnal enemy, the VirginianOwl. As for his behaviour in the snare with the underground passage, any other bird, impassioned of the light, would do the same. 

Under rather more difficult conditions, the Necrophorus repeats theineptness of the Turkey. When he wishes to return to the daylight, after resting in a short burrow against the rim of the cover, theBeetle, seeing a little light filtering through the loose soil, reascends the entrance-well, incapable of telling himself that he hasonly to prolong the tunnel as far in the opposite direction to reachthe outer world beyond the wall and gain his freedom. Here again isone in whom we shall seek in vain for any sign of reflection. Like therest, in spite of his legendary renown, he has no guide but theunconscious promptings of instinct. 

CHAPTER XIIITHE GIANT SCARITES

The military profession can hardly be said to favour the talents. Consider the Carabus, or Ground-beetle, that fiery warrior among theinsect people. What can he do? In the way of industry, nothing or nextto nothing. Nevertheless the dull butcher is magnificent in hisindescribably sumptuous jerkin. It has the refulgency of copperpyrites, of gold, of Florentine bronze. While clad in black, heenriches his sombre costume with a vivid amethyst hem. On thewing-cases, which fit him like a cuirass, he wears little chains ofalternate pins and bosses. 

Of a handsome and commanding figure, slender and pinched in at thewaist, the Carabus is the glory of our collections, but only for thesake of his appearance. He is a frenzied murderer; and that is all. Wewill ask nothing more of him. The wisdom of antiquity representedHercules, the god of strength, with the head of an idiot. And indeedmerit is not great when limited to brute force. And this is the casewith the Carabus. 

To see him so richly adorned, who would not wish to find him a finesubject for investigation, one worthy of history, a subject such ashumbler natures provide with lavish generosity? From this ferociousransacker of entrails we expect nothing of the kind. His art is thatof slaying. 

We may without trouble observe him at his bandit's work. I rear him ina large breeding-cage on a layer of fresh sand. A few potsherdsscattered about the surface enable him to take shelter beneath therocks; a tuft of grass planted in the centre makes a grove andenlivens the establishment. 

Three species compose the population: the common _Jardinière_, orGolden Beetle, the usual inmate of our gardens; _Procrustescoriaceus_, the sombre and powerful explorer of the grassy thickets atthe foot of walls; and the rare Purple Carabus, who trims the ebony ofhis wing-cases with metallic violet. I feed them on Snails, afterpartly removing the shell. 

Hidden at first promiscuously under the potsherds, the Carabi make arush for the wretched Snail, who, in his despair, alternately puts outand withdraws his horns. Three of them at a time, then four, then fivebegin by devouring the edge of his mantle, specked with chalky atoms. This is the favourite morsel. With their mandibles, those stoutpincers, they lay hold of it through the froth; they tug at it, tearoff a shred and retire to a distance to swallow it at their ease. 

Meanwhile the legs, streaming with slime, pick up grains of sand andbecome covered with heavy gaiters, which are extremely cumbersome butto which the Beetle pays no attention. Heavy with mire, he staggersback to his prey and cuts off another morsel. He will think ofpolishing his boots presently. Others do not stir, but gorgethemselves on the spot, with the whole fore-part of their bodyimmersed in the froth. The feast lasts for hours on end. The guests donot leave the joint until the distended belly lifts the roof of thewing-cases and uncovers the nudities of the stern. 

Fonder of shady nooks, the Procrustes form a separate company. Theydrag the Snail into their lair, under the shelter of a potsherd, andthere, peacefully and in common, dismember the mollusc. They love theSlug, as easier to cut up than the Snail, who is defended by hisshell; they regard the Testacella, [1] who bears a chalky shell, shapedlike a Phrygian cap, right at the hinder end of her foot, as adelicious tit-bit. The game has firmer flesh and is less nauseouslyslimy. 

[Footnote 1: Or Shell-bearing Slug, found along the shores of theMediterranean. --_Translator's Note_. ]

To feast gluttonously on a Snail whom I myself have rendereddefenseless by breaking her shell is nothing for a warrior to boastabout; but we shall soon see the Carabus display his daring. I offer aPine-chafer, in the pink of strength, to the Golden Beetle, whoseappetite has been whetted by a few days' fasting. The victim is acolossus beside the Golden Carabus; an Ox facing a Wolf. 

The beast of prey prowls round the peaceful creature and selects itsmoment. It rushes forward, recoils, hesitates and returns to thecharge. And lo, the giant is overthrown! Incontinently the otherdevours him, ransacking his belly. If this had happened in a higherorder of the animal world, it would make one's flesh creep to watchthe Carabus half immersed in the big Cockchafer and rooting out hisentrails. 

I test the eviscerator with a more difficult quarry. This time thevictim is _Oryctes nasicornis_, the powerful Rhinoceros Beetle, aninvincible giant, one would think, under the shelter of his armour. But the hunter knows the weak point of the horn-clad prey, the fineskin protected by the wing-cases. By means of attacks which theassailant renews as soon as they are repulsed by the assailed, theCarabus contrives to raise the cuirass slightly and to slip his headbeneath it. From the moment that the pincers have made a gash in thevulnerable skin, the Rhinoceros is lost. Soon there will be nothingleft of the colossus but a pitiful empty carcase. 

Those who wish for a more hideous conflict must apply to _Calosomasycophanta_, the handsomest of our flesh-eating insects, the mostmajestic in costume and size. This prince of Carabi is the butcher ofthe caterpillars. He is not to be overawed even by the sturdiest ofrumps. 

His struggle with the huge caterpillar of the Great Peacock Moth[2] isa thing to see once, not oftener: a single experience of such horrorsis enough to disgust one. The contortions of the eviscerated insect, which, with a sudden heave of the loins, hurls the bandit in the airand lets him fall, belly uppermost, without managing to make himrelease his hold; the green entrails spilt quivering on the ground;the tramping gait of the murderer, drunk with slaughter, slaking histhirst at the springs of a horrible wound: these are the main featuresof the combat. If entomology had no other scenes to show us, I shouldwithout the least regret turn my back upon my insects. 

[Footnote 2: Cf. _The Life of the Caterpillar_: chap. Xi. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Next day, offer the sated Beetle a Green Grasshopper or a White-facedDecticus, serious adversaries both, armed with powerful lower jaws. With these big-bellied creatures the slaughter will begin anew, aseagerly as on the day before. It will be repeated later with the Pine-chafer and the Rhinoceros Beetle, accompanied by the usual atrocioustactics of the Carabi. Even better than these last does the Calosomaknow the weak point of the armoured Beetles, concealed beneath thewing-cases. And this will go on so long as we keep him provided withvictims, for this drinker of blood is never satiated. 

Acrid exhalations, the products of a fiery temperament, accompany thisfrenzy for carnage. The Carabi elaborate caustic humours; theProcrustes squirts a jet of vinegar at any one who takes hold of him;the Calosoma makes the fingers smell of mouldy drugs; certain Beetles, such as the Brachini, [3] understand explosives and singe theaggressor's whiskers with a volley of musketry. 

[Footnote 3: Or Bombardier Beetles. When disturbed, they eject a fluidwhich volatilizes, on contact with the air, with a slight report. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Distillers of corrosives, gunners throwing lyddite, bombers employingdynamite: what can all these violent creatures, so well equipped forbattle, do beyond committing slaughter? Nothing. We find no art, noindustry, not even in the larva, which practices the adult's trade andmeditates its crimes while wandering under the stones. Nevertheless itis to one of these dull-witted warriors that I am deliberatelyproposing to apply to-day, prompted by the wish to solve a certainquestion. Let me tell you what it is. 

You have surprised this or that insect, motionless on a bough, blissfully basking in the sun. Your hand is raised, open, ready todescend on it and seize it. Hardly have you made the movement when theinsect drops to the ground. It is a wearer of armoured wing-cases, slow to disengage the wings from their horny sheath, or perhaps anincomplete form, with no wing-surfaces. Incapable of sudden flight, the surprised insect lets itself fall. You look for it in the grass, often in vain. If you do find it, it is lying on its back, with itslegs folded, without stirring. 

It is shamming dead, people will tell you; it is pretending, in orderto escape its enemy. Man is certainly unknown to it; we count fornothing in its little world. What does it care for our hunting, whether we be children or scientists? It does not fear the collectorwith his long pin; but it realizes danger in general; and it dreadsits natural enemy, the insectivorous bird, which swallows it with asingle snap. To outwit the assailant, it lies upon its back, draws upits legs and simulates death. The bird, or any other persecutor, willdespise it in this condition; and its life will be saved. 

This, we are assured, is how the insect would reason if suddenlysurprised. The trick has long been famous. Once upon a time, twofriends, at the end of their resources, sold the skin of a Bear beforethey had killed the brute. The encounter was unfortunate: they had totake to their heels. One of them stumbled, fell, held his breath andshammed dead. The Bear came up, turned the man over and over, exploredhim with his paw and his muzzle, sniffed at his face:

"He smells already, " he said and, without more ado, turned away. 

That Bear was a simpleton. 

The bird would not be duped by this clumsy stratagem. In those happydays when the discovery of a nest marked a red-letter day, I never sawmy Sparrows or Greenfinches refuse a Locust because he was not moving, or a Fly because she was dead. Any mouthful that does not kick iseagerly accepted, provided that it be fresh and pleasant to the taste. 

If the insect, therefore, relies on the appearance of death, it wouldseem to me to be very badly inspired. More wary than the Bear in thefable, the bird, with its perspicacious eye, will recognize the fraudin a moment and proceed to business. Besides, had the object reallybeen a corpse, but still fresh, it would none the less have gobbled itup. 

More insistent doubts occur to my mind when I consider the seriousconsequences to which the insect's artfulness might lead. It shamsdead, says the popular idiom, which recks little of weighing the valueof its term; it simulates death, scientific language repeats, happy tofind some gleams of reason in the insect. What truth is there in thisunanimous statement, which in the one case is too unreflecting and inthe other too much inclined to favour theoretical fancies?

Logical arguments are insufficient here. It is essential that weshould obtain the verdict of experiment, which alone can furnish avalid reply. But to which of the insects shall we go first?

I remember something that dates back some forty years. Delighted witha recent University triumph, I was staying at Cette, on my return fromToulouse, where I had just passed my examination as a licentiate innatural science. It gave me a fine chance of renewing my acquaintancewith the seaside flora, which had delighted me a few years before onthe shores of the wonderful Gulf of Ajaccio. It would have beenfoolish to neglect it. A degree does not confer the right to ceasestudying. If one really has a touch of the sacred fire in one's veins, one remains a student all one's life, not of books, which are a poorresource, but of the great, inexhaustible school of actual things. 

One day, then, in July, in the cool stillness of the dawn, I wasbotanizing on the foreshore at Cette. For the first time I plucked the_Convolvulus soldanella_, which trails along the high-water mark itsropes of glossy green leaves and its great pink bellflowers. Withdrawninto his white, flat, heavily-keeled shell, a curious Snail, _Helixexplanata_, was slumbering, in groups, on the bent grasses. 

The dry shifting sands showed here and there long series of imprints, recalling, on a smaller scale and under another form, the tracks oflittle birds in the snow which used to arouse a delightful flutter inmy youthful days. What do these imprints mean?

I follow them, a hunter on the trail of a new species. At the end ofeach track, by digging to no great depth, I unearth a magnificentCarabus, whose very name is almost unknown to me. It is the GiantScarites (_S. Gigas_, FAB. ). 

I make him walk on the sand. He exactly reproduces the tracks whichput me on the alert. It was certainly he who, questing for game in thenight, marked the trail with his feet. He returned to his lair beforedaylight; and now not a single Beetle is to be seen in the open. 

Another characteristic thrusts itself upon my notice. If I shake himfor a moment and then place him on the ground upon his back, heremains a long time without stirring. No other insect has yetdisplayed such persistent immobility, though I confess that myinvestigations in this respect have been only superficial. The detailis so thoroughly engraved on my memory that, forty years later, when Iwant to experiment on the insects which are experts in the art ofsimulating death, I at once think of the Scarites. 

A friend sends me a dozen from Cette, from the very beach on which Ionce passed a delightful morning in the company of this skilful mimicof the dead. They reach me in perfect condition, mixed up in the samepackage with some Pimeliæ (_P. Bipunctata_, FAB. ), their compatriotsin the sands beside the sea. Of these last, a pitiable crew, many havebeen disembowelled, absolutely emptied; others have merely stumpsinstead of legs; a few, but only a few, are unwounded. 

It was what one might have expected of these Carabidæ, lawless huntersone and all. Tragic events took place in the box during the journeyfrom Cette to Sérignan. The Scarites gormandized riotously on thepeaceable Pimeliæ. 

Their tracks, which I followed long ago on the actual spot, boreevidence to their nocturnal rounds, apparently in search of theirprey, the pot-bellied Pimelia, whose sole defence consists of a strongarmour of welded wing-cases. [4] But what can such a cuirass availagainst the bandit's ruthless pincers?

[Footnote 4: The Pimelia is a wingless Beetle. --_Translator's Note_. ]

He is indeed a mighty hunter, this Nimrod of the sea-shore. All blackand glossy, like a jet bugle, his body is divided by a very narrowgroove at the waist. His weapon of offence consists of a pair ofclaw-like mandibles of extraordinary vigour. None of our insectsequals him in strength of jaw, if we except the Stag-beetle, who isfar better armed, or rather decorated, for the antlered mandibles ofthe inmate of the oak are ornaments of the male's attire, not apanoply of battle. 

The brutal Carabid, the eviscerator of the Pimeliæ, knows how stronghe is. If I tease him a little on the table, he at once adopts aposture of defence. Well braced upon his short legs, especially thefore-legs, which are toothed like rakes, he dislocates himself in two, so to speak, thanks to the groove that divides him behind thecorselet; he proudly raises the fore-part of the body, his wide, heart-shaped thorax and massive head, opening his threatening pincersto their full extent. He is now an awesome sight. More: he has theaudacity to rush at the finger which has touched him. Here of a suretyis one not easily intimidated. I look twice before I handle him. 

I lodge my strangers partly under a wire-gauze cover and partly inglass jars, all supplied with a layer of sand. Each of them withoutdelay digs himself a burrow. The insect bends his head a long way downand, with the points of his mandibles, brought together to form apick-axe, he hews, digs and excavates with a will. The fore-legs, spread out and armed with hooks, gather the dust and rubbish into aload which is thrust backwards. In this way, a mound rises on thethreshold of the burrow. The dwelling grows deeper quickly and by agentle slope reaches the bottom of the jar. 

Checked in the downward direction, the Scarites now digs against theglass wall and continues his work horizontally until he has obtained alength of nearly twelve inches in all. 

This arrangement of the gallery, almost the whole of which runs justunder the glass, is very useful to me, enabling me to follow theinsect in the privacy of its home. If I wish to observe itsunderground operations, all that I need do is to remove the opaquesheath which I have been careful to put over the jar, in order tospare the creature the annoyance of the light. 

When the house is deemed to be long enough, the Scarites returns tothe entrance, which he works more carefully than the rest. He makes afunnel of it, a pit with shifting, sloping sides. It is the Ant-lion'scrater on a larger scale and constructed in a more rustic fashion. This mouth is continued by an inclined plane, kept free of allrubbish. At the foot of the slope is the vestibule of the horizontalgallery. Here, as a rule, the hunter lurks, motionless, with hispincers half open. He is waiting. 

There is a sound overhead. It is a specimen of game which I have justintroduced, a Cicada, a luscious morsel. The drowsy trapper at oncewakes; he moves his palpi, which quiver with cupidity. Cautiously, step by step, he climbs his inclined plane. He takes a glance outsidethe funnel. The Cicada is seen. 

The Scarites darts out of his pit, runs forward, seizes the Cicada anddrags her backwards. The struggle is brief, thanks to the trap of theentrance, which yawns like a funnel to receive even a bulky quarry andcontracts into a crumbling precipice that paralyses all resistance. The slope is fatal: who crosses the brink can no longer escape themurderer. 

Head first, the Cicada dives into the abyss, down which the spoilerdrags her by successive jerks. She is drawn into the low-ceilingedtunnel. Here the wings cease to flutter, for lack of space. Shereaches the knacker's cellar, at the end of the corridor. The Scaritesnow works at her for some time with his pincers, in order to reduceher to complete immobility, fearing lest she should escape; then hereturns to the mouth of the charnel-house. 

It is not everything to possess plenty of game; the question nextarises how to consume it in peace. The door is therefore closedagainst importunate callers, that is to say, the insect fills theentrance to the tunnel with his mound of rubbish. Having taken thisprecaution, he goes back again and sits down to his meal. He will notreopen his hiding-place nor remake the pit at the entrance untillater, when the Cicada has been digested and hunger makes itsreappearance. Let us leave the glutton with his quarry. 

The brief morning which I spent with him in his native place did notenable me to watch him at his hunting, on the sands of the beach; butthe facts gathered in captivity are enough to tell us all about it. They show us in the Scarites a bold hero who is not to be intimidatedby the biggest or strongest adversary. 

We have seen him coming up from underground, falling on thepassers-by, seizing them at some distance from the burrow and draggingthem forcibly into his cut-throat den. The Rose-chafer, the CommonCockchafer are but small deer for him. He dares to attack the Cicada, he dares to dig his hooks into the corpulent Pine-chafer. He is afearless ruffian, ready for any crime. 

Under natural conditions his audacity can be no less. On the contrary, the familiar spots, freedom of movement, unlimited space and hisbeloved salt air excite the warrior to yet greater feats of daring. 

He has dug himself a refuge in the sand, with a wide, crumbling mouth. This is not so that he may, like the Ant-lion, wait at the bottom ofhis funnel for the passing of a victim which stumbles on the shiftingslope and rolls into the pit. The Scarites disdains these pettypoachers' methods, these fowlers' snares; he prefers a run acrosscountry. 

His long trails on the sand tell us of nocturnal rounds in search ofbig game, often the Pimelia, sometimes the Half-spotted Scarab. [5] Thefind is not consumed on the spot. To enjoy it at his ease, he needsthe peaceful darkness of the underground manor; and so the captive, seized by one leg with the pincers, is forcibly dragged along theground. 

[Footnote 5: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chaps. Ii. And vii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

If no precautions were taken, the introduction of the victim into theburrow would be impracticable, with a huge quarry offering a desperateresistance. But the entrance to the tunnel is a wide crater, withcrumbling walls. However large he be, the captive, tugged from below, enters and tumbles into the pit. The crumbling rubbish immediatelyburies him and paralyses his movements. The thing is done. The banditnow proceeds to close his door and empty his prey's belly. 

CHAPTER XIVTHE SIMULATION OF DEATH

The first insect that we will put to the question is that audaciousdisemboweller, the savage Scarites. To provoke his state of inertia isa very simple matter: I handle him for a moment, rolling him betweenmy fingers; better still, I drop him on the table, twice or thrice insuccession, from a small height. When the shock due to the fall hasbeen administered and, if need be, repeated, I turn the insect on itsback. 

This is enough: the prostrate Beetle no longer stirs, lies as thoughdead. The legs are folded on the belly, the antennæ extended like thearms of a cross, the pincers open. A watch beside me tells me theexact minute of the beginning and the end of the experiment. Nothingremains but to wait and especially to arm one's self with patience, for the insect's immobility lasts long enough to become tedious to theobserver watching for something to happen. 

The duration of the lifeless posture varies greatly on the same day, under the same atmospheric conditions and with the same subject, though I cannot fathom the causes which shorten or lengthen it. How toinvestigate the external influences, so numerous and often so slight, which intervene in such a case; above all, how to scrutinize theinsect's private impressions: these are impenetrable mysteries. Let usconfine ourselves to recording the results. 

Immobility continues fairly often for as long as fifty minutes; incertain cases, even, it lasts more than an hour. The most frequentlength of time averages twenty minutes. If nothing disturbs theBeetle, if I cover him with a glass shade, protecting him from theFlies, who are importunate visitors in the hot weather prevailing atthe time of my experiment, the inertia is complete: not a quiver ofthe tarsi, nor of the palpi, nor of the antennæ. Here indeed is asimulacrum of death, with all its inertia. 

At last the apparently deceased comes back to life. The tarsi quiver, those of the fore-legs first; the palpi and the antennæ move slowly toand fro: this is the prelude to the awakening. Now the legs begin tokick. The insect bends slightly at its pinched waist; it buttressesitself on its head and back; it turns over. There it goes, joggingaway, ready to become an apparent corpse once more if I renew my shocktactics. 

Let us repeat the experiment immediately. The newly resuscitatedBeetle is for a second time lying motionless on his back. He prolongshis make-believe of death longer than he did at first. When he wakesup, I renew the test a third, a fourth, a fifth time, with nointervals of repose. The duration of the motionless conditionincreases each time. To quote the figures, the five consecutiveexperiments, from the first to the last, have continued respectivelyfor 17, 20, 25, 33 and 50 minutes. Starting with a quarter of an hour, the attitude of death ends by lasting nearly a whole hour. 

Without being constant, similar facts recur repeatedly in myexperiments, the duration, of course, varying. They tell us that as ageneral rule the Scarites lengthens the period of his lifeless posturethe oftener the experiment is repeated. Is this a matter of practice, or is it an increase of cunning employed in the hope of finally tiringa too persistent enemy? It would be premature to draw conclusions: thecross-examination of the insect has not yet been thorough enough. 

Let us wait. Besides, we need not imagine that it is possible to go onlike this until our patience is exhausted. Sooner or later, flurriedby my pestering, the Scarites refuses to sham dead. Scarcely is helaid on his back after a fall, when he turns over and takes to hisheels, as though he judged a stratagem which succeeded soindifferently to be henceforth useless. 

If we were to stop here, it would certainly seem that the insect, acunning hoaxer, seeks, as a means of defence, to cheat those whoattack him. He counterfeits death; he repeats the process, becomingmore persistent in his fraud in proportion as the aggression isrepeated; he abandons his trickery when he deems it futile. Buthitherto we have subjected him only to a friendlyexamination-in-chief. The time has come to put a string of searchingquestions and to trick the trickster if there be really any deception. 

The Beetle under experiment is lying on the table. He feels beneathhim a hard body which gives him no chance of digging. As he cannothope to take refuge underground, an easy task for his nimble andvigorous tools, the Scarites lies low in his death-like pose, keepingit up, if need be, for an hour. If he were reclining on the sand, theloose soil with which he is so familiar, would he not regain hisactivity more rapidly, would he not at least betray by a few twitcheshis desire to escape into the basement?

I was expecting to see him do so; and I was mistaken. Whether I placehim on wood, glass, sand or garden mould, the Beetle in no waymodifies his tactics. On a surface readily excavated he continues hisimmobility as long as on an unassailable surface. 

This indifference to the nature of the support half opens the door todoubt; what follows opens it wide. The patient is on the table beforeme and I watch him closely. With his gleaming eyes, overshadowed byhis antennæ, he also sees me; he watches me; he observes me, if I mayso express myself. What can be the visual impression of the insectwhen face to face with that monstrosity, man? How does the pigmymeasure the enormous monument that is the human body? Seen from thedepths of the infinitely little, the immense perhaps is nothing. 

We will not go so far as that; we will admit that the insect watchesme, recognizes me as his persecutor. So long as I am here, he willsuspect me and refuse to budge. If he does decide to do so, it will beafter he has exhausted my patience. Let us therefore move away. Then, since any trickery will be needless, he will hasten to take to hislegs again and make off. 

I move ten paces farther from him, to the other end of the room. Ihide, I do not move a muscle, for fear of breaking the silence. Willthe insect pick itself up? No, my precautions are superfluous. Alone, left to itself, perfectly quiet, it remains motionless for as long atime as when I was standing close beside it. 

Perhaps the clear-sighted Scarites has seen me in my corner, at theother end of the room; perhaps a subtle scent has revealed my presenceto him. We will do more, then. I cover him with a bell-glass whichwill save him from being worried by the Flies and I leave the room; Igo downstairs into the garden. There is no longer anything likely todisturb him. Doors and windows are closed. Not a sound from without;no cause for alarm indoors. What will happen in the midst of thatprofound silence?

Nothing more and nothing less than usual. After twenty, forty minutes'waiting out of doors, I come upstairs again and return to my insect. Ifind him as I left him, lying motionless on his back. 

This experiment, many times repeated with different subjects, throws avivid light upon the question. It expressly assures us that theattitude of death is not the ruse of an insect in danger. Here thereis nothing to alarm the creature. Around him all is silence, solitude, repose. When he persists in his immobility it cannot now be to deceivean enemy. I have no doubt about it: there is something else involved. 

Besides, why should he need special defensive artifices? I couldunderstand that a weak, pacific, ill-protected insect might resort toruses when in danger; but in him, the warlike bandit, so wellarmoured, it is more than I can understand. No insect on his nativesea-shore has the strength to resist him. The most powerful of them, the Sacred Beetle and the Pimelia, are easy-going creatures which, sofar from molesting him, are fine booty for his burrow. 

Can he be threatened by the birds? It is very doubtful. As a Carabus, he is saturated with acrid humours which must make his body a far frompleasing mouthful. For the rest, he lives hidden from the light of dayin a burrow where no one sees him; he emerges only at night, when thebirds are no longer inspecting the beach. There are no beaks about forhim to fear. 

And this butcher of the Pimeliæ and even occasionally of the SacredBeetles, this bully whom no danger threatens, is supposed to be such acoward as to sham death on the slightest alarm! I take the liberty ofdoubting this more and more. 

I am confirmed in my doubts by the Smooth-skinned Scarites (_S. Lavigatus_, FAB. ), a denizen of the same shores. The first insect is agiant; the second, by comparison, is a dwarf. Otherwise he displaysthe same shape, the same jet-black costume, the same armour, the samehabits of brigandage. Well, the Smooth-skinned Scarites, in spite ofhis weakness and his smallness, is almost ignorant of the trick ofpretending to be dead. When molested for a moment and then turned onhis back, he at once picks himself up and flees. I can hardly obtain afew seconds' immobility; once only, daunted by my obstinacy, the dwarfremains motionless for a quarter of an hour. 

How different from the giant, motionless the moment that he is thrownupon his back, sometimes picking himself up only after an hour ofinaction! It is the reverse of what ought to happen, if the apparentdeath were really a defensive ruse. The giant, confident in hisstrength, should disdain this cowardly posture; the timid dwarf shouldbe quick to have recourse to it. And it is just the other way about. What is there behind all this?

Let us try the influence of danger. With what natural enemy shall Iconfront the big Scarites, motionless on his back? I know none. Let usthen create a make-believe assailant. The Flies put me on the track ofone. 

I have spoken of their importunity during my investigations in the hotseason. If I do not employ a bell-glass or keep an assiduous watch, rarely does the shrewish Dipteron fail to alight upon my patient andexplore him with her proboscis. We will let her have her way thistime. 

Hardly has the Fly grazed this apparent corpse with her legs, when theScarites' tarsi quiver as though twitched by a slight electric shock. If the visitor be merely passing, matters go no farther; but, if shepersist, particularly near the Beetle's mouth, moist with saliva anddisgorged secretions of food, the tormented Scarites promptly kicks, turns over and makes off. 

Perhaps he did not think it opportune to prolong his fraud in the faceof so contemptible an enemy. He resumes his activity because he hasrecognized the absence of danger. Then let us call in anotherinterloper, one of formidable size and strength. I happen to havehandy a Great Capricorn, with powerful claws and mandibles. That thelong-horned insect is a peaceful creature I am well aware; but theScarites does not know it; on the sands of the shore he has neverencountered such a colossus as this, who is capable of impressing lesstimid creatures than he. Fear of the unknown will merely aggravate thesituation. 

Guided by the tip of my straw, the Capricorn sets his foot upon theprostrate insect. The Scarites' tarsi begin to quiver immediately. Ifthe contact be prolonged or multiplied, or if it become aggressive, the dead insect gets on its legs again and scuttles off, just as thetitillations of the Fly have already shown me. When danger is imminentand all the more to be dreaded because its nature is unknown, thetrick of the simulation of death disappears and flight takes itsplace. 

The following experiment is not without value. I take some hardsubstance and knock the foot of the table on which the insect is lyingon its back. The shock is very slight, not enough to shake the tableperceptibly. The whole thing is limited to the inner vibrations of aresilient body which has received a blow. But it is quite enough todisturb the insect's immobility. At each tap the tarsi are flexed andquiver for a moment. 

Lastly, let us try the effect of light. So far, the patient has beentreated in the shade of my cabinet, away from the direct sunlight. Thesun is shining full upon the window. What will the motionless insectdo if I carry it thither, from my table to the window, into the brightlight? That we can find out in a moment. Under the direct rays of thesun, the Scarites immediately turns over and moves off. 

This is enough. Patient, persecuted creature, you have half-betrayedyour insect. When the Fly tickles you, drains your moist lip, treatsyou as a corpse whose juices she would like to suck; when the hugeCapricorn appears to your horrified gaze and puts a foot on yourbelly, as though to take possession of his prey; when the tablequivers, that is to say, when, for you, the ground shakes, underminedperhaps by some invader of your burrow; when a bright light surroundsyou, favouring the designs of your enemies and imperilling your safetyas an insect that loves the dark, then, in truth, it would be wisernot to move, if really your chief resource, when danger threatens you, is to simulate death. 

On the contrary, at those critical moments, you give a start; youmove, you resume your normal attitude, you run away. Your fraud isdiscovered; or, to put it more plainly, there is no trick. Yourinertia is not simulated; it is real. It is a condition of temporarytorpor into which you are plunged by your delicate nervousorganization. A mere nothing makes you fall into it; a mere nothingwithdraws you from it, above all a bath of light, that sovran stimulusof activity. 

In respect of prolonged immobility as the result of emotion, I find arival of the Giant Scarites in a large black Buprestis, with aflour-speckled corselet, a lover of the blackthorn, the hawthorn andthe apricot-tree. His name is _Capnodis tenebrionis_, LIN. At times Isee him, with his legs closely folded and his antennæ lowered, prolonging his motionless posture upon his back for more than an hour. At other times the insect is bent upon escaping, apparently influencedby atmospheric conditions of which I do not know the secret. One ortwo minutes' immobility is as much as I can then obtain. 

Let me recapitulate: in my various subjects the attitude of death isof very variable duration, governed as it is by a host of unsuspectedcircumstances. Let us take advantage of favourable opportunities, which are fairly frequent. I subject the Cloudy Buprestis to thedifferent tests undergone by the Giant Scarites. The results are thesame. When you have seen the first, you have seen the second. There isno need to linger over them. 

I will only mention the promptness with which the Buprestis, lyingmotionless in the shade, recovers his activity when I carry him awayfrom my table into the broad sunlight of the window. After a fewseconds of this bath of heat and light, the insect half-opens hiswing-cases, using them as levers, and turns over, ready to take flightif my hand did not instantly snap him up. He is a passionate lover ofthe light, a devotee of the sun, intoxicating himself in its rays uponthe bark of his blackthorn-trees on the hottest afternoons. 

This love of tropical temperature suggests the following question:what would happen if I were to chill the creature in its immobileposture? I foresee a more prolonged inertia. The chill, of course, must not be great, for it would be followed by the lethargy into whichinsects capable of surviving the winter fall when benumbed by thecold. 

On the contrary, the Buprestis must as far as possible retain his fullvitality. The lowering of the temperature must be gentle, verymoderate and such that the insect, under similar climatic conditions, would retain his powers of action in ordinary life. I have aconvenient refrigerator at my disposal. It is the water of my well, whose temperature, in summer, is nearly twenty-two degrees Fahrenheitbelow that of the surrounding air. 

The Buprestis, in whom I have just produced inertia by means of a fewtaps, is installed on his back in a little flask which I sealhermetically and immerse in a bucket full of this cold water. To keepthe bath as cool as at first, I gradually renew it, taking care not toshake the flask in which the patient is lying, in his attitude ofdeath. 

The result rewards my pains. After five hours under water, the insectis still motionless. Five hours, I say, five long hours; and I mightcertainly say longer, if my exhausted patience had not put an end tothe experiment. But this is enough to banish any idea of fraud on theinsect's part. Here, beyond a doubt, the insect is not shamming dead. He is actually somnolent, deprived of the power of movement by aninternal disturbance which my teasing produced at the outset and whichis prolonged beyond its usual limits by the surrounding coolness. 

I try the effect of a slight decrease in temperature upon the GiantScarites by subjecting him to a similar sojourn in the cold water ofthe well. The result does not respond to the hopes which the Buprestisgave me. I do not succeed in obtaining more than fifty minutes'inertia. I have often obtained as long periods of immobility withoutresorting to the refrigerating artifice. 

It might have been foreseen. The Buprestis, a lover of the burningsunshine, is affected by the cold bath in a different degree from theScarites, who prowls about by night and spends his day in thebasement. A fall of a few degrees in temperature takes the chillyinsect by surprise and has no effect upon the one accustomed to thecoolness underground. 

Other experiments on these lines tell me nothing more. I see the inertcondition persisting sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorterperiod, according as the insect seeks the sunlight or avoids it. Letus change our method. 

I evaporate a few drops of sulphuric ether in a glass jar and put in aStercoraceous Geotrupes and a specimen of _Buprestis tenebrionis_, atthe same time. In a few moments both subjects are motionless, anæsthetized by the etheric vapour. I take them out quickly and laythem on their backs in the open air. 

Their attitude is exactly that which they would have assumed under theinfluence of a shock or any other cause of alarm. The Buprestis hashis legs symmetrically folded against his chest and belly; theGeotrupes has his outspread, stretched in disorder, rigid and asthough attacked by catalepsy. You could not tell if they were dead oralive. 

They are not dead. In a minute or two, the Geotrupes' tarsi twitch, the palpi quiver, the antennæ wave gently to and fro. Then thefore-legs move; and a quarter of an hour has not elapsed before theother legs are struggling. The activity of the insect made motionlessby the concussion of a shock would reawaken in precisely the samefashion. 

As for the Buprestis, he is in a state of inertia so profound that atfirst I really believe him to be dead. He recovers during the night;and next day I find him in possession of his usual activity. The etherexperiment, which I took care to stop at the moment when it producedthe desired effect, has not been fatal to him; but it has had muchmore serious consequences for him than for the Geotrupes. The insectmore sensitive to the alarm due to concussion or to a fall oftemperature is also the more sensitive to the action of ether. 

Thus the enormous difference which I observe in these two insects, with regard to the inertia provoked by a shock or by handling them inone's fingers, is explained by nice differences of impressionability. Whereas the Buprestis remains motionless for nearly an hour, theGeotrupes is struggling violently after a minute or two. And even thenI rarely attain this limit. 

In what respect has the Geotrupes, to defend itself, less need of thestratagem of simulated death than the Black Buprestis, well protectedby his massive build and his armour, which is so hard that it resiststhe point of a pin and even of a needle? We should be perplexed by thesame question in respect of a multitude of insects, some of whichremain motionless while others do not; and we could not possiblyforesee what would happen from the genus of the subject, its form, orits way of living. 

_Buprestis tenebrionis_, for example, exhibits a persistent inertia. Will it be the same, because of similarity of structure, with othermembers of the same group? Not at all. My chance finds provide me withthe Brilliant Buprestis (_B. Rutilans_, FAB. ), and the Nine-spottedBuprestis (_Ptosima novemmaculata_, FAB. ). The first resists all myattempts. The splendid creature grips my fingers, grips my tweezersand insists on getting up the moment that I lay it on its back. Thesecond readily becomes immobile; but how brief is its attitude ofdeath! Four or five minutes at most. 

A Melasoma-beetle, _Omocrates abbreviatus_, OLIV. , whom I frequentlydiscover under the broken stones on the neighbouring hills, continuesmotionless for over an hour. He rivals the Scarites. We must notforget to add that very often the awakening takes place within a fewminutes. 

Can he owe his long period of inertia to the fact that he is one ofthe Tenebrionidæ, or Darkling Beetles? By no means, for here in thesame group is _Pimelia bipunctata_, who turns a somersault on hisround back and finds his feet the moment he has turned over; here is aCellar-beetle (_Blaps similis_, LATR. ), who, unable to turn with hisflat back, his big belly and his welded wing-cases, [1] strugglesdesperately after a minute or two of inertia. 

[Footnote 1: The Cellar-beetle is one of the winglessBeetles. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The short-legged Beetles, trotting along with tiny steps, ought, onewould think, to make up in cunning, more fully than the others, fortheir incapacity for rapid flight. The facts do not correspond withthis apparently well-founded forecast. I have consulted the generaChrysomela, [2] Blatta, [3] Silpha, Cleonus, [4] Bolboceras, [5] Cetonia, Hoplia, Coccinella, [6] and so on. A few minutes or a few seconds arenearly always long enough for the return to activity. Several of themeven obstinately refuse to sham death. 

[Footnote 2: Golden-apple Beetles. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 3: Blackbeetles or Cockroaches. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 4: A genus of Weevils. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 5: A mushroom-eating Beetle. Cf. _The Life of the Fly_:chap. Xviii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

[Footnote 6: Ladybirds. --_Translator's Note_. ]

As much must be said of the Beetles well-equipped for pedestrianescape. Some remain motionless for a few seconds; others, morenumerous still, behave in an ungovernable fashion. In short, there isno guide to tell us in advance:

"This one will readily assume the posture of a dead insect; this onewill hesitate; that one will refuse. "

There is nothing but shadowy probabilities, until experiment has givenits verdict. From this muddle shall we draw a conclusion which willset our minds at rest? I hope so. 

CHAPTER XVSUICIDE OR HYPNOSIS?

You do not imitate the unfamiliar; you do not counterfeit a thing ofwhich you know nothing: that is obvious. The simulation of death, therefore, implies a certain knowledge of death. 

Well, has the insect, or rather, has any kind of animal, apresentiment that its life cannot last for ever? Does the perturbingproblem of an end occur to its dense brain? I have associated a greatdeal with animals, I have lived on intimate terms with them and I havenever observed anything to justify me in saying yes. The animal, withits humbler destiny, is spared that apprehension of the hour of deathwhich constitutes at once our torment and our greatness. 

Like the child still in the limbo of unconsciousness, it enjoys thepresent without taking thought of the future; free from the bitternessof a prospective ending, it lives in the blissful calm of ignorance. It is ours alone to foresee the briefness of our days; it is oursalone anxiously to question the grave regarding the last sleep. 

Moreover, this glimpse of the inevitable destruction calls for acertain maturity of mind and, for that reason, is rather late indeveloping. I had a touching example of it this very week. 

A pretty little Kitten, the joy of all the household, after languidlydragging itself about for a couple of days, died in the night. Nextmorning the children found it lying stark in its basket. Generalaffliction. Anna, especially, a little girl of four, considered with apensive glance the little friend with which she had so often played. She petted it, called it, offered it a drop of milk in a cup:

"Kitty won't play, " said the child. "She doesn't want my breakfast anymore. She's asleep. I've never seen her sleep like this before. Whenwill she wake up?"

This simplicity in the presence of death's harsh problem wrung myheart. Hastily I led the girl away from the sight and had the deadKitten secretly buried. As, from this time onward, it no longerappeared by the table at meal-times, the grief-stricken child at lastunderstood that she had seen her little friend sleeping the profoundslumber that knows no awaking. For the first time a vague idea ofdeath found its way into her mind. 

Has the insect the signal honour of knowing what we do not know in ourearly childhood, at a time when thought is already manifesting itself, far superior, however feeble it be, to the dull understanding of theanimal? Has it the power to foresee an ending, an attribute which inits case would be inconvenient and useless? Before deciding, let usconsult, not the abstruse theories of science, a doubtful guide, butthe Turkey, an eminently truthful one. 

I recall one of the most vivid memories that remain to me from mybrief sojourn at the Royal College of Rodez. So they called it then;to-day they call it a grammar-school; what improvement as the worldgrows older!

The thrice-blessed Thursday had come; our bit of translation was done, our dozen Greek roots had been learnt by heart; and we trooped down tothe far end of the valley, so many bands of madcaps. With our trousersturned up to our knees, we exploited, artless fishermen that we were, the peaceful waters of the river, the Aveyron. What we hoped to catchwas the Loach, no bigger than our little finger, but tempting, thanksto his immobility on the sand amid the waterweeds. We fully expectedto transfix him with our trident, a fork. 

This miraculous catch, the object of such shouts of triumph when itsucceeded, was very rarely vouchsafed to us: the Loach, the rascal, saw the fork coming and with three strokes of his tail disappeared!

We found compensation in the apple-trees in the neighbouring pastures. The apple has from all time been the urchin's delight, above all whenplucked from a tree which does not belong to him. Our pockets weresoon crammed with the forbidden fruit. 

Another distraction awaited us. Flocks of Turkeys were not rare, roaming at their own sweet will and gobbling up the Locusts around thefarms. If no watcher hove in sight, we had great sport. Each of uswould seize a Turkey, tuck her head under her wing, rock it in thisattitude for a moment and then place her on the ground, lying on herside. The bird no longer budged. The whole flock of Turkeys wassubjected to our hypnotic handling; and the meadow assumed the aspectof a battle-field strewn with the dead and dying. 

And now look out for the farmer's wife! The loud gobbling of theharassed birds had told her of our wicked pranks. She would run uparmed with a whip. But we had good legs in those days! And we had agood laugh too, behind the hedges, which favoured our retreat!

O delightful days when we put the Turkeys to sleep, can I recover theskill which I then possessed? To-day it is no longer the playful trickof a schoolboy; it is a matter of serious research. I happen to havethe very subject that I need: a Turkey-hen, doomed soon to be thevictim of our Christmas merry-making. I repeat with her the method ofmanipulation which I employed so successfully on the banks of theAveyron. I tuck her head well under her wing and, molding it in thisattitude with both hands, I rock the bird gently up and down for acouple of minutes. 

The strange effect is produced; my childhood's manoeuvres obtained nobetter result. Laid on the ground, on her side and left to herself, mypatient is a lifeless bundle. One would think her dead, if a slightrise and fall of the plumage did not reveal the breathing. She looksreally like a dead bird which, in a last convulsion, had drawn itschilled feet, with their shrivelled toes, under its belly. Thespectacle has a tragic air; and I feel overcome by a certain anxietywhen I gaze upon the results of my evil spells. Poor Turkey! What ifshe were never to wake again!

We need not be afraid: she is waking; she stands up, staggering alittle, it is true, with drooping tail and a shamefaced expression. That soon passes off; not a trace of it remains. In a few moments thebird is once more what it was before the experiment. 

This torpor, the mean between true sleep and death, is of variableduration. When repeatedly provoked in my Turkey-hen, with suitableintervals of repose, immobility lasts sometimes for half an hour andsometimes for a few minutes. Here, as in the insect, it would be verydifficult to analyse the causes of these differences. With theGuinea-fowl I succeed even better. The torpor lasts so long that Ibecome alarmed by the bird's condition. The plumage reveals no traceof breathing. I ask myself, anxiously, whether the bird is notactually dead. I push it a little way along the ground with my foot. The patient does not stir. I do it again. And lo, the Guinea-fowlfrees her head, stands up, regains her balance and scurries off! Herstate of lethargy has lasted more than half an hour. 

Now for the Goose. I have none. The gardener next door trusts me withhis. She is brought to my house, which she fills with her trumpetingas she waddles about. Shortly afterwards there is absolute silence:the web-footed Amazon is lying on the ground, with her head tuckedunder her wing. Her immobility is as profound and as prolonged as thatof the Turkey and the Guinea-fowl. 

It is the Hen's turn now and the Duck's. They too succumb, but, so itseems to me, less persistently. Can it be that my hypnotic tricks areless efficacious with small birds than with large ones? To judge bythe Pigeon, this may well be so. He yields to my art only to theextent of two minutes' sleep. A still smaller bird, a Greenfinch, iseven more refractory: all that I obtain from him is a few seconds'drowsiness. 

It would appear, then, that, in proportion as the activity isconcentrated in a body of less volume, the torpor has less hold. Theinsect has already shown us this. The Giant Scarites does not stir foran hour, while the Smooth-skinned Scarites, a pigmy, wearies mypersistence in turning him over; the large Cloudy Buprestis submits tomy manoeuvres for a long period, whereas the Glittering Buprestis, apigmy again, obstinately refuses to do so. 

We will leave on one side, as insufficiently investigated, theinfluence of the bodily mass and remember only this fact, that it ispossible, by a very simple artifice, to reduce a bird to a conditionof apparent death. Do my Goose, my Turkey and the others resort totrickery with the object of deceiving their tormentor? It is certainthat none of them thinks of shamming dead; they are actually immersedin a deep torpor; in a word, they are hypnotized. 

These facts have long been known; they are perhaps the first in datein the science of hypnosis or artificial sleep. How did we, the littleRodez schoolboys, learn the secret of the Turkey's slumber? It wascertainly not in our books. Coming from no one knows where, indestructible as everything that enters into children's games, it washanded down, from time immemorial, from one initiate to another. 

Things are just the same to-day in my village of Sérignan, where thereare numbers of youthful adepts in the art of putting poultry to sleep. Science often has very humble beginnings. There is nothing to tell usthat the mischief of a pack of idle urchins is not the starting-pointof our knowledge of hypnosis. 

I have just been practising on insects tricks which to all appearancesare as puerile as those which we practised on the Turkeys in the dayswhen the farmer's wife used to run after us cracking her whip. Do notlaugh: a serious problem looms behind this artlessness. 

My insects' condition bears a strange resemblance to that of mypoultry. Both present the image of death, inertia, the contraction ofconvulsed limbs. In both again the immobility is dispelled before itstime by the agency of a stimulus, by sound in the case of the bird, bylight in that of the insect. Silence, darkness and tranquillityprolong it. Its duration varies greatly in different species andappears to increase with corpulence. 

Among ourselves, who are very unequal subjects for induced sleep, thehypnotist is obliged to pick and choose. He succeeds with one and notwith another. Similarly, among the insects, a selection is necessary, for they do not all of them, by a long way, respond to theexperimenter's attempts. My best subjects have been the Giant Scaritesand the Cloudy Buprestis; but how many others have resisted quiteindomitably, or remained motionless for only a few seconds!

The insect's return to the active state presents certain peculiaritieswhich are well worthy of attention. The key to the problem lies here. Let us return for a moment to the patients who have been subjected tothe ordeal of ether. These are really hypnotized. They do not remainmotionless by way of a ruse, there is no doubt upon that point; theyare actually on the threshold of death; and, if I did not take them ingood time out of the flask in which a few drops of ether have beenevaporated, they would never recover from the torpor whose last stageis death. 

Now what symptoms herald their return to activity? We know thesymptoms: the tarsi tremble, the palpi quiver, the antennæ wave to andfro. A man emerging from a deep sleep stretches his limbs, yawns andrubs his eyes. The insect awaking from the etheric sleep likewise hasits own fashion of marking its recovery of consciousness: it fluttersits tiny digits and the more mobile of its organs. 

Let us now consider an insect which, upset by a shock, perturbed bysome sort of excitement, is believed to be shamming dead, lying on itsback. The return to activity is announced exactly in the same fashionand in the same order as after the stupefying effect of ether. Firstthe tarsi quiver; then the palpi and antennæ wave feebly to and fro. 

If the creature were really shamming, what need would it have of theseminute preliminaries to the awakening? Once the danger hasdisappeared, or is deemed to have done so, why does the insect notswiftly get upon its feet, to make off as quickly as possible, insteadof dallying with untimely pretences? I am quite sure that, once theBear was gone, the comrade who had shammed dead under the animal'snose did not think of wasting time in stretching himself or rubbinghis eyes. He jumped up at once and took to his heels. 

And the insect is supposed to carry its cunning to the length ofcounterfeiting resuscitation down to the least details! No, no andagain no; it would be madness. Those quiverings of the tarsi, thoseawakening movements of the palpi and antennæ are the obvious proof ofa genuine torpor, now coming to an end, a torpor similar to thatinduced by ether but less intense; they show that the insect struckmotionless by my artifice is not shamming dead, as the vulgar idiomhas it and as the fashionable theories repeat. It is reallyhypnotized. 

A shock which disturbs its nerve-centres, an abrupt fright whichseizes upon it reduce it to a state of somnolence like that of thebird which is swung for a second or two with its head under its wing. A sudden terror sometimes deprives us human beings of the power ofmovement, sometimes kills us. Why should not the insect's organism, sodelicate and subtle, give way beneath the grip of fear and momentarilysuccumb? If the emotion be slight, the insect shrinks into itself foran instant, quickly recovers and makes off; if it be profound, hypnosis supervenes, with its prolonged immobility. 

The insect, which knows nothing of death and therefore cannotcounterfeit it, knows nothing either of suicide, that desperate meansof cutting short excessive misery. No authentic example has ever beengiven, to my knowledge, of an animal of any kind robbing itself of itsown life. That those most richly endowed with the capacity ofaffection sometimes allow themselves to die of grief I grant you; butthere is a great difference between this and stabbing one's self orcutting one's throat. 

Yet the recollection occurs to me of the Scorpion's suicide, sworn toby some, denied by others. What truth is there in the story of theScorpion who, surrounded by a circle of fire, puts an end to hissuffering by stabbing himself with his poisoned sting? Let us see forourselves:

Circumstances favour me. I am at this moment rearing, in large earthenpans, with a bed of sand and with potsherds for shelter, a hideousmenagerie which hardly comes up to my expectations as regards thestudy of morals. [1] I will profit by it in another way. It consists ofsome twenty-four specimens of _Buthus occitanus_, the large WhiteScorpion of the south of France. The odious animal abounds, alwaysisolated, under the flat stones of the neighbouring hills, in thesandy spots which enjoy the most sunlight. It has a detestablereputation. 

[Footnote 1: For the habits of the White or Languedocian Scorpion, cf. _The Life and Love of the Insect_: chaps. Xvii. Andxviii. --_Translator's Note_. ]

On the effects of its sting I personally have nothing to say, havingalways avoided, by a little caution, the danger to which my relationswith the formidable captives in my study might have exposed me. Knowing nothing of it myself, I get people to tell me of it, wood-cutters in particular, who from time to time fall victims totheir imprudence. One of them tells me the following story:

"After having my dinner, I was dozing for a moment among my faggots, when I was roused by a sharp pain. It was like the prick of a red-hotneedle. I clapped my hand to the place. Sure enough, there wassomething moving! A Scorpion had crept under my trousers and stung mein the lower part of the calf. The ugly beast was full as long as myfinger. Like that, sir, like that!"

And, adding gesture to speech, the worthy man extended his greatfore-finger. This size did not surprise me: while insect-hunting, Ihave seen Scorpions as large. 

"I wanted to go on with my work, " he continued, "but I came out in acold sweat; and my leg swelled up so you could see it swelling. It gotas big as that, sir, as big as that. "

More mimicry. Our friend spreads his two hands round his leg, at adistance, so as to denote the girth of a small barrel:

"Yes, like that, sir, like that; I had great trouble to get home, though it was only half a mile away. The swelling crept up and up. Next day it had got so high. "

A gesture indicates the height. 

"Yes, sir, for three days I couldn't stand up. I bore it as well as Icould, with my leg stretched out on a chair. Soda-compresses did thetrick; and there you are, sir, there you are. "

Another woodcutter, he adds, was also stung in the lower part of theleg. He was binding faggots together at some distance and had not thestrength to regain his home. He collapsed by the side of the road. Some men passing by carried him on their shoulders:

"_À la cabro morto, moussu, à la cabro morto!_"

The story of the rustic narrator, more versed in mimicry than inspeech, does not seem to me exaggerated. A White Scorpion's sting is avery serious accident for a human being. When stung by his own kind, the Scorpion himself quickly succumbs. Here I have something betterthan the evidence of strangers: I have my own observations. 

I take two healthy specimens from my menagerie and place them togetherat the bottom of a glass jar on a layer of sand. Excited with the tipof a straw which brings them face to face again whenever they drawback, the two harassed creatures decide on mortal combat. Each nodoubt attributes to the other the annoyances of which I myself am thecause. The claws, those weapons of defence, are displayed in asemicircle and open to keep the adversary at a distance; the tails, insudden jerks, are flung forward above the back; the poison-phialsclash together; a tiny drop, limpid as water, beads the point of thesting. 

The fight does not last long. One of the Scorpions receives the fullforce of the other's poisoned weapon. It is all over: in a few minutesthe wounded one succumbs. The victor very calmly proceeds to gnaw thefore-part of the victim's cephalothorax, or, in less crabbed terms, the bit at which we look for a head and find only the entrance to abelly. The mouthfuls are small, but long-drawn-out. For four or fivedays, almost without a break, the cannibal nibbles at his murderedcomrade. To eat the vanquished, that's good warfare, the only sortexcusable. What I do not understand, nor shall until we tin the meaton the battle-field for food, is our wars between nations. 

We now have authentic information: the Scorpion's sting is fatal, promptly fatal, to the Scorpion himself. Let us come to the matter ofsuicide, such as it has been described to us. When surrounded by acircle of live embers, the animal, so we are told, stabs itself withits sting and finds an end of its torment in voluntary death. Thiswould be very fine on the creature's part if it were true. We shallsee. 

In the centre of a ring of burning charcoal, I place the largestspecimen from my menagerie. The bellows increase the glow. At thefirst smart of the heat, the animal moves backwards within the circleof fire. It collides by inadvertence with the burning barrier. Nowfollows a disorderly retreat, in every direction, at random, renewingthe agonizing contact. At each attempt to escape, the burning isrepeated more severely than before. The animal becomes frantic. Itdarts forward and scorches itself. In a desperate frenzy, itbrandishes its weapon, crooks it, straightens it, lays it down flatand raises it again, all with such disorderly haste that I am quiteunable to follow its movements accurately. 

The moment ought to have come for the Scorpion to release himself fromhis torture with a blow of the stiletto. And indeed, with a suddenspasm, the long-suffering creature becomes motionless, lies atfull-length, flat upon the ground. There is not a movement; theinertia is complete. Is the Scorpion dead? It really looks like it. Perhaps he has pinked himself with a thrust of his sting that escapedme in the turmoil of the last efforts. If he has actually stabbedhimself, if he has resorted to suicide, then he is dead beyond adoubt: we have just seen how quickly he succumbs to his own venom. 

In my uncertainty, I pick up the apparently dead body with the tip ofmy forceps and lay it on a bed of cool sand. An hour later, thealleged corpse returns to life, as lusty as before the ordeal. Irepeat the process with a second and third specimen. The results arethe same. After the frantic plunges of the desperate victim, we havethe same sudden inertia, with the creature sprawling flat as thoughstruck by lightning, and the same return to life on the cool sand. 

It seems probable that those who invented the story of the Scorpioncommitting suicide were deceived by this sudden swoon, this paralysingspasm, into which the high temperature of the enclosure throws theexasperated beast. Too quickly convinced, they left the victim to burnto death. Had they been less credulous and withdrawn the animal ingood time from its circle of fire, they would have seen the apparentlydead Scorpion return to life and thus assert its profound ignorance ofsuicide. 

Apart from man, no living thing knows the last resource of a voluntaryend, because none has a knowledge of death. As for us, to feel that wehave the power to escape from the miseries of life is a nobleprerogative, upon which it is good to meditate, as a sign of ourelevation above the commonalty of the animal world; but in point offact it becomes cowardice if from the possibility we pass to action. 

He who proposes to go to that length should at least repeat to himselfwhat Confucius, the great philosopher of the yellow race, saidfive-and-twenty centuries ago. Having surprised a stranger in thewoods fixing to the branch of a tree a rope wherewith to hang himself, the Chinese sage addressed him in words the gist of which was asfollows:

"However great your misfortunes, the greatest of all would be to yieldto despair. All the rest can be repaired; this one is irreparable. Donot believe that all is lost for you and try to convince yourself of atruth which has been proved indisputable by the experience of thecenturies. And that truth is this: so long as a man has life, there isno need for him to despair. He may pass from the greatest misery tothe greatest joy, from the greatest misfortune to the highestfelicity. Take courage and, as though you were this very day beginningto recognize the value of life, strive at every moment to make themost of it. "

This humdrum Chinese philosophy is not without merit. It suggests themoralizing of the fabulist:

"_. . . Qu'on me rende impotent, Cul-de-jatte, goutteux, manchot, pourvu qu'en sommeJe vive, c'est assez: je suis plus que content. _"[2]

[Footnote 2: ". . . So powerless let me lie, Gout-ridden, legless, armless; if only, after all, I live, it is enough: more than content am I. "]

Yes, yes, La Fontaine and Kung the philosopher are right: life is aserious matter, which it will not do to throw away into the first bushby the roadside like a useless garment. We must look upon it not as apleasure, nor yet as a punishment, but as a duty of which we have toacquit ourselves as well as we can until we are given leave to depart. 

To anticipate this leave is cowardly and foolish. The power todisappear at will through death's trap-door does not justify us indeserting our post; but it opens to us certain vistas which areabsolutely unknown to the animal. 

We alone know how life's pageant closes, we alone can foresee our end, we alone profess devotion to the dead. Of these high matters noneother has any suspicion. When would-be scientists proclaim aloud, whenthey declare that a wretched insect knows the trick of simulatingdeath, we will ask them to look more closely and not to confound thehypnosis due to terror with the pretence of a condition unknown to theanimal world. 

Ours alone is the clear vision of an end, ours alone the gloriousinstinct of the beyond. Here, filling its modest part, speaks thevoice of entomology, saying:

"Have confidence; never did an instinct fail to keep its promises. "

CHAPTER XVITHE CRIOCERES

I am a stubborn disciple of St. Thomas the Apostle and, before I agreeto anything, I want to see and touch it, not once, but twice, thrice, an indefinite number of times, until my incredulity bows beneath theweight of evidence. Well, the Rhynchites[1] have told us that thebuild does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decidethe trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. Iquestion three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At theproper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them, whenever I want to ask them for information. 

[Footnote 1: A genus of Weevils, the essays upon whom will appear in alater volume to be entitled _The Life of Weevil_. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

The first is the Crioceris of the Lily, or Lily-beetle. Since Latinwords offend our modesty let us just once mention her scientific name, _Crioceris merdigera_, LIN. , without translating it, or, above all, repeating it. Decency forbids. I have never been able to understandwhy natural history need inflict upon a lovely flower or an engaginganimal an odious name. 

As a matter of fact, our Crioceris, so ill-treated by thenomenclators, is a sumptuous creature. She is nicely shaped, neithertoo large nor too small, and a beautiful coral red, with jet-blackhead and legs. Everybody knows her who in the spring has ever glancedat the lily, when its stem is beginning to show in the centre of therosette of leaves. A Beetle, of less than the average size andcoloured sealing-wax red, is perched up on the plant. Your hand goesout to seize her. Forthwith, paralysed with fright, she drops to theground. 

Let us wait a few days and return to the lily, which is graduallygrowing taller and beginning to show its buds, gathered together in abundle. The red insect is still there. Further, the leaves, which areseriously bitten into, are reduced to tatters and soiled with littleheaps of greenish ordure. It looks as if some witchcraft had mashed upthe leaves and then splashed the mess all over the place. 

Well, this filth moves, travels slowly along. Let us overcome ourrepugnance and poke the heaps with a straw. We uncover, indeed weunclothe an ugly, pot-bellied, pale-orange larva. It is the grub ofthe Crioceris. 

The origin of the garment of which we have just stripped it would beunmentionable, save in the world of the insect, that manufacturerdevoid of shame. This doublet is, in fact, obtained from thecreature's excretions. Instead of evacuating downwards, on thesuperannuated principle, the Crioceris' larva evacuates upwards andreceives upon its back the waste products of the intestine, materialswhich move from back to front as each fresh pat is dabbed upon theothers. Réaumur has complacently described how the quilt moves forwardfrom the tail to the head by wriggling along inclined planes, makingso many dips in the undulating back. There is no need to return tothis stercoral mechanism after the master has done with it. 

We now know the reasons that procured the Lily-beetle an ignominioustitle, confined to the official records: the grub makes itself anovercoat of its excrements. 

Once the garment is completed so as to cover the whole of thecreature's dorsal surface, the clothing-factory does not cease work onthat score. At the back a fresh hem is added from moment to moment;but the overlapping superfluity in front drops off of its own weightat the same time. The coat of dung is under continual repair, beingrenovated and lengthened at one end as it wears and grows shorter atthe other. 

Sometimes also the stuff is too thick and the heap capsizes. Thedenuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obligingintestine repairs the disaster without delay. 

Whether by reason of the clipping that results from the excessivelength of a piece which is always on the loom, or of accidents thatcause a part or the whole of the load to fall off, the grub of theCrioceris leaves accumulations of dirt in its track, till the lily, the symbol of purity, becomes a very cess-pool. When the leaves havebeen browsed, the stem next loses its cuticle, thanks to the nibblingof the grub, and is reduced to a ragged distaff. The flowers even, which have opened by now, are not spared: their beautiful ivorychalices are changed into latrines. 

The perpetrator of the misdeed embarks on his career of defilementearly. I wanted to see him start, to watch him lay the first course ofhis excremental masonry. Does he serve an apprenticeship? Does he workbadly at first, then a little better and then well? I now know allabout it: there is no noviciate, there are no clumsy attempts; theworkmanship is perfect from the outset, the product ejected spreadsover the hinder part. Let me tell you what I saw. 

The eggs are laid in May, on the under surface of the leaves, in shorttrails averaging from three to six. They are cylindrical, rounded atboth ends, of a bright orange-red, glossy and varnished with aglutinous wash which makes them stick to the leaves throughout theirlength. The hatching takes ten days. The shell of the egg, now alittle wrinkled, but still of a bright orange colour, retains itsposition, so that the group of eggs, apart from its slightly witheredappearance, remains just as it was. 

The young larva measures a millimetre and a half[2] in length. Thehead and legs are black, the rest of the body a dull amber-red. On thefirst segment of the thorax is a brown sash, interrupted in themiddle; lastly, there is a small black speck on each side, behind thethird segment. This is the initial costume. Presently orange-red willtake the place of the pale amber. The tiny creature, which isexceedingly fat, sticks to the leaf with its short legs and also withits hind-quarters, which act as a lever and push the round bellyforwards. The motion reminds you of a cripple sitting in a bowl. 

[Footnote 2: . 959 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The grubs emerging from any one group of eggs at once begin to browse, each beside the empty skin of its egg. Here, singly, they nibble anddig themselves a little pit in the thickness of the leaf, whilesparing the cuticle of the opposite surface. This leaves a translucentfloor, a support which enables them to consume the walls of theexcavation without risking a fall. 

Seeking for better pasture, they move lazily on. I see them scatteredat random; a few of them are grouped in the same trench; but I neversee them browsing economically abreast as Réaumur relates. There is noorder, no understanding between messmates, contemporaries though theybe and all sprung from the same row of eggs. Nor is any heed paid toeconomy: the lily is so generous!

Meanwhile, the paunch swells and the intestine labours. Here we are! Isee the first bit of the overcoat evacuated. As is natural in extremeinfancy, it is liquid and there is not much of it. The scanty flow isused all the same and is laid methodically, right at the far end ofthe back. Let the little grub be. In less than a day, piece by piece, it will have made itself a suit. 

The artist is a master from the first attempt. If its baby-flannel isso good to start with, what will the future ulster be, when the stuff, brought to perfection, is of much better quality? Let us proceed; weknow what we want to know concerning the talents of this manufacturerof excremental broadcloth. 

What is the purpose of this nasty great-coat? Does the grub employ itto keep itself cool, to protect itself against the attacks of the sun?It is possible: a tender skin need not be afraid of blistering undersuch a soothing poultice. Is it the grub's object to disgust itsenemies? This again is possible: who would venture to set tooth tosuch a heap of filth? Or can it be simply a caprice of fashion, anoutlandish fancy? I will not say no. We have had the crinoline, thatsenseless bulwark of steel hoops; we still have the extravagantstove-pipe hat, which tries to mould our heads in its stiff sheath. Let us be indulgent to the evacuator nor disparage his eccentricwardrobe. We have eccentricities of our own. 

To feel our way a little in this delicate question, we will questionthe near kinsmen of the Lily-beetle. In my acre or two of pebbles Ihave planted a bed of asparagus. The crop, from the culinary point ofview, will never repay me for my trouble: I am rewarded in anotherfashion. On the scanty shoots which I allow to display themselvesfreely in plumes of delicate green, two Crioceres abound in thespring: the field species (_C. Campestris_, LIN. ) and thetwelve-spotted species (_C. Duodecimpunctata_, LIN. ). A splendidwindfall, far better than any bundle of asparagus. 

The first has a tricolor costume which is not without merit. Bluewing-cases, braided with white on the outer edge and each adorned withthree white dots; a red corselet, with a blue disk in the centre. Itseggs are olive-green and cylindrical and, instead of lying flat, grouped in short lines, after the manner of the lily-dweller's, occursingly and stand on end on the leaves of the asparagus-plant, on thetwigs, on the flower-buds, more or less everywhere, without any fixedorder. 

Though living in the open air on the leaves of its plant and thusexposed to all the various perils that may threaten the Lily-grub, thelarva of the Field Crioceris knows nothing whatever of the art ofsheltering itself beneath a layer of ordure. It goes through lifenaked and always perfectly clean. 

It is of a bright greenish yellow, fairly fat behind and thinner infront. Its principal organ of locomotion is the end of the intestine, which protrudes, curves like a flexible finger, clasps the twig andsupports the creature while pushing it forward. The true legs, whichare short and placed too far in front with regard to the length of thebody, would find it very difficult by themselves to drag the heavymass that comes after. Their assistant, the anal finger, is remarkablystrong. With no support, the larva turns over, head downwards, andremains suspended when shifting from one sprig to another. ThisJack-in-the-bowl is a rope-dancer, a consummate acrobat, performingits evolutions amid the slender sprigs without fear of a fall. 

Its attitude in repose is curious. The heavy stern rests on the twohind-legs and especially on the crooked finger, the end of theintestine. The fore-part is lifted in a graceful curve, the littleblack head is raised and the creature looks rather like the crouchingSphinx of antiquity. This pose is common at times of slumber andblissful digestion in the sun. 

An easy prey is this naked, plump, defenceless grub, snoozing in theheat of a blazing day. Various Gnats, of humble size, but very likelyterribly treacherous, haunt the foliage of the asparagus. The larva ofthe Crioceris, motionless in its sphinx-like attitude, does not appearto be on its guard against them, even when they come buzzing above itsrump. Can they be as harmless as their peaceful frolics seem toproclaim? It is extremely doubtful: the Fly rabble are not theremerely to imbibe the scanty exudations of the plant. Experts inmischief, they have no doubt hastened hither with another object. 

And, in truth, on the greater number of the Crioceris-larvæ we find, adhering firmly to the skin, certain white specks, very small and of achina-white. Can these be the sowing of a bandit, the spawn of aMidge?

I collect the grubs marked with these white specks and rear them incaptivity. A month later, about the middle of June, they shrivel, wrinkle and turn brown. All that is left of them is a dry skin whichtears from end to end, half uncovering a Fly-pupa. A few days later, the parasite emerges. 

It is a small, greyish Fly, fiercely bristling with sparse hairs, halfthe size of the House-fly, whom it resembles slightly. It belongs tothe Tachina group, who, in their larval form, so often inhabit thebodies of caterpillars. 

The white spots sprinkled over the larva of the Crioceris were theeggs of the hateful Fly. The vermin born of those eggs have perforatedthe victim's paunch. By subtle wounds, which cause little pain and arealmost immediately healed, they have penetrated the body, reaching thehumours in which the entrails are bathed. At first the larva invadedis not aware of its danger; it continues to perform its rope-dancer'sgymnastics, to fill its belly and to take its siestas in the sun, asthough nothing serious had occurred. 

Reared in a glass tube and often examined under the lens, myparasite-ridden larvæ betray no uneasiness. The fact is that theTachina's children display an infernal judgment in their firstactions. Until the moment when they are ready for the transformation, their portion of game has to hold out, must be kept fresh and alive. They therefore gorge themselves with the reserves intended for futureuse, the fats, the savings which the Crioceris hoards in view of theremodelling whence the perfect insect will emerge; they consume whatis not essential to the life of the moment and are very careful not totouch the organs which are indispensable at the present time. If thesereceived a bite, the host would die and so would they. Towards the endof their growth, prudence and discretion being no longer essential, they make a complete clearance of the victim, leaving only the skin, which will serve them for a shelter. 

One satisfaction is vouchsafed me in these horrible orgies: I see thatthe Tachina in her turn is subjected to severe reductions. How manywere there on the larva's back? Perhaps eight, ten or more. One Midge, never more than one, comes out of the victim's skin, for the morsel istoo small to provide food for many. What has become of the others? Hasthere been an internecine battle inside the poor wretch's body? Havethey eaten one another up, leaving only the strongest to survive, orthe one most favoured by the chances of the fight? Or has one of them, earlier developed than the rest, found himself master of thestronghold and have the others preferred to die outside rather thanenter a grub already occupied, where famine would be rife if themessmates numbered even two? I am all for mutual extermination. Kinsman's flesh or stranger's flesh must be all one to the fangs ofthe vermin swarming in the Crioceris' belly. 

Fierce though the competition is among these bandits, the Beetle'srace does not threaten to die out. I review the innumerable troop onmy asparagus-bed. A good half of them have Tachina-eggs plainlyvisible as tiny white specks on their green skins. The blemished larvætell me of a paunch already or on the point of being invaded. On theother hand, it is doubtful whether those which are unscathed will allremain in that condition. The malefactor is incessantly prowlingaround the green plumes, watching for a favourable opportunity. Manylarvæ free from white spots to-day will show them to-morrow or someother day, so long as the Fly's season lasts. 

I estimate that the vast majority of the troop will end by beinginfested. My rearing-experiments tell me much on this point. If I donot make a careful selection when I am stocking my wire-gauze-covers, if I go to work at random in picking the branches colonized withlarvæ, I obtain very few adult Crioceres; nearly all of them areresolved into a cloud of Midges. 

If it were possible for us to wage war effectually upon an insect, Ishould advise asparagus-growers to have recourse to the Tachina, though I should cherish no illusions touching the results of theexpedient. The exclusive tastes of the insect auxiliary draw us into avicious circle: the remedy allays the evil, but the evil isinseparable from the remedy. To rid ourselves of the ravages of theasparagus-beds, we should need a great many Tachinæ; and to obtain agreat many Tachinæ we should first of all need a great many ravagers. Nature's equilibrium balances things as a whole. Whenever Crioceresabound, the Midges that reduce them arrive in numbers; when Crioceresbecome rare, the Midges decrease, but are always ready to return inmasses and repress a surplus of the others during a return ofprosperity. 

Under its thick mantle of ordure the grub of the Lily-beetle escapesthe troubles so fatal to its cousin of the asparagus. Strip it of itsovercoat: you will never find the terrible white specks upon its skin. The method of preservation is most effective. 

Would it not be possible to find a defensive system of equal valuewithout resorting to detestable filth? Yes, of course: the insect needonly house itself under a covering where there would be nothing tofear from the Fly's eggs. This is what the Twelve-spotted Criocerisdoes, occupying the same quarters as the Field Crioceris, from whomshe differs in size, being rather larger, and still more in hercostume, which is rusty red all over, with twelve black spotsdistributed symmetrically on the wing-cases. 

Her eggs, which are a deep olive-green and cylindrical, pointed at onepole and squared off at the other, closely resemble those of the FieldCrioceris and, like these, usually stand up on the supporting surface, to which they are fastened by the square end. It would be easy toconfuse the two if we had not the position which they occupy to guideus. The Field Crioceris fastens her eggs to the leaves and the thinsprays; the other plants them exclusively on the still green fruit ofthe asparagus, globules the size of a pea. 

The grubs have to open a tiny passage for themselves and to make theirown way into the fruit, of which they eat the pulp. Each globuleharbours one larva, no more, or the ration would be insufficient. Often, however, I see two, three or four eggs on the same fruit. Thefirst grub hatched is the one favoured by luck. He becomes the ownerof the pill, an intolerant owner capable of wringing the neck of anywho should come and sit down at table beside him. Always andeverywhere this pitiless competition!

The grub of the Twelve-spotted Crioceris is a dull white, with aninterrupted black scarf on the first segment of the thorax. Thissedentary creature has none of the talents of the acrobat grazing onthe swaying foliage of the asparagus; it cannot take a grip with itsposterior, turned into a prehensile finger. What use would it have forsuch a prerogative, loving repose as it does and destined to put onfat in its cell, without roaming in quest of food? In the same groupeach species has its own gifts, according to the kind of life thatawaits it. 

It is not long before the occupied fruit falls to the ground. Day byday, it loses its green colour as the pulp is consumed. It becomes, atlast, a pretty, diaphanous opal sphere, while the berries which havenot been injured ripen on the plant and acquire a rich scarlet hue. 

When there is nothing left to eat inside the skin of its pill, thegrub makes a hole in it and goes underground. The Tachinæ have sparedit. Its opal box, the hard rind of the berry, has ensured its safetyjust as well as a filthy overcoat would have done and perhaps evenbetter. 

CHAPTER XVIITHE CRIOCERES (_continued_)

The Crioceris has found safety inside its opal globe. Safety? Ah, butwhat an unfortunate expression I have used! Is there any one in theworld who can flatter himself that he has escaped the spoiler?

In the middle of July, at the time when the Twelve-spotted Crioceriscomes up from under the ground in the adult form, my rearing-jarsyield me swarms of a very small Gall-fly, a slender, graceful, blue-black Chalcid, without any visible boring-tool. Has the punycreature a name? Have the nomenclators catalogued it? I do not know, nor do I much care; the main thing is to learn that the covering ofthe asparagus-berry, which becomes an opal globe when the grub hasemptied it, has failed to save the recluse. The Tachina-midge drainsher victim by herself; this other, tinier creature feasts in company. Twenty or more of them batten on the grub together. 

When everything seems to foretell a quiet life, a pigmy among pigmiesappears, charged with the express duty of exterminating an insectwhich is protected first by the casket of the berry and next by theshell, the underground work of the grub. To eat the Twelve-spottedCrioceris is its mission in life, its special function. When and howdoes it deliver its attack? I do not know. 

At any rate, proud of her vocation and finding life sweet, the Chalcidcurls her antennæ into a crook and waves them to and fro: she rubs hertarsi together, a sign of satisfaction; she dusts her belly. I canhardly see her with the naked eye; and yet she is an agent of theuniversal extermination, a wheel in the implacable machine whichcrushes life as in a wine-press. 

The tyranny of the belly turns the world into a robber's cave. Eatingmeans killing. Distilled in the alembic of the stomach, the lifedestroyed by slaughter becomes so much fresh life. Everything ismelted down again, everything has a fresh beginning in death'sinsatiable furnace. 

Man, from the alimentary point of view, is the chief brigand, consuming everything that lives or might live. Here is a mouthful ofbread, the sacred food. It represents a certain number of grains ofwheat which asked only to sprout, to turn green in the sun, to shootup into tall stalks crowned with ears. They died that we might live. Here are some eggs. Left undisturbed with the Hen, they would haveemitted the Chickens' gentle cheep. They died that we might live. Hereis beef, mutton, poultry. Horror, it smells of blood, it is eloquentof murder! If we gave it a thought, we should not dare to sit down totable, that altar of cruel sacrifices. 

How many lives does the Swallow, to mention only the most peaceable, harvest in the course of a single day! From morning to evening hegulps down Crane-flies, Gnats and Midges joyously dancing in thesunbeams. Quick as lightning he passes; and the dancers are decimated. They perish; then their melancholy remnants fall from the nestcontaining the young brood, in the form of guano which becomes theturf's inheritance. And so it is with all and everything, with largeand small, from end to end of the animal progression. A perpetualmassacre perpetuates the flux of life. 

Appalled by these butcheries, the thinker begins to dream of a stateof affairs which would free us from the horrors of the maw. This idealof innocence, as our poor nature vaguely sees it, is not animpossibility; it is partly realized for all of us, men and animals. 

Breathing is the most imperious of needs. We live by the air before welive by bread; and this happens of itself, without painful struggles, without costly labour, almost without our knowledge. We do not setout, armed for war, to conquer the air by rapine, violence, cunning, barter and desperate labour; the supreme element of life enters ourbodies of its own accord; it penetrates us and quickens us. Each of ushas his generous share of it without giving the matter a thought. 

To crown perfection, it is free. And this will last indefinitely untilan ever ingenious Treasury invents distributing-taps and pneumaticreceivers from which the air will be doled out to us at so much apiston-stroke. Let us hope that we shall be spared this particularitem of scientific progress, for that, woe betide us, would be the endof all things: the tax would kill the tax-payer!

Chemistry, in its lighter moods, promises us, in the future, pillscontaining the concentrated essence of food. These cunning compounds, the product of our laboratories, would not end our longing to possessa stomach no more burdensome than our lungs and to feed even as webreathe. 

The plant partly knows this secret: it draws its carbon quietly fromthe air, in which each leaf is impregnated with the wherewithal togrow tall and green. But the vegetable is inactive; hence its innocentlife. Action calls for strongly flavoured spices, won by fighting. Theanimal acts; therefore it kills. The highest phase, perhaps, of aself-conscious intelligence, man, deserving nothing better, shareswith the brute the tyranny of the belly as the irresistible motive ofaction. 

But I have wandered too far afield. A living speck, swarming in thepaunch of a grub, tells us of the brigandage of life. How well itunderstands its trade as an exterminator! In vain does theCrioceris-larva take refuge in an unassailable casket: its executionermakes herself so small that she is able to reach it. 

Adopt such precautions as you please, you pitiable grubs, pose on yoursprigs in the attitude of a threatening Sphinx, take refuge in themysteries of a box, arm yourself with a cuirass of dung: you will nonethe less pay your tribute in the pitiless conflict; there will alwaysbe operators who, varying in cunning, in size, in implements, willinoculate you with their deadly germs. 

Not even the lily-dweller, with her dirty ways, is safe. Her grub isas often the prey of another Tachina, larger than that of the FieldCrioceris. The parasite, I am convinced, does not sow her eggs uponthe victim so long as the latter is wrapped in its repulsivegreat-coat; but a moment's imprudence gives her a favourableopportunity. 

When the time comes for the grub to bury itself in the ground, thereto undergo the transformation, it lays aside its mantle, with theobject perhaps of easing itself when it descends from the top of theplant, or else with the object of taking a bath in that kindlysunlight whereof it has hitherto tasted so little under its moistcoverlet. This naked journey over the leaves, the last joy of itslarval life, is fatal to the traveller. Up comes the Tachina, who, finding a clean skin, all sleek with fat, loses no time in dabbing hereggs upon it. 

A census of the intact and of the injured larvæ provides us withparticulars which agree with what we foresaw from the nature of theirrespective lives. The most exposed to parasites is the FieldCrioceris, whose larva lives in the open air, without any sort ofprotection. Next comes the Twelve-spotted Crioceris, who isestablished in the asparagus-berry from her early infancy. The mostfavoured is the Lily-beetle, who, while a grub, makes an ulster of herexcretions. 

For the second time, we are here confronted by three insects whichlook as if they had all come out of one mould, so much are they alikein shape. If the costumes were not different and the sizes dissimilar, we should not know how to tell one from another. And this pronouncedresemblance in figure is accompanied by a no less pronounced lack ofresemblance in instinct. 

The evacuator that soils its back cannot have inspired the hermitliving in cleanly retirement inside its globe; the occupant of theasparagus-berry did not advise the third to live in the open andwander like an acrobat through the leafage. None of the three hasinitiated the customs of the other two. All this seems to me as clearas daylight. If they have issued from the same stock, how have theyacquired such dissimilar talents?

Furthermore, have these talents developed by degrees? The Lily-beetleis prepared to tell us. Her grub, let us suppose, once conceived thenotion, when tormented by the Tachina, of making the stercoral slitopen above. By accident, with no definite purpose in view, it emptiedthe contents of its intestine over its back. The natty Fly hesitatedin the presence of this filth. The grub, in its cunning, recognized, as time went on, the benefit to be derived from its poultice; and whatat first was an unpremeditated pollution became a prudent custom. 

As success followed upon success, with the aid of the centuries, ofcourse, for these inventions always take centuries, the dung overcoatwas extended from the hinder end to the fore-part, right down to theforehead. Finding itself the gainer by this invention, setting theparasite at defiance under its coverlet, the grub made a strict law ofwhat was an accident; and the Crioceris faithfully handed down therepulsive great-coat to her offspring. 

So far this is not so bad. But things now begin to become complicated. If the insect was really the inventor of its defensive methods, if itdiscovered for itself the advantage of hiding under its ordure, I lookto its ingenuity to keep up the tricks until the precise moment hascome for burying itself. But, on the contrary, it undresses itselfsome time beforehand; it wanders about naked, taking the air on theleaves, at a time when its fair round belly is more than ever likelyto tempt the Fly. It completely forgets, on its last day, the prudencewhich it acquired by the long apprenticeship of the centuries. 

This sudden change of purpose, this heedlessness in the face of dangertells me that the insect forgets nothing, because it has learntnothing, because it has invented nothing. When the instincts werebeing distributed, it received as its share the overcoat, of whosemethods it is ignorant, though it benefits by its advantages. It hasnot acquired it by successive stages, followed by a sudden halt at themost dangerous moment, the moment most calculated to inspire it withdistrust; it is no more and no less gifted than it was in thebeginning and is unable in any way to alter its tactics against theTachina and its other enemies. 

Nevertheless, we must not be in a hurry to attribute to the garment offilth the exclusive function of protecting the grub against theparasite. It is difficult to see in what respect the Lily-grub is moredeserving than the Asparagus-grub, which possesses no defensive arts. Perhaps it is less fruitful and, to make up for the poverty of theovaries, boasts an ingenuity which safeguards the race. Nor is thereanything to tell us that the soft coverlet is not at the same time ashelter which screens a too sensitive skin from the sun. And, if itwere a mere fal-lal, a furbelow of larval coquetry, even that wouldnot surprise me. The insect has tastes which we cannot judge by ourown. Let us end with a doubt and proceed. 

May is not over when the grub, now fully-grown, leaves the lily andburies itself at the foot of the plant, at no great depth. Workingwith its head and rump, it forces back the earth and makes itself around recess, the size of a pea. To turn the cell into a hollow pillwhich will not be liable to collapse, all that remains for it to do isto drench the wall with a glue which soon sets and grips the sand. 

To observe this work of consolidation, I unearth some unfinished cellsand make an opening which enables me to watch the grub at work. Thehermit is at the window in a moment. A stream of froth pours from hismouth like beaten-up white of egg. He slavers, spits profusely; hemakes his product effervescence and lays it on the edge of the breach. With a few spurts of froth the opening is plugged. 

I collect other grubs at the moment of their interment and installthem in glass tubes with a few tiny bits of paper which will servethem as a prop. There is no sand, no building-material other than thecreature's spittle and my very few shreds of paper. Under theseconditions can the pill-shaped cell be constructed?

Yes, it can; and without much difficulty. Supporting itself partly onthe glass, partly on the paper, the larva begins to slaver all aroundit, to froth copiously. After a spell of some hours, it hasdisappeared within a solid shell. This is white as snow and highlyporous; it might almost be a globule of whipped albumen. Thus, tostick together the sand in its pill-shaped nest, the larva employs afrothy albuminous substance. 

Let us now dissect the builder. Around the oesophagus, which is fairlylong and soft, are no salivary glands, no silk-tubes. The frothycement is therefore neither silk nor saliva. One organ forces itselfupon our attention: it is the crop, which is very capacious, anddilated with irregular protuberances that put it out of shape. It isfilled with a colourless, viscous fluid. This is certainly the rawmaterial of the frothy spittle, the glue that binds the grains of sandtogether and consolidates them into a spherical whole. 

When the preparations for the metamorphosis are at hand, the stomachicpouch, having no longer to do duty as a digestive laboratory, servesthe insect as a factory, or a warehouse for different purposes. Herethe Sitares store up their uric waste products; here the Capricornscollect the chalky paste which becomes the stone lid for the entranceto the cell; here caterpillars keep in reserve the gums and powderswith which they strengthen the cocoon; hence the Hymenoptera draw thelacquer which they employ to upholster their silken edifice. And nowwe find the Lily-beetle using it as a store for frothy cement. [1] Whatan obliging organ is this digestive pouch!

[Footnote 1: This subject is continued in the essay on the FoamyCicadella. Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chap. Xx. --_Translator'sNote_. ]

The two Asparagus-beetles are likewise proficient dribblers, worthyrivals of their kinswoman of the lily in the matter of building. Inall three cases the underground shell has the same shape and the samestructure. 

When, after a subterranean visit of two months' duration, theLily-beetle returns to the surface in her adult form, a botanicalproblem remains to be solved before the history of the insect iscompleted. We are now at the height of summer. The lilies have hadtheir day. A dry, leafless stick, surmounted by a few tatteredcapsules, is all that is left of the magnificent plant of the spring. Only the onion-like bulb remains a little way down. There, postponingthe process of vegetation, it waits for the steady rains of theautumn, which will renew its strength and make it burgeon into a sheafof leaves. 

How does the Lily-beetle live during the summer, before the return ofthe green foliage dear to its race? Does it fast during the extremeheat? If abstinence is its rule of life in this season of vegetabledearth, why does it emerge from underground, why does it abandon itsshell, where it could sleep so peacefully, without the necessity ofeating? Can it be need of food that drives it from the substratum andsends it to the sunlight so soon as the wing-cases have assumed theirvermilion hue? It is very likely. For the rest, let us look into thematter. 

On the ruined stems of my white lilies I find a portion covered with ascrap of green skin. I set it before the prisoners in my jars, whoemerged from their sandy bed a day or two ago. They attack it with anappetite which is extremely conclusive; the green morsel is strippedbare to the wood. Soon I have nothing left, in the way of theirregulation diet, to offer my famished captives. I know that all thelilies, native or exotic, the Turk's cap lily, or Martagon, the lilyof Chalcedon, the tiger lily and many others, are to their taste; I donot forget that the crown imperial fritillary and the Persianfritillary are equally welcome; but most of these delicate plants haverefused the hospitality of my two acres of pebbles and those which itis more or less possible for me to grow are now as tattered as thecommon lily. There is not a patch of green left on them. 

In botany the lily gives its name to the family of the Liliaceæ, ofwhich it is the leading representative. Those who feed upon the lilyought also, in the absence of anything better, to accept the otherplants of the same group. This is my opinion at first; it is not thatof the Crioceris, who knows more than I do about the virtues ofplants. 

The family of the Liliaceæ is subdivided into three tribes: thelilies, the daffodils and the asparaguses. Not any of the daffodiltribe suit my famishing prisoners, who allow themselves to die ofinanition on the leaves of the following genera, the only varietieswith which the modest resources of my garden have allowed me toexperiment: asphodel, funkia, or niobe, agapanthus, or African lily, tritelia, hemerocallis, or day lily, tritoma, garlic, ornithogalum, orstar of Bethlehem, squill, hyacinth, muscari, or grape-hyacinth. Irecord, for whom it may concern, this profound contempt of theCrioceris for the daffodils. An insect's opinion is not to bedespised: it tells us that we should obtain a more natural arrangementby separating the daffodils farther from the lilies. 

In the first of the three tribes, the classic white lily, the plantpreferred by the insect, takes the chief place; next come the otherlilies and the fritillaries, a diet almost as much sought after; andlastly the tulips, which the season is too far advanced to allow me tosubmit for the approval of the Crioceris. 

The third tribe had a great surprise in store for me. The redCrioceris fed, though with a very scornful tooth, on the foliage ofthe asparagus, the favourite dish of the Field Crioceris and theTwelve-spotted Crioceris. On the other hand, she feasted rapturouslyon the lily of the valley (_Convallaria maialis_) and on Solomon'sseal (_Polygonatum vulgare_), both of which are so different from thelily to any eye untrained in the niceties of botanical analysis. 

She did more: she browsed, with every appearance of a contentedstomach, on a prickly creeper, _Smilax aspera_, which tangles itselfin the hedges with its corkscrew tendrils and produces, in the autumn, graceful clusters of small red berries, which are used for Christmasdecorations. The fully-developed leaves are too hard for her, tootough; she wants the tender tips of the nascent foliage. When I takethis precaution, I can feed her on the intractable vine as readily ason the lily. 

The fact that the smilax is accepted gives me confidence in theprickly butcher's-broom (_Ruscus aculeatus_), another shrub of sturdyconstitution, admitted to the family rejoicings at Christmas becauseof its handsome green leaves and its red berries, which are like bigcoral beads. In order not to discourage the consumer with leaves thatare too hard, I select some young seedlings, newly sprouted and stillbearing the round berry, the nutritive gourd, hanging at their base. My precautions lead to nothing: the insect obstinately refuses thebutcher's-broom, on which I thought that I might rely after the smilaxhad been accepted. 

We have our botany; the Crioceris has hers, which is subtler in itsappreciation of affinities. Her domain comprises two very naturalgroups, that of the lily and that of the smilax, which, with theadvance of science, has become the family of the Smilaceæ. In thesetwo groups she recognizes certain genera--the more numerous--as herown; she refuses the others, which ought perhaps to be revised beforebeing finally classified. 

An exclusive taste for the asparagus, one of the foremostrepresentatives of the Smilaceæ, characterizes the two otherCrioceres, those eager exploiters of the cultivated asparagus. I findthem also pretty often on the needle-leaved asparagus (_A. Acutifolius_), a forbidding-looking shrub with long, flexible stemsbearing many branches, which the Provençal vine-grower uses, under thename of _roumiéu_, as a filter before the tap of the wine-vat, toprevent the refuse of the grapes from choking up the vent-hole. Apartfrom these two plants, the two Crioceres refuse absolutely everything, even when in July they come up from the earth with the famishingstomachs which the long fast of the metamorphosis has given them. Onthe same wild asparagus, disdainful of the rest, lives a fourthCrioceris (_C. Paracenthesia_), the smallest of the group. I do notknow enough of her habits to say anything more about her. 

These botanical details tell us that the Crioceres, which hatch early, in the middle of summer, have no reason to fear famine. If theLily-beetle can no longer find her favourite plant, she can browseupon Solomon's seal and smilax, not to mention the lily of the valleyand, I dare say, a few others of the same family. The other three aremore favoured. Their food-plant remains erect, green and well providedwith leaves until the end of autumn. The wild asparagus even, undaunted by the extreme cold, maintains a sturdy existence all theyear round. Belated resources, moreover, are superfluous. After abrief period of summer freedom, the various Crioceres seek theirwinter quarters and go to earth under the dead leaves. 

CHAPTER XVIIITHE CLYTHRÆ

The Lily-beetle dresses herself: with her ordure she makes herself acosy gown, an infamous garment, it is true, but an excellentprotection against parasites and sunstroke. The weaver of fæcal clothhas hardly any imitators. The Hermit-crab dresses himself: he selectsto fit him, from the discarded wardrobe of the Sea-snail, an emptyshell, damaged by the waves; he slips his poor abdomen, which isincapable of hardening, inside it and leaves outside his great fistsof unequal size, clad in stone boxing-gloves. This is yet anotherexample rarely followed. 

With a few exceptions, all the more remarkable because they are sorare, the animal, in fact, is not burdened by the need of clothingitself. Endowed, without having to manufacture a thing, with all thatit wants, it knows nothing of the art of adding defensive extras toits natural covering. 

The bird has no need to take thought of its plumage, the furry beastof its coat, the reptile of its scales, the Snail of his shell, theGround-beetle of his jerkin. They display no ingenuity with the objectof securing protection from the inclemencies of the atmosphere. Hair, down, scales, mother-of-pearl and other items of the animal's apparel:these are all produced of their own accord, on an automatic loom. 

Man, for his part, is naked; and the severities of the climate obligehim to wear an artificial skin to protect his own. This poverty hasgiven rise to one of our most attractive industries. 

He invented clothing who, shivering with cold, first thought offlaying the Bear and covering his shoulders with the brute's hide. Ina distant future this primitive cloak was gradually to be replaced bycloth, the product of our industry. But under a mild sky thetraditional fig-leaf, the screen of modesty, was for a long whilesufficient. Among peoples remote from civilization, it still sufficesin our day, together with its ornamental complement, the fish-bonethrough the cartilage of the nose, the red feather in the hair, thestring round the loins. We must not forget the smear of rancid butter, which serves to keep off the Mosquito and reminds us of the unguentemployed by the grub that dreads the Tachina. 

In the first rank of the animals protected against the bite of theatmosphere without the intervention of a handicraft are those which goclad in hair, dressed free of cost in fleeces, furs or pelts. Some ofthese natural coats are magnificent, surpassing our downiest velvetsin softness. 

Despite the progress of weaving, man is still jealous of them. To-day, as in the ages when he sheltered under a rock, he values furs greatlyfor the winter. At all seasons he holds them in high esteem asornamental accessories; he glories in sewing on his attire a shred ofsome wretched flayed beast. The ermine of kings and judges, the whiterabbit-tails with which the university graduate adorns his leftshoulder on solemn occasions carry us back in thought to the age ofthe cave-dwellers. 

Moreover, the fleecy animals still clothe us in a less primitivefashion. Our woollens are made of hairs interlaced. Ever since thebeginning, without hoping to find anything better, man has clothedhimself at the expense of the hairy orders of creation. 

The bird, a more active producer of heat, whose maintenance is a moredelicate matter, covers itself with feathers, which overlap evenly, and puts round its body a thick cushion of air on a bed of down. Ithas on its tail a pot of cosmetic, a bottle of hair-oil, a fatty glandfrom which the beak obtains an ointment wherewith it preens thefeathers one by one and renders them impermeable to moisture. A greatexpender of energy by reason of the exigencies of flight, it isessentially, chilly creature that it is, better-adapted than any otherto the retention of heat. 

For the slow-moving reptile the scales suffice, preserving it fromhurtful contacts, but playing hardly any part as a bulwark againstchanges of temperature. 

In its liquid environment, which is far more constant than the air, the fish requires no more. Without effort on its part, without violentexpenditure of motor force, the swimmer is borne up by the merepressure of the water. A bath whose temperature varies but littleenables it to live in ignorance of excessive cold or heat. 

In the same way, the mollusc, for the most part a denizen of the seas, leads a blissful life in its shell, which is a defensive fortressrather than a garment. Lastly the crustacean confines itself to makinga suit of armour out of its mineral skin. 

In all these, from the hairy to the crustaceous, the real coat, thecoat turned out by a special industry, does not exist. Hair, fur, feather, scale, shell, stony armour require no intervention of thewearer; they are natural products, not the artificial creations of theanimal. To find clothiers able to place upon their backs that whichtheir organization refuses them, we must descend from man to certaininsects. 

Ridiculous attire, of which we are so proud, made from the slaver of acaterpillar or the fleece of a silly sheep: among its inventors thefirst and foremost is the Crioceris-larva, with its jacket of dung! Inthe art of clothing itself, it preceded the Eskimo, who scrapes thebowels of the seal to make himself a suit of dittos; it forestalledour ancestor the troglodyte, who borrowed the fur-coat of hiscontemporary the Cave-bear. We had not got beyond the fig-leaf, whenthe Crioceris already excelled in the manufacture of homespun, bothproviding the raw material and piecing it together. 

For reasons of economy and easy acquisition, its disgusting method, but with very elegant modifications, suits the clan of the Clythræ andCryptocephali, those pretty and magnificently coloured Beetles. Theirlarva, a naked little grub, makes itself a long, narrow pot, in whichit lives just like the Snail in his shell. As a coat and as a dwellingthe timid creature makes use of a jar, better still, of a gracefulvase, the product of its industry. 

Once inside, it never comes out. If anything alarms it, with a suddenrecoil it withdraws completely into its urn, the opening of which isclosed with the disk formed by the flat top of the head. When quiet isrestored, it ventures to put out its head and the three segments withlegs to them, but is very careful to keep the rest, which is moredelicate and fastened to the back, inside. 

With tiny steps, weighted by the burden, it makes its way along, lifting its earthenware container behind it in a slanting position. Itmakes one think of Diogenes, dragging his house, a terra-cotta tub, about with him. The thing is rather unwieldy, because of the weight, and is liable to heel over, owing to the excessive height of thecentre of gravity. It makes progress all the same, tilting like abusby rakishly cocked over one ear. One of our Land-snails, theBulimus, whose shell is continued into a turret, moves almost in thesame fashion, tumbling repeatedly as he goes. 

The Clythra's is a shapely jar and does credit to the insect's art ofpottery. It is firm to the touch, of earthy appearance and smooth asstucco inside, while the outside is relieved by delicate diagonal, symmetrical ribs, which are the traces of successive enlargements. Theback part is slightly dilated and is rounded off at the end with twoslight bumps. These two terminal projections, with the central furrowwhich divides them, and the ribs marking additions, which match oneither side, are evidence of work done in two parts, in which theartist has followed the rules of symmetry, the first condition of thebeautiful. 

The front part is of rather smaller diameter and is cut off on aslant, which enables the jar to be lifted and supported on the larva'sback as it moves. Lastly, the mouth is circular, with a blunt edge. 

Any one finding one of these jars for the first time, among the stonesat the foot of an oak, and wondering what its origin could be, wouldbe greatly puzzled. Is it the stone of some unknown fruit, emptied ofits kernel by the patient tooth of the Field-mouse? Is it the capsuleof a plant, from which the lid has dropped, allowing the seeds tofall? It has all the accuracy, all the elegance of the masterpieces ofthe vegetable kingdom. 

After learning the origin of the object, he would be no less doubtfulas to the nature of the materials, or rather of their cement. Waterwill not soften, will not disintegrate the shell. This must be so, else the first shower of rain would reduce the grub's garment to pulp. Fire does not affect it greatly either. When exposed to the flame of acandle, the jar, without changing shape, loses its brown colour andassumes the tint of burnt ferruginous earth. The groundwork of thematerial therefore is of a mineral nature. It remains for us todiscover what the cement can be that gives the earthy element itsbrown colour, holds it together and makes it solid. 

The grub is ever on its guard. At the least flurry, it shrinks intoits shell and does not budge for a long time. Let us be as patient asthe grub. We shall surely, some day or other, manage to surprise it atwork. And indeed I do. It suddenly backs into its jar, disappearinginside entirely. In a moment it reappears, carrying a brown pellet inits mandibles. It kneads the pellet and works it up with a littleearth gathered on the threshold of its dwelling; it softens themixture as required and then spreads it artistically in a thin stripon the edge of the sheath. 

The legs take no part in the job. Only the mandibles and the palpiwork, acting as tub, trowel, beater and roller in one. 

Once more the grub backs into its shell: once more it returns, bringing a second clod, which is prepared and used in the same manner. Five or six times over, it repeats the process, until the wholecircumference of the mouth has been increased by the addition of arim. 

The potter's compound, as we have seen, consists of two ingredients. One of these, the first earth that comes to hand, is collected on thethreshold of the workshop; the other is fetched from inside the pot, for, each time that the grub returns, I see it carrying a brown pelletin its teeth. What does it keep in the back-shop? Though we canscarcely find out by direct observation, we can at least guess. 

Observe that the jar is absolutely closed behind, without the smallestwaste-pipe by which the physiological needs from which the grub iscertainly not immune can be relieved. The grub is boxed in and neverstirs out of doors. What becomes of its excretions? Well, they areevacuated at the bottom of the pot. By a gentle movement of the rump, the product is spread upon the walls, strengthening the coat andgiving it a velvet lining. 

It is better than a lining; it is a precious store of putty. When thegrub wants to repair its shell or to enlarge it to fit its figure, which increases daily, it proceeds to clean out its cess-pool. Itturns round and, with the tips of its mandibles, collects singly, fromthe back, the brown pellets which it has only to work up with a littleearth to make a ceramic paste of the highest quality. 

Observe also that the grub's pottery is shaped like the legs of ourpeg-top trousers and is wider inside than at the opening. Thisexcessive girth has its obvious use. It enables the animal to bend andturn when the contents of the cess-pit are needed for a fresh courseof masonry. 

A garment should be neither too short nor too tight. It is not enoughto add a piece which lengthens it as the body grows longer; we mustalso see that it has sufficient fulness not to hamper the wearer andto give him liberty of movement. 

The Snail and all the molluscs with turbinate shells increase thediameter of their corkscrew staircase by degrees, so that the lastwhorl is always an exact measure of their actual condition. The lowerwhorls, those of childhood, when they become too narrow, are notabandoned, it is true; they become lumber-rooms in which the organs ofleast importance to active life find shelter, drawn out into a slenderappendage. The essential portion of the animal is lodged in the upperstory, which increases in capacity. 

The big Broken Bulimus, that lover of crumbling walls and limestonerocks leaning in the sun, sacrifices the graces of symmetry toutility. When the lower spirals are no longer wide enough, he abandonsthem altogether and moves higher up, into the spacious staircase ofrecent formation. He closes the occupied part with a stoutpartition-wall at the back; then, dashing against the sharp stones, hechips off the superfluous portion, the hovel not fit to live in. Thebroken shell loses its accurate form in the process, but gains inlightness. 

The Clythra does not employ the Bulimus' method. It also disdains thatof our dressmakers, who split the overtight garment and let in a pieceof suitable width between the edges of the opening. To break the jarwhen it becomes too small would be a wilful waste of material; tosplit it lengthwise and increase its capacity by inserting a stripwould be an imprudent expedient, which would expose the occupant todanger during the slow work of repair. The hermit of the jar can dobetter than that. It knows how to enlarge its gown while leaving it, except for its fulness, as it was before. 

Its paradoxical method is this: of the lining it makes cloth, bringingto the outside what was inside. Little by little, as the need makesitself felt, the grub scrapes and strips the interior of its cell. Reduced to a soft paste by means of a little putty furnished by theintestine, the scrapings are applied over the whole of the outersurface, down to the far end, which the grub, thanks to its perfectflexibility, is able to reach without taking too much trouble orleaving its house. 

This turning of the coat is accomplished with a delicate precisionwhich preserves the symmetrical arrangement of the ornamental ridges;lastly, it increases the capacity by a gradual transfer of thematerial from the inside to the outside. This method of renewing theold coat is so accurate that nothing is thrown aside, nothing treatedas useless, not even the baby-wear, which remains encrusted in thekeystone at the original top of the structure. 

If fresh materials were not added, obviously the jar would gain insize at the cost of thickness. The shell would become too thin, bydint of being turned in order to make space, and would sooner or laterlack the requisite solidity. The grub guards against that. It has infront of it as much earth as it can wish for; it keeps putty in aback-shop; and the factory which produces it never slacks work. Thereis nothing to prevent it from thickening the structure at will andadding as much material as it thinks proper to the inner scrapingsfrom the shell. 

Invariably clad in a garment that is an exact fit, neither too loosenor too tight, the grub, when the cold weather comes, closes the mouthof its earthenware jar with a lid of the same mixed compound, a pasteof earth and stercoral cement. It then turns round and makes itspreparations for the metamorphosis, with its head at the back of thepot and its stern near the entrance, which will not be opened again. It reaches the adult stage in April and May, when the ilex becomescovered with tender shoots, and emerges from its shell by breakingopen the hinder end. Now come the days of revelry on the leafage, inthe mild morning sun. 

The Clythra's jar is a piece of work entailing no little delicacy ofexecution. I can quite well see how the grub lengthens and enlargesit; but I cannot imagine how it begins it. If it has nothing to serveas a mould and a base, how does it set to work to assemble the firstlayers of paste into a neatly-shaped cup?

Our potters have their lathe, the tray which keeps the work rotatingand implements to determine its outline. Could the Clythra, anexceptional ceramic artist, work without a base and without a guide?It strikes me as an insurmountable difficulty. I know the insect to becapable of many remarkable industrial feats; but, before admittingthat the jar can be based on nothing, we should have to see thenew-born artist at work. Perhaps it has resources bequeathed to it byits mother; perhaps the egg presents peculiarities which will solvethe riddle. Let us rear the insect, collect its eggs; then the potterywill tell us the secret of its beginnings. 

I install three species of Clythræ under wire-gauze covers, each witha bed of sand and a bottle of water containing a few youngilex-shoots, which I renew as and when they fade. All three speciesare common on the holm-oak: they are the Long-legged Clythra (_C. Longipes_, FAB. ), the Four-spotted Clythra (_C. Quadripunctata_, LIN. ), and the Taxicorn Clythra (_C. Taxicornis_, FAB. ). 

I set up a second menagerie with some Cryptocephali, who are closelyrelated to the Clythræ. The inmates are the Ilex Cryptocephalus (_C. Ilicis_, OLIV. ), the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus (_C. Bipunctatus_, LIN. ) and the Golden Cryptocephalus (_C. Hypochoeridis_, LIN. ), whowears a resplendent costume. For the first two I provide sprigs ofilex; for the third, the heads of a centaury (_Centaurea aspera_), which is the favourite plant of this living gem. 

There is nothing striking in the habits of my captives, who spend themorning very quietly, the first five browsing on their oak-leaves andthe sixth on her centaury-blooms. When the sun grows hot, they flyfrom the bunch of leaves in the centre to the wire trellis and backfrom the trellis to the leaves, or wander about the top of the cage ina state of great excitement. 

Every moment couples are formed. They pester each other, pair withoutpreliminaries, part without regrets and begin elsewhere all overagain. Life is sweet; and there are enough for all to choose from. Several are persistent. Mounted on the back of the patient female, wholowers her head and seems untouched by the passionate storm, theyshake her violently. Thus do the amorous insects declare their flameand win the consent of the hesitating fair. 

The attitude of the couple now tells us the use of a certain organicdetail peculiar to the Clythra. In several species, though not in all, the males' fore-legs are of inordinate length. What is the object ofthese extravagant arms, these curious grappling-irons out of allproportion to the insect's size? The Grasshoppers and Locusts prolongtheir hind-legs into levers to assist them in leaping. There isnothing of the sort here: it is the fore-legs which are exaggerated;and their excessive length has nothing to do with locomotion. Theinsect, whether resting or walking, seems even to be embarrassed bythese outrageous stilts, which it bends awkwardly and tucks away asbest it can, not knowing exactly what to do with them. 

But wait for the pairing; and the extravagant becomes reasonable. Thecouple take up their pose in the form of a T. The male, standingperpendicularly, or nearly, represents the cross-piece and the femalethe shaft of the letter, lying on its side. To steady his attitude, which is so contrary to the usual position in pairing, the male flingsout his long grappling-hooks, two sheet-anchors which grip thefemale's shoulders, the fore-edge of her corselet, or even her head. 

At this moment, the only moment that counts in the adult insect'slife, it is a good thing indeed to possess long arms, long hands, like_Clythra longimana_ and _C. Longipes_, as the scientific nomenclaturecalls them. Although their names are silent on the subject, theTaxicorn Clythra and the Six-spotted Clythra (_C. Sexmaculata_, FAB. )and many others also have recourse to the same means of equilibrium:their fore-legs are utterly exaggerated. 

Is the difficulty of pairing in a transversal position the explanationof the long grappling-irons thrown out to a distance? We will not betoo certain, for here is the Four-spotted Clythra, who would flatlycontradict us. The male has fore-legs of modest dimensions, inconformity with the usual rules; he places himself crosswise like theothers and nevertheless achieves his ends without hindrance. He findsit enough to modify slightly the gymnastics of his embrace. The samemay be said of the different Cryptocephali, who all have stumpy limbs. Wherever we look, we find special resources, known to some and unknownto others. 

CHAPTER XIXTHE CLYTHRÆ: THE EGG

Let us leave the long-armed and short-armed to pursue their amorouscontests as they please and come to the egg, the main object of myinsect-rearing. The Taxicorn Clythra is the first in the field; I seeher at working during the last days of May. A most singular anddisconcerting batch of eggs is hers! Is it really a group of eggs? Ihesitate until I surprise the mother using her hind-legs to finishextracting the strange germ which issues slowly and perhapslaboriously from her oviduct. 

It is indeed the Taxicorn Clythra's batch. Assembled in bundles of oneto three dozen and each fastened by a slender transparent threadslightly longer than itself, the eggs form a sort of inverted umbel, which dangles sometimes from the trelliswork of the cover, sometimesfrom the leaves of the twigs that provide the grub with food. Thebunch of grains quivers at the least breath. 

We know the egg-cluster of the Hemerobius, the object of so manymistakes to the untrained observer. The little Lace-winged Fly withthe gold eggs sets up on a leaf a group of long, tiny columns as fineas a spider's thread, each bearing an egg as a capital. The wholeresembles pretty closely a tuft of some long-stemmed mildew. Rememberalso the Eumenes' hanging egg, [1] which swings at the end of a thread, thus protecting the grub when it takes its first mouthfuls of the heapof dangerous game. The Taxicorn Clythra provides us with a thirdexample of eggs fitted with suspension-threads, but so far nothing hasgiven me an inkling of the function or the use of this string. Thoughthe mother's intentions escape me, I can at least describe her work insome detail. 

[Footnote 1: Cf. _The Mason-wasps_: chap. I. --_Translator's Note_. ]

The eggs are smooth, coffee-coloured and shaped like a thimble. If youhold them to the light, you see in the thickness of their skin fivecircular zones, darker than the rest and producing almost the sameeffect as the hoops of a barrel. The end attached to thesuspension-thread is slightly conical; the other is lopped offabruptly and the section is hollowed into a circular mouth. A goodlens shows us inside this, a little below the rim, a fine whitemembrane, as smooth as the skin of a drum. 

In addition, from the edge of the orifice there rises a widemembranous tab, whitish and delicate, which might be taken for araised lid. Nevertheless there is no raising of a lid after the eggsare laid. I have seen the egg leave the oviduct; it is then what itwill be later, but lighter in colour. No matter: I cannot believe thatso complicated a machine can make its way, with all sail set, throughthe maternal straits. I imagine that the lid-like appendage remainslowered, closing the mouth, until the moment when the egg sees thelight. Then and not till then does it rise. 

Guided by the rather less complex structure of the eggs of the otherClythræ and of the Cryptocephali, I think of trying to take thestrange germ to pieces; and I succeed after a fashion. Under thecoffee-coloured sheath, which forms a little five-hooped barrel, is awhite membrane. This is what we see through the mouth and what Icompared with the skin of a drum. I recognize it as the regulationtunic, the usual envelope of any insect's egg. The rest, the littlebrown barrel, broached at one end and bearing a raised lid, musttherefore be an accessory integument, a sort of exceptional shell, ofwhich I do not as yet know any other example. 

The Long-legged Clythra and the Four-spotted Clythra know nothing ofpacking their eggs in long-stemmed bundles. In June, from the heightof the branches in which they are grazing, both of them carelesslyallow their eggs to drop to the ground, one by one, here and there, atrandom and at long intervals, without giving the least thought totheir installation. They might be little grains of excrement, unworthyof interest and ejected at hazard. The egg-factory and thedung-factory scatter their products with the same indifference. 

Nevertheless, let us bring the lens to bear upon the minute particleso contumeliously treated. It is a miracle of elegance. In bothspecies of Clythræ the eggs have the form of truncated ellipsoids, measuring about a millimetre in length. [2] The Long-legged Clythra'sare a very dark brown and remind one of a thimble, a comparison whichis the more exact inasmuch as they are dented with quadrangular pits, arranged in spiral series which cross one another with exquisiteprecision. 

[Footnote 2: . 039 inch. --_Translator's Note_. ]

Those of the Four-spotted Clythra are pale in colour. They are coveredwith convex scales, overlapping in diagonal rows, ending in a point atthe lower extremity, which is free and more or less askew. Thiscollection of scales has rather the appearance of a hop-cone. Surely avery curious egg, ill-adapted to gliding gently through the narrowpassages of the ovaries. I feel sure that it does not bristle in thisfashion when it descends the delicate natal sheath; it is near the endof the oviduct that it receives its coat of scales. 

In the case of the three Cryptocephali reared in my cages, the eggsare laid later; their season is the end of June and July. As in theClythræ, there is the same lack of maternal care, the same hap-hazarddropping of the seeds from the centaury-blossoms and the ilex-twigs. The general form of the egg is still that of a truncated ellipsoid. The ornaments vary. In the eggs of the Golden Cryptocephalus and theIlex Cryptocephalus they consist of eight flattened, wavy ribs, winding corkscrew-wise; in those of the Two-spotted Cryptocephalusthey take the form of spiral rows of pits. 

What can this envelope be, so remarkable for its elegance, with itsspiral mouldings, its thimble-pits and its hop-scales? A few littleaccidental facts put me on the right track. To begin with, I acquirethe certainty that the egg does not descend from the ovaries as I findit on the ground. Its ornamentation, incompatible with a gentlegliding movement, had already told me as much; I now have a clearproof. 

Mingled with the normal eggs of both the Golden Cryptocephalus and theLong-legged Clythra, I find others which differ in no respect from theusual run of insects' eggs. The eggs are perfectly smooth, with asoft, pale-yellow shell. As the cage contains no other insects thanthe Clythra under consideration or the Cryptocephalus, I cannot bemistaken as to the origin of my finds. 

Moreover, if any doubts remained, they would be dispelled by thefollowing evidence: in addition to the bare, yellow eggs there aresome whose base is set in a tiny brown, pitted cup, obviously the workof either the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus or the Long-legged Clythra, according to the cage, but unfinished work, which half-clothed theegg, as it left the ovaries, and then, when the dress-material ranshort, or something went wrong with the machinery, allowed it to crossthe outer threshold in the likeness of an acorn fixed in its cup. 

Nothing could be prettier than this yellow egg, standing in itsartistic egg-cup. Nor could anything tell us more conclusively wherethe jewel is manufactured. It is in the cloaca, the chamber common tothe oviduct and the intestine, that the bird wraps its egg in acalcareous shell, often decorating it with magnificent hues:olive-green for the Nightingale, sky-blue for the Wheatear, soft pinkfor the Icterine Warbler. It is in the cloaca also that the Clythraand the Cryptocephalus produce the elegant armour of their eggs. 

It remains to decide upon the material employed. From its hornyappearance there is reason to believe that the little barrel of theTaxicorn Clythra and the scales of the Four-spotted Clythra are theproducts of a special secretion; and, now that it is too late, I muchregret that I neglected to look for the apparatus yielding thissecretion in the neighbourhood of the cloaca. As for the thing soprettily wrought by the Long-legged Clythra and the Cryptocephali, letus admit without false shame that it is made of fæcal matter. 

The proof is furnished by certain specimens, by no means rare in theGolden Cryptocephalus, in which the customary brown is replaced by anunmistakable green, the sign of a vegetable pulp. In course of time, these green eggs turn brown and become like the others, no doubt byreason of an oxidization which alters the natural qualities of thedigestive product still further. The egg, entering the cloaca in asoft and utterly naked state, receives an artistic coat of theintestinal dross, even as the Hen's egg is covered by a shell formedof the chalky secretions. 

_Materiem superabat opus, nam Mulciber illicÆquora celerat_, said Ovid, in his description of the Palace of the Sun. The poet hadprecious metals and gems wherewith to build his imaginary marvel. Whathas the Clythra wherewith to achieve its ideal jewel? It has theshameful material whose name is banished from decent speech. And whichis the Mulciber, the Vulcan, the artist-engraver that engraves thecovering of the egg so prettily? It is the terminal sewer. The cloacarolls the material, flutes it, twists it into spirals, decks it withchains of little pits and makes it up into a scaly suit of armour, showing how nature laughs at our paltry standards of value and howwell able she is to convert the sordid into the beautiful. 

In the bird, the egg-shell is a temporary defensive cell which athatching-time is broken and abandoned and is henceforth useless. Madeof horny matter or stercoral paste, the shell of the Clythra and theCryptocephalus is, on the contrary, a permanent refuge, which theinsect will never leave so long as it remains a larva. Here the grubis born with a ready-made garment, of rare elegance and an exact fit, a garment which it only has to enlarge, little by little, in theoriginal manner described above. The shell, shaped like a littlebarrel or thimble, is open in front. There is nothing therefore tobreak, nothing to cast aside at the moment of hatching, except perhapsthe actual envelope of the egg. Directly this membrane is burst, thetiny creature is free, with a handsome carved jacket, a legacy fromits mother. 

Let us indulge in a crazy dream and imagine young birds which keep theegg-shell intact, save for an opening through which they pass theirhead, and which, all their lives long, remain clad in this shell, oncondition that they themselves enlarge it as they grow. This absurddream is realized by our grub: it is dressed in the shell of its egg, expanded by degrees as the grub itself grows bigger. 

In July all my collection of eggs are hatched, each isolated in alarge cup covered with a slip of glass which will moderate theevaporation. What an interesting family! My vermin are swarming amidthe miscellaneous vegetable refuse with which I have furnished thepremises. They all move along with tiny steps, dragging their shells, which they carry lifted on a slant; they come halfway out and suddenlypop in again; they tumble over if they merely attempt to scale a sprigof moss, pick themselves up again, forge ahead and cast about atrandom. 

Hunger, we can no longer doubt, is the cause of this agitation. Whatshall I give my famished nurselings? They are vegetarians: there canbe no doubt whatever about that; but this is not enough to settle thebill of fare. What would happen under the natural conditions? Rearingthe insects in cages, I find the eggs scattered at random on theground. The mother drops them carelessly, here and there, from the topof the bough where she is refreshing herself by soberly notching sometender leaf. The Taxicorn Clythra fits a long stalk to her eggs andfixes them in clusters on the foliage. While I cannot yet make up mymind, in the absence of direct observation, whether the new-born larvacuts the suspension-thread itself, or whether the thread is brokenmerely as a result of drying up, sooner or later these eggs are lyingon the ground, like the others. 

The same thing must happen outside my cages: the eggs of the Clythræand the Cryptocephali are scattered over the ground beneath the treeor plant on which the adult feeds. 

Now what do we find under the shelter of the oak? Turf, dead leaves, more or less pickled by decay, dry twigs cased in lichens, brokenstones with cushions of moss and, lastly, mould, the final residue ofvegetable matters wrought upon by time. Under the tufts of thecentaury on which the Golden Cryptocephalus browses lies a black bedof the miscellaneous refuse of the plant. 

I try a little of everything, but nothing answers my expectations verypositively. I observe, nevertheless, that a few disdainful mouthfulsare taken, a little bit here, a little bit there, enough to tell methe nature of the first layers which the grub adds to its natalsheath. With the exception of the Taxicorn Clythra, whose egg, withits suspension-stalk, seems to denote rather special habits, I see myseveral charges begin to prolong their shell with a brown paste, similar in appearance to that with whose manufacture and employment weare already familiar. 

Discouraged by a food which does not suit them and perhaps also triedby a season of exceptional drouth, my young potters soon relinquishtheir task; they die after adding a shallow rim to their pots. 

Only the Long-legged Clythra thrives and repays me amply for mytroublesome nursing. I provide it with chips of old bark taken fromthe first tree to hand, the oak, the olive, the fig-tree and manyothers. I soften them by steeping them for a short time in water. Thecork-like crusts, however, are not what my boarders eat. The actualfood, the butter on the bread, is on the surface. There is a littlehere of all that the first beginnings of vegetable life add to oldtree-trunks, all that breaks up decrepit age to turn it into perpetualyouth. 

There are tufts of moss, hardly a twelfth of an inch in height, whichwere sleeping droughtily under the merciless sun of the dog-days, butwhich a bath in a glass of water awakens at once. They now displaytheir ring of green leaflets, brightened up and restored to life for afew hours. There are leprous efflorescences, with their white oryellow dust; tiny lichens radiating in ash-grey straps and coveredwith glaucous, white-edged shields, great round eyes that seem to gazefrom the depths of the limbo in which dead matter comes to life again. There are collemas, which, after a shower, become dark and bloated andshake like jellies; sphærias, whose pustules stand out like ebonyteats, full of myriads of tiny sacs, each containing eight prettyseeds. A glance through the microscope at the contents of one of theseteats, a speck only just visible to the eye, reveals an astoundingworld: an infinity of procreative wealth in an atom. Ah, what abeautiful thing life is, even on a chip of rotten bark no bigger thana finger-nail! What a garden! What a treasure-house!

This is the best pasture put to the test. My Clythræ graze upon it, gathering in dense herds at the most luxuriant spots. One would takethis heap for pinches of some brown, modelled seed or other, thesnapdragon's, for instance; but these particular seeds push and sway;if one of them moves the least bit, the shells all clash together. Others wander about, in search of a good place, staggering andtumbling under the weight of the overcoat; they wander at randomthrough that great and spacious world, the bottom of my cup. 

Not a fortnight has elapsed before a strip, built up on the rim, hasdoubled the length of the Long-legged Clythra's shell, in order tomaintain the capacity of the earthenware jar in proportion to the sizeof the grub, which has been growing from day to day. The recentportion, the work of the larva, is very plainly distinguishable fromthe original shell, the product of the mother; it is smooth over itswhole extent, whereas the rest is ornamented with tiny holes arrangedin spiral rows. 

Planed away inside as it becomes too tight, the jar grows wider and atthe same time longer. The dust taken from it, once more kneaded intomortar, is reapplied outside, more or less everywhere, and forms arubble under which the original beauties end by disappearing. Theneatly-pitted masterpiece is swamped by a layer of brown plasterwork;not always entirely, however, even when the structure reaches itsfinal dimensions. If we pass an attentive lens between the two humpsat the lower end, we very often see, encrusted in the earthy mass, theremains of the shell of the egg. This is the potter's mark. Thearrangement of the spiral ridges, the number and the shape of the pitsenable us almost to read the name of the maker, Clythra orCryptocephalus. 

From the very first I could not imagine the worker in ceramic pastedesigning its own pottery by drafting the first outlines. My doubtswere justified. The grubs of the Clythra and the Cryptocephaluspossess a maternal legacy in the shape of a shell, a garment whichthey have only to enlarge. They are born the owners of a layette whichbecomes the groundwork of their trousseau. They increase it, without, however, imitating its artistic elegance. A more vigorous age discardsthe laces in which the mother delights to clothe the new-born child. 

INDEX

A

Acarus, 33, 44

Adder, 294, 296

_Ægosomus scabricornis_, 317

_Ammophila hirsuta_ (Hairy Ammophila), 96, 304

Andrena, 55, 85

Anoxia, 266

Ant, 294

_Anthaxia nitidula_, 216

Anthidium (_see also_ the varieties below), 180, 236, 280

_Anthidium bellicosum_, 180

_Anthidium scapulare_, 179

Anthophora (_see also_ the varieties below), 28, 30-34, 37, 39-41, 43-45, 53-61, 63-71, 73-75, 77-82, 84, 88, 90, 93, 97, 100, 103-105, 107-110, 114, 126, 128, 131, 139, 151, 163, 176, 179

_Anthophora parietina_, 28, 86, 90

_Anthophora personata_ (_see_ Masked Anthophora), 86

_Anthophora pilipes_ (_see_ Hairy-footed Anthophora), 29, 64, 84, 86, 106

_Anthophora retusa_, 86

Anthrax (_see A. Sinuata_), 30, 37, 158, 199

_Anthrax sinuata_, 30, 35

Anthrenus (_see also A. Musæorum_), 33, 44

_Anthrenus musæorum_, 33

Ant-lion, 13, 366, 368

Asparagus-beetle, Asparagus-grub (_see also_ Field Crioceris, Twelve-spotted Crioceris), 436, 439

Audubon, John James, 348, 350

Azure Hoplia, 274

B

Bacon-beetle (_see_ Dermestes), 294

Banded Epeira, 284

Bear (_see also_ Cave-bear), 359-360, 400, 447

Beauregard, Dr. , 161-162

Bee (_see also_ Bumble-bee, Hive-bee, Mason-bee and the varieties), 28-30, 34, 45, 53-54, 56-57, 59, 60-65, 67, 70-71, 77, 79, 82, 85, 86, 88-90, 92, 97, 99, 101, 105, 106-108, 110, 128, 141-142, 144, 154, 163, 176, 178, 278, 298

Bee-louse, 85

Beetle, _passim_, 7, 28, 31

Beetle's Gamasus, 314

_Belle_ (_see_ Spurge Hawk-moth), 283

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Jacques Henri, 235

Bison Onitis, 245, 262

Blackbeetle, 388

Blackbeetle of the Sun (_see_ Sacred Beetle)

Black-bellied Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Black-bellied Tarantula, 267

Black Buprestis (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 386

Blatta (_see_ Blackbeetle), 388

Blister-beetle (_see also_ Cantharides, Cerocoma, Mylabris, Zonitis), 154, 161, 164

Bluebottle, 95-96, 100

Bolbites (_see also B. Onitoides_), 243, 268

_Bolbites onitoides_, 242

Bolboceras, 388

Bombardier Beetle, 358

Brachinus (_see_ Bombardier Beetle), 358

Brillat-Savarin (Anthelme), 2

Brilliant Buprestis, 387

Broken Bulimus, 456

Bronze Buprestis, 212

Bulimus (_see also_ Broken Bulimus), 451

Bumble-bee, 71

Buprestis (_see also_ the varieties below), 186, 188, 212, 214-217, 219, 221, 224, 234, 274, 292-293, 381-382, 384, 386

_Buprestis ænea_ (_see_ Bronze Buprestis), 212

_Buprestis octoguttata_ (_see_ Eight-spotted Buprestis), 215

_Buprestis tenebrionis_ (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 385, 387

Burnt Zonitis, 179-181

Burying-beetle, 296, 306, 314, 337

_Buthus occitanus_ (_see_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402

Butterfly, 100, 102, 177, 274

C

Calicurgus (_see_ Ringed Calicurgus), 267

_Calliphora vomitoria_ (_see_ Bluebottle), 95

_Calosoma sycophanta_, 356-357

Camel, 269

Cantharides, 164, 166, 169-170, 290

_Canthon bispinus_, 261

_Capnodis tenebrionis_ (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 381

Capricorn (_see also_ the varieties below), 186-189, 193, 195-199, 203-204, 209, 220, 237, 380, 439

Capricorn of the Cherry-tree (_see Cerambyx cerdo_), 207-208, 210-211

Capricorn of the Oak (_see_ Capricorn), 209-211

Carabus (_see also_ Golden Carabus, Purple Carabus), 274, 353, 355-357, 363-364, 376

Carrion-beetle (_see_ Silpha), 294

Cat, 307

Cave-bear, 450

Cellar-beetle, 294, 297, 387-388

Cerambyx (_see_ the varieties below), 188, 191, 194, 197, 199, 201, 204, 205, 210, 212, 216

_Cerambyx cerdo_, 207-208

_Cerambyx miles_ (_see_ Capricorn), 187

Cerceris, 304

Cerocoma (_see also_ Schaeffer's Cerocoma, Schreber's Cerocoma), 160-161, 163, 169-170, 182-183

Cetonia (_see also_ Golden Cetonia, _C. Floricola_), 101, 189, 266, 274, 291, 388

_Cetonia aurata_ (_see_ Golden Cetonia), 101

_Cetonia floricola_, 291

Chalcid (_see also_ Gall-fly), 428-429

Chalicodoma (_see_ Mason-bee), 136, 179

Chicken, 430

Chinese Carp, 306

_Chrysobothrys chrysostigma_, 217

Chrysomela (_see_ Golden Apple-beetle), 274, 388

Cicada, 292, 366-368

Clairville, 298, 319, 325

Cleonus, 388

Clerus (_see also_ the varieties below), 33

_Clerus alvearius_, 33

_Clerus apiarius_, 33

Cloudy Buprestis, 382, 397, 399

Clythra (_see also_ the varieties below), 451-452, 456, 458-462, 465, 468-471, 473, 475, 477

_Clythra longimana_, 462, 467

_Clythra longipes_ (Long-legged Clythra), 459, 462, 466, 468-469, 474, 476

_Clythra quadripunctata_ (_see_ Four-spotted Clythra), 459

_Clythra sexmaculata_ (_see_ Six-spotted Clythra), 462

_Clythra taxicornis_ (_see_ Taxicorn Clythra), 460

Clytus (see the varieties below), 218

_Clytus arietis_, 218

_Clytus arvicola_, 218

_Clytus tropicus_, 218

Coccinella (Ladybird), 388

Cockchafer (_see also_ Common Cockchafer, Pine-chafer), 355

Cockroach (_see_ Blackbeetle), 388

Coelioxys, 94, 95

Common Cockchafer, 368

Common Wasp, 71

Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de, Abbé de Mureaux, 185, 194

Confucius, 408

Copris (_see also_ Lunary Copris, Spanish Copris), 237, 243, 258, 262, 266, 269, 289, 310, 347

Cotton-bee (_see also Anthidium scapulare_), 180, 270

Cow, 243, 269

Crane-fly, 430

Cricket (_see also_ Italian Cricket), 237, 275, 279, 316

_Criocephalus ferus_, 217

Crioceris (_see also_ the varieties below), 411-414, 418, 420-421, 423-424, 428, 432, 435, 441-442, 444-445, 450

_Crioceris campestris_ (_see_ Field Crioceris), 418

_Crioceris duodecimpunctata_ (_see_ Twelve-spotted Crioceris), 418

_Crioceris merdigera_ (_see_ Lily-beetle), 411

_Crioceris paracenthesia_, 444

Cryptocephalus (_see also_ the varieties below), 451, 460, 462, 465, 467, 468-469, 471, 477

_Cryptocephalus bipunctatus_ (Two-spotted Cryptocephalus), 460, 467-468, 473

_Cryptocephalus ilicis_ (_see_ Ilex Cryptocephalus), 460

Cyclostome, 8

D

_Darboun_ (_see_ Mole), 302

Decticus (_see also_ White-faced Decticus), 237, 281-282, 316

Dermestes, 294-295, 297

Diogenes, 451

Dog, 195, 251

Donkey, 320

_Drilus maroccanus_, 8, 9

Drone-fly, 95-96, 100

Duck, 396

Dufour, Jean Marie Léon, 55, 85, 106

Dung-beetle, 239-240, 242, 245, 249-253, 263, 268-274, 288, 317, 325, 347

E

Eight-spotted Buprestis, 215

Epeira (_see_ Banded Epeira), 284

Ephippiger of the Vines, 282

_Eristalis tenax_ (_see_ Drone-fly), 95

Eumenes, 464

F

Fabre, Émile, the author's son, 145-146

Fabre, Mlle. Anna, the author's daughter, 391

Fabre, Paul, the author's son, 303, 309

Field Crioceris, 418, 425, 433, 442

Field-mouse, 296, 304, 452

Flamingo, 293

Fly (_see also_ House-fly), 12, 30, 95, 101-102, 177, 199, 294, 360, 371, 375, 378-380, 420, 423, 425, 435-436

Foamy Cicadella, 439

Four-spotted Clythra, 459, 462, 466-467, 469

Four-spotted Mylabris, 162, 164, 173

Frog, 296, 299, 300, 332, 334, 337

G

Gall-fly, 428

Geer, Baron Karl de, 87

Geotrupes (_see also_ Mimic Geotrupes, Stercoraceous Geotrupes), 237, 245, 291-292, 314, 344, 347, 386

Giant Scarites, 362, 381-382, 384, 396, 398

Gleditsch, Johann Gottlieb, 299, 334, 337

Glow-worm, 1, 3, 4, 7-8, 10, 12-27

Gnat, 195, 269, 420, 430

Godart, Jean Baptiste, 87

Golden Apple-beetle, 388

Golden Beetle, 353, 355

Golden Carabus, 355

Golden Cetonia, 101

Golden Cryptocephalus, 460, 467-468, 470, 473

Golden Rose-chafer (_see_ Golden Cetonia), 101

Goldfish (_see_ Chinese Carp), 306

Goose, 396-397

Grasshopper (_see also_ Green Grasshopper), 154, 280, 282, 461

Great Capricorn (_see_ Capricorn), 379

Great Peacock Moth, 356

Great Water-beetle, 278

Greenfinch, 360, 396

Green Grasshopper, 237, 357

Grey Worm (_see_ Turnip Moth), 96

Griffiths, A. B. , 292

Gromphas (Lacordaire's Gromphas), 244, 247, 256

Ground-beetle (_see_ Carabus), 293, 313, 447

Guinea-fowl, 395-396

Gymnopleurus, 289, 347

H

Hairy-footed Anthophora, 64, 106

Half-spotted Scarab, 369

Halictus, 176

Heliocantharus (_see_ Sacred Beetle), 271

_Helix aspersa_, 12

_Helix explanata_, 362

_Helix variabilis_, 3-4

Hemerobius (_see_ Lace-winged Fly), 463

Hen, 251, 257, 396, 470

Hermit-crab, 446

Hive-bee, 71, 100

Hoplia (_see also_ Azure Hoplia), 274, 388

Hornet, 68

Horse, 269

House-fly, 420

Humming-bird, 274, 293

Hunting Wasp, 7, 96, 252, 275, 278, 280, 304

Hydrophilus (_see_ Great Water-beetle), 278-279

I

Icterine Warbler, 469

Ilex Cryptocephalus, 460, 467

Italian Cricket, 236

J

Job, 187

Judulien, Brother, 238

K

Kingfisher, 293

Kitten, 391

Kung (_see_ Confucius), 409

L

Lace-winged Fly, 464

Lacordaire, Jean Théodore, 244, 298

La Fontaine, Jean de, 409

Lamb, 155

Lamellicorn, 129

Lampyris, _L. Noctiluca_ (_see_ Glow-worm), 1-3, 5-6, 8-9, 11-12, 15

Land-snail (_see_ Bulimus, Helix, Snail), 451

Languedocian Scorpion, 402

Lark, 25

Latreille's Osmia, 179

Leaf-cutter (_see_ Megachile), 180, 236

Lily-beetle, 411, 413, 418, 424, 434, 436, 439, 440, 445-446

Lizard, 292, 294, 296, 332, 345

Llama, 269

Loach, 392-393

Locust, 154, 161, 282, 360, 393, 461

Louse, 59, 85, 106, 128, 144, 320

Lunary Copris, 240, 262

Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

M

Macleay (William Sharp), 271

Maistre, Xavier de, 236, 238

Malachius, 100

Mantis (_see_ Praying Mantis), 145-146, 149, 150-154, 160-161, 163, 316

Masked Anthophora, 86

Mason-bee (_see also_ Anthophora and the varieties below), 72, 75, 86, 93, 104, 136

Mason-bee of the Sheds, 136

Mason-bee of the Walls, 136

Megachile (_see also M. Sericans_), 187, 236, 269

_Megachile sericans_, 180

Megatherium, 269

Megathopa (_see also_ the varieties below), 242, 268

_Megathopa bicolor_, 241

_Megathopa intermedia_, 241

Melecta, 94-95

_Melecta armata_, 36

Meloe (_see_ Oil-beetle and the varieties below), 56, 84-86, 88-89, 91, 93-97, 99-101, 103-108, 128, 134-135, 141-143, 157

_Meloe cicatricosus_, 86, 104, 106, 128, 149

_Meloe proscarabæus_, 87

Meloid (_see also_ Blister-beetle, Cantharides, Cerocoma, Mylabris, Zonitis), 135, 141, 144-146, 149, 154, 157-158, 160-163, 165-166, 174, 179, 183

Melosoma (_Omocrates abbreviatus_), 387

Miall, Bernard, viii

Midge, 420, 422-424, 430

Mimic Geotrupes, 273, 291

Mite, 103

Mole, 252, 294-297, 301, 304-310, 313, 319, 328-332, 335-337, 341, 345-346

Mosquito, 447

Mouse (_see also_ Field-mouse, Shrew-mouse), 298, 306, 314, 319-326, 333-334, 338-343

Mylabris (_see also_ Four-spotted Mylabris, Twelve-spotted Mylabris), 160, 171, 173, 176

N

Narbonne Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Necrophorus (_see_ Burying-beetle, _N. Vestigator_), 251, 296-299, 301, 303-308, 310-311, 313-317, 319, 321, 324-329, 331-332, 335, 337-338, 341-343, 345-347

_Necrophorus vestigator_, 301

Newport, George, 56, 85-87, 89, 91-92, 105-106, 108, 130, 133

Nightingale, 469

Nine-spotted Buprestis, 213, 387

O

Odynerus, 28

Oil-beetle, 56, 84-93, 101, 105-106, 109, 130, 132-135, 144, 146, 148, 151, 154-155, 173-174, 176-177, 182-183, 203

Onitis (_see also_ the varieties below), 242, 245, 264, 289

_Onitis bison_ (_see_ Bison Onitis), 245, 262

_Onitis Olivieri_ (Olivier's Onitis), 250

Onthophagus (_see also_ Oval Onthophagus), 252, 261, 273, 289

_Onthophagus ovatus_ (_see_ Oval Onthophagus), 252

Oryctes, _O. Nasicornis_ (_see_ Rhinoceros Beetle), 266, 355

Osmia (_see also_ the varieties below), 32-34, 36-37, 56, 65, 108, 136, 138, 179, 186, 316

_Osmia Latreillii_ (_see_ Latreille's Osmia), 136

_Osmia tricornis_ (_see_ Three-horned Osmia), 31, 64, 136

_Osmia tridentata_ (_see_ Three-pronged Osmia), 136

Oval Onthophagus, 263

Ovid, 470

Owl (_see also_ Virginian Owl), 251

Ox, 240, 268-269, 355

P

Peacock, 293

Peacock Moth (_see_ Great Peacock Moth), 356

_Pediculus apis_ (_see_ Bee-louse), 85

Pelopæus, 203, 266

Pepsis, 267

Phanæus (_see_ the varieties below), 240, 258, 290, 292

_Phanæus festivus_, 264

_Phanæus Milon_, 249, 252, 254-256, 264-265

_Phanæus splendidulus_ (Splendid Phanæus), 239, 265, 268, 273, 289

Pigeon (_see also_ Wood-pigeon), 396

Pimelia (_P. Bipunctata_), 363-364, 369, 376-377, 387

Pine-chafer, 355, 357, 368

Pompilus (_see_ Ringed Calicurgus), 267, 304

Praying Mantis, 155, 162, 236

_Procrustes coriaceus_, 353-354, 357

_Ptosima novemmaculata_ (_see_ Nine-spotted Buprestis), 213, 387

Purple Carabus, 353

R

Rabbit, 252, 341

Rat (Brown Rat, _see_ Sewer-rat), 312-313

Réaumur, René Antoine Ferchault de, 283, 320, 413, 416

Resin-bee (_see Anthidium bellicosum_), 180

Rhinoceros Beetle, 355-357

Rhynchites, 411

Ringed Calicurgus, 267

Rose-chafer (_see_ Cetonia, Golden Cetonia), 368

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 235

Rove-beetle (_see_ Staphylinus), 295

S

Sacred Beetle, 237, 241-242, 250-251, 258, 260, 262, 266, 269, 271, 288, 290-291, 325, 347, 376-377

Saperda (_see_ the varieties below), 212

_Saperda carcharias_ (_see_ Shagreen Saperda), 211

Saperda of the Poplar, 211

_Saperda scalaris_ (_see_ Scalary Saperda), 211

Saprinus, 295

Sapyga (_see_ Spotted Sapyga), 155

Saw-fly (_see_ Sirex), 223

Scalary Saperda, 211

Scarab (_see_ Half-spotted Scarab, Sacred Beetle), 271

Scarabæus (_see_ Sacred Beetle), 289

Scarites (_see_ Giant Scarites, Smooth-skinned Scarites), 363, 365-368, 370, 372-373, 375, 378-380, 387

Schaeffer's Cerocoma, 160, 162-165

Schreber's Cerocoma, 161

Scolia, 155, 203, 266

Scorpion (_see also_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402-405, 407-408

Sea-snail, 446

Sewer-rat, 304

Shagreen Saperda, 211

Sheep, 243, 269

Shell-bearing Slug (_see_ Testacella), 354

Shrew-mouse, 296, 304

Silky Leaf-cutter (_see Megachile sericans_), 180

Silpha, 294-295, 297, 388

Sirex (_see also_ the varieties below), 223, 226-231, 234

_Sirex augur_, 223

_Sirex gigas_, 231

_Sirex juvencus_, 231

Sisyphus, 261-262, 347

Sitaris (_see also S. Humeralis_), 31, 36-37, 39, 40, 43, 50-61, 63-67, 74-82, 85-88, 97-98, 105-107, 109-110, 114, 116, 118-120, 127-135, 138, 141-144, 146, 148, 151, 154, 157, 171, 173-174, 176-178, 182, 203, 439

_Sitaris humeralis_, 30, 58

Six-spotted Clythra, 462

Slug (_see also_ Testacella), 354

Smooth-skinned Scarites, 377, 396

Snail (_see also_ Bulimus, Helix), 3-6, 10-12, 14-15, 48, 353-355, 362, 447, 455

Snake, 304

Spanish Copris, 239, 241

Sparrow, 314, 341, 343, 360

Sphex (_see also_ White-banded Sphex, Yellow-winged Sphex), 203, 267, 278-279, 304

Spider, 30-31, 39, 44, 101-102, 177, 284-286

Spotted Sapyga, 155

Spurge Hawk-moth, 282, 287-288

Stag-beetle, 364

Staphylinus, 295

Stercoraceous Geotrupes, 273, 291, 385

_Stromatium strepens_, 218

Swallow, 430

T

Tachina, 421-424, 426, 428, 433, 435-436, 448

Tachytes (_see also T. Tarsina_), 145-146, 149, 151-152, 154-155, 160-162, 164

_Tachytes tarsina_, 161

Tarantula (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Taxicorn Clythra, 460, 462-464, 469, 473-474

Teixeira de Mattos, Alexander, 7, 28, 30, 55, 189, 237, 266

Testacella, 354

Thomas the Apostle, Saint, 411

Three-horned Osmia, 64

Three-pronged Osmia, 233

Tick (_see also_ Beetle's Gamasus), 314

Triungulin of the Andrenæ, Triungulinus (_see T. Andrenetarum_), 56

_Triungulinus andrenetarum_, 85

Turkey, 348-350, 393-398

Turnip Moth, 96

Twelve-spotted Crioceris, 418, 425-426, 428-429, 434

Twelve-spotted Mylabris, 162, 164, 173-174, 178

U

Unarmed Zonitis, 181

V

Valéry-Mayer, Professor, 250

_Vespa crabro_ (_see_ Hornet), 68

Virginian Owl, 350

W

Warbler (_see_ Icterine Warbler), 469

Wasp (_see also_ Common Wasp, Hunting Wasp and the other varieties), 7, 28, 69, 71, 145, 278, 298

Water-beetle (_see_ Great Water-beetle), 278

Weevil, 149, 157, 388, 411

Wheatear, 469

White-banded Sphex, 267

White-faced Decticus, 280, 357

White Scorpion (_see_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402, 404

Wolf, 155, 355

Wood-pigeon, 293

Y

Yellow-winged Sphex, 275

Z

Zonitis (_see also_ the varieties below), 138, 141-143, 148, 154, 164-165, 171, 179-180, 182-183

_Zonitis mutica_ (_see_ Unarmed Zonitis), 138, 164, 179, 181

_Zonitis præusta_ (_see_ Burnt Zonitis), 179