THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT

CHAPTERS IN THE PSYCHOLOGY OF INSECTS

BY

J. H. FABRE

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 1. THE HARMAS. 

CHAPTER 2. THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER. 

CHAPTER 3. THE EMPUSA. 

CHAPTER 4. THE CAPRICORN. 

CHAPTER 5. THE BURYING-BEETLES: THE BURIAL. 

CHAPTER 6. THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS. 

CHAPTER 7. THE BLUEBOTTLE. 

CHAPTER 8. THE PINE-PROCESSIONARY. 

CHAPTER 9. THE SPIDERS. 

CHAPTER 10. THE BANDED EPEIRA. 

CHAPTER 11. THE EUMENES. 

CHAPTER 12. THE OSMIAE. 

CHAPTER 13. THE GLOW-WORM. 

CHAPTER 14. THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR. 

INDEX. 

Note:--Chapters 5 and 6 have been translated by Mr. Bernard Miall; theremainder by Mr. Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

THE HARMAS. 1. The author and his two daughters in the lilac-walk. 2. J. H. Fabre's house at Sérignan. 

THE EMPUSA. 

INSECTS AT REST. Bees and wasps asleep, extended in space by the strength of theirmandibles. 

THE LARVA OF THE GREAT CAPRICORN. 1. The grub. 2. The grub digging its galleries in the trunk of the oak. 

THE GREAT CAPRICORN: THE MALE AND THE FEMALE. 

EXPERIMENTS. 

EXPERIMENT 1. The mole is fixed fore and aft, with a lashing of raphia, to a light horizontal cross-bar resting on two forks. The Necrophori, after long tiring themselves in digging under the body, end by severingthe bonds. 

EXPERIMENT 2. A dead mouse is placed on the branches of a tuft ofthyme. By dint of jerking, shaking and tugging at the body, theBurying-beetles succeed in extricating it from the twigs and bringingit down. 

EXPERIMENT 3. With a ligament of raphia, the Mole is fixed by the hindfeet to a twig planted vertically in the soil. The head and shoulderstouch the ground. By digging under these, the Necrophori at the sametime uproot the gibbet, which eventually falls, dragged over by theweight of its burden. 

EXPERIMENT 4. The stake is slanting; the Mole touches the ground, butat a point two inches from the base of the gibbet. The Burying-beetlesbegin by digging to no purpose under the body. They make no attempt tooverturn the stake. In this experiment they obtain the Mole at last byemploying the usual method, that is by gnawing the bond. 

THE BLUEBOTTLE LAYING HER EGGS IN THE SLIT OF A DEAD BIRD'S BEAK. 

THE LYCOSA LIFTING HER WHITE BAG OF EGGS TOWARDS THE SUN, TO ASSIST THEHATCHING. The Lycosa lying head downwards on the edge of her pit, holding in herhind-legs her white bag of eggs and lifting them towards the sun, toassist the hatching. 

THE BANDED EPEIRA INSCRIBING HER FLOURISH, AFTER FINISHING HER WEB. 

THE BANDED EPEIRA LETTING HERSELF DROP BY THE END OF HER THREAD. 

THE BANDED EPEIRA SWATHING HER CAPTURE. The web has given way in many places during the struggle. 

OSMIA-NESTS IN A BRAMBLE TWIG. 

OSMIA-NESTS INSIDE A REED. 

ARTIFICIAL HIVE INVENTED BY THE AUTHOR TO STUDY THE OSMIA'S LAYING. It consists of reed-stumps arranged Pan-pipe fashion. 

OLD NESTS USED BY THE OSMIA IN LAYING HER EGGS. 

1. Nest of the Mason-bee of the Shrubs. 

2. Osmia-grubs in empty shells of the Garden Snail. 

3. Nests of the Mason-bee of the Sheds. 

THE GLOW-WORM: a, male; b, female. 

THE CABBAGE CATERPILLAR: a, the caterpillars; b, the cocoons of theirparasite, Microgaster glomeratus. 

THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT. 

CHAPTER 1. THE HARMAS. 

This is what I wished for, hoc erat in votis: a bit of land, oh, not sovery large, but fenced in, to avoid the drawbacks of a public way; anabandoned, barren, sun-scorched bit of land, favoured by thistles andby Wasps and Bees. Here, without fear of being troubled by thepassers-by, I could consult the Ammophila and the Sphex (two species ofDigger-or Hunting-wasps. --Translator's Note. ) and engage in thatdifficult conversation whose questions and answers have experiment fortheir language; here, without distant expeditions that take up my time, without tiring rambles that strain my nerves, I could contrive my plansof attack, lay my ambushes and watch their effects at every hour of theday. Hoc erat in votis. Yes, this was my wish, my dream, alwayscherished, always vanishing into the mists of the future. 

And it is no easy matter to acquire a laboratory in the open fields, when harassed by a terrible anxiety about one's daily bread. For fortyyears have I fought, with steadfast courage, against the paltry plaguesof life; and the long-wished-for laboratory has come at last. What ithas cost me in perseverance and relentless work I will not try to say. It has come; and, with it--a more serious condition--perhaps a littleleisure. I say perhaps, for my leg is still hampered with a few linksof the convict's chain. 

The wish is realized. It is a little late, O! my pretty insects! Igreatly fear that the peach is offered to me when I am beginning tohave no teeth wherewith to eat it. Yes, it is a little late: the widehorizons of the outset have shrunk into a low and stifling canopy, moreand more straitened day by day. Regretting nothing in the past, savethose whom I have lost; regretting nothing, not even my first youth;hoping nothing either, I have reached the point at which, worn out bythe experience of things, we ask ourselves if life be worth the living. 

Amid the ruins that surround me, one strip of wall remains standing, immovable upon its solid base: my passion for scientific truth. Is thatenough, O! my busy insects, to enable me to add yet a few seemly pagesto your history? Will my strength not cheat my good intentions? Why, indeed, did I forsake you so long?

Friends have reproached me for it. Ah, tell them, tell those friends, who are yours as well as mine, tell them that it was not forgetfulnesson my part, not weariness, nor neglect: I thought of you; I wasconvinced that the Cerceris' (A species of Digger-wasp. --Translator'sNote. ) cave had more fair secrets to reveal to us, that the chase ofthe Sphex held fresh surprises in store. But time failed me; I wasalone, deserted, struggling against misfortune. Before philosophizing, one had to live. Tell them that, and they will pardon me. 

Others have reproached me with my style, which has not the solemnity, nay, better, the dryness of the schools. They fear lest a page that isread without fatigue should not always be the expression of the truth. Were I to take their word for it, we are profound only on condition ofbeing obscure. Come here, one and all of you--you, the sting-bearers, and you, the wing-cased armour-clads--take up my defence and bearwitness in my favour. Tell of the intimate terms on which I live withyou, of the patience with which I observe you, of the care with which Irecord your actions. Your evidence is unanimous: yes, my pages, thoughthey bristle not with hollow formulas nor learned smatterings, are theexact narrative of facts observed, neither more nor less; and whosocares to question you in his turn will obtain the same replies. 

And then, my dear insects, if you cannot convince those good people, because you do not carry the weight of tedium, I, in my turn, will sayto them:

"You rip up the animal and I study it alive; you turn it into an objectof horror and pity, whereas I cause it to be loved; you labour in atorture-chamber and dissecting-room, I make my observations under theblue sky, to the song of the Cicadae (The Cicada Cigale, an insect akinto the Grasshopper and found more particularly in the south ofFrance. --Translator's Note. ); you subject cell and protoplasm tochemical tests, I study instinct in its loftiest manifestations; youpry into death, I pry into life. And why should I not complete mythought: the boars have muddied the clear stream; natural history, youth's glorious study, has, by dint of cellular improvements, become ahateful and repulsive thing. Well, if I write for men of learning, forphilosophers, who, one day, will try to some extent to unravel thetough problem of instinct, I write also, I write above all things, forthe young, I want to make them love the natural history which you makethem hate; and that is why, while keeping strictly to the domain oftruth, I avoid your scientific prose, which too often, alas, seemsborrowed from some Iroquois idiom!"

But this is not my business for the moment: I want to speak of the bitof land long cherished in my plans to form a laboratory of livingentomology, the bit of land which I have at last obtained in thesolitude of a little village. It is a "harmas, " the name given, in thisdistrict (The country round Sérignan, in Provence. --Translator'sNote. ), to an untilled, pebbly expanse abandoned to the vegetation ofthe thyme. It is too poor to repay the work of the plough; but theSheep passes there in spring, when it has chanced to rain and a littlegrass shoots up. 

My harmas, however, because of its modicum of red earth swamped by ahuge mass of stones, has received a rough first attempt at cultivation:I am told that vines once grew here. And, in fact, when we dig theground before planting a few trees, we turn up, here and there, remainsof the precious stock, half carbonized by time. The three-pronged fork, therefore, the only implement of husbandry that can penetrate such asoil as this, has entered here; and I am sorry, for the primitivevegetation has disappeared. No more thyme, no more lavender, no moreclumps of kermes-oak, the dwarf oak that forms forests across which westep by lengthening our stride a little. As these plants, especiallythe first two, might be of use to me by offering the Bees and Wasps aspoil to forage, I am compelled to reinstate them in the ground whencethey were driven by the fork. 

What abounds without my mediation is the invaders of any soil that isfirst dug up and then left for a time to its own resources. We have, inthe first rank, the couch-grass, that execrable weed which three yearsof stubborn warfare have not succeeded in exterminating. Next, inrespect of number, come the centauries, grim-looking one and all, bristling with prickles or starry halberds. They are theyellow-flowered centaury, the mountain centaury, the star-thistle andthe rough centaury: the first predominates. Here and there, amid theirinextricable confusion, stands, like a chandelier with spreading orangeflowers for lights, the fierce Spanish oyster-plant, whose spikes arestrong as nails. Above it towers the Illyrian cotton-thistle, whosestraight and solitary stalk soars to a height of three to six feet andends in large pink tufts. Its armour hardly yields before that of theoyster-plant. Nor must we forget the lesser thistle-tribe, with, firstof all, the prickly or "cruel" thistle, which is so well armed that theplant-collector knows not where to grasp it; next, the spear-thistle, with its ample foliage, ending each of its veins with a spear-head;lastly, the black knap-weed, which gathers itself into a spiky knot. Inamong these, in long lines armed with hooks, the shoots of the bluedewberry creep along the ground. To visit the prickly thicket when theWasp goes foraging, you must wear boots that come to mid-leg or elseresign yourself to a smarting in the calves. As long as the groundretains a few remnants of the vernal rains, this rude vegetation doesnot lack a certain charm, when the pyramids of the oyster-plant and theslender branches of the cotton-thistle rise above the wide carpetformed by the yellow-flowered centaury's saffron heads; but let thedroughts of summer come and we see but a desolate waste, which theflame of a match would set ablaze from one end to the other. Such is, or rather was, when I took possession of it, the Eden of bliss where Imean to live henceforth alone with the insect. Forty years of desperatestruggle have won it for me. 

Eden, I said; and, from the point of view that interests me, theexpression is not out of place. This cursed ground, which no one wouldhave had at a gift to sow with a pinch of turnip-seed, is an earthlyparadise for the Bees and the Wasps. Its mighty growth of thistles andcentauries draws them all to me from everywhere around. Never, in myinsect-hunting memories, have I seen so large a population at a singlespot; all the trades have made it their rallying-point. Here comehunters of every kind of game, builders in clay, weavers of cottongoods, collectors of pieces cut from a leaf or the petals of a flower, architects in paste-board, plasterers mixing mortar, carpenters boringwood, miners digging underground galleries, workers handlinggoldbeater's skin and many more. 

Who is this one? An Anthidium. (A Cotton-bee. --Translator's Note. ) Shescrapes the cobwebby stalk of the yellow-flowered centaury and gathersa ball of wadding which she carries off proudly in the tips of hermandibles. She will turn it, under ground, into cotton-felt satchels tohold the store of honey and the egg. And these others, so eager forplunder? They are Megachiles (Leaf-cutting Bees. --Translator's Note. ), carrying under their bellies their black, white, or blood-redreaping-brushes. They will leave the thistles to visit the neighbouringshrubs and there cut from the leaves oval pieces which will be madeinto a fit receptacle to contain the harvest. And these, clad in blackvelvet? They are Chalicodomae (Mason-bees. --Translator's Note. ), whowork with cement and gravel. We could easily find their masonry on thestones in the harmas. And these, noisily buzzing with a sudden flight?They are the Anthophorae (a species of Wild Bees. --Translator's Note. ), who live in the old walls and the sunny banks of the neighbourhood. 

Now come the Osmiae. One stacks her cells in the spiral staircase of anempty snail-shell; another, attacking the pith of a dry bit of bramble, obtains for her grubs a cylindrical lodging and divides it into floorsby means of partition-walls; a third employs the natural channel of acut reed; a fourth is a rent-free tenant of the vacant galleries ofsome Mason-bee. Here are the Macrocerae and the Eucerae, whose malesare proudly horned; the Dasypodae, who carry an ample brush of bristleson their hind-legs for a reaping implement; the Andrenae, so manyfoldin species; the slender-bellied Halicti. (Osmiae, Macrocerae, Eucerae, Dasypodae, Andrenae, and Halicti are all different species of WildBees. --Translator's Note. ) I omit a host of others. If I tried tocontinue this record of the guests of my thistles, it would musteralmost the whole of the honey-yielding tribe. A learned entomologist ofBordeaux, Professor Pérez, to whom I submit the naming of my prizes, once asked me if I had any special means of hunting, to send him somany rarities and even novelties. I am not at all an experienced andstill less a zealous hunter, for the insect interests me much more whenengaged in its work than when stuck on a pin in a cabinet. The wholesecret of my hunting is reduced to my dense nursery of thistles andcentauries. 

By a most fortunate chance, with this populous family ofhoney-gatherers was allied the whole hunting tribe. The builders' menhad distributed here and there, in the harmas, great mounds of sand andheaps of stones, with a view of running up some surrounding walls. Thework dragged on slowly; and the materials found occupants from thefirst year. The Mason-bees had chosen the interstices between thestones as a dormitory where to pass the night in serried groups. Thepowerful Eyed Lizard, who, when close-pressed, attacks wide-mouthedboth man and dog, had selected a cave wherein to lie in wait for thepassing Scarab (A Dung-beetle known also as the SacredBeetle. --Translator's Note. ); the Black-eared Chat, garbed like aDominican, white-frocked with black wings, sat on the top stone, singing his short rustic lay: his nest, with its sky-blue eggs, must besomewhere in the heap. The little Dominican disappeared with the loadsof stones. I regret him: he would have been a charming neighbour. TheEyed Lizard I do not regret at all. 

The sand sheltered a different colony. Here, the Bembeces (A species ofDigger-wasps. --Translator's Note. ) were sweeping the threshold of theirburrows, flinging a curve of dust behind them; the Languedocian Sphexwas dragging her Ephippigera (A species of GreenGrasshopper--Translator's Note. ) by the antennae; a Stizus (A speciesof Hunting-wasp. --Translator's Note. ) was storing her preserves ofCicadellae. (Froghoppers--Translator's Note. ) To my sorrow, the masonsended by evicting the sporting tribe; but, should I ever wish to recallit, I have but to renew the mounds of sand: they will soon all bethere. 

Hunters that have not disappeared, their homes being different, are theAmmophilae, whom I see fluttering, one in spring, the others in autumn, along the garden-walks and over the lawns, in search of a caterpillar;the Pompili (The Pompilus is a species of Hunting-wasp known also asthe Ringed Calicurgus--Translator's Note. ), who travel alertly, beatingtheir wings and rummaging in every corner in quest of a Spider. Thelargest of them waylays the Narbonne Lycosa (Known also as theBlack-bellied Tarantula--Translator's Note. ), whose burrow is notinfrequent in the harmas. This burrow is a vertical well, with a curbof fescue-grass intertwined with silk. You can see the eyes of themighty Spider gleam at the bottom of the den like little diamonds, anobject of terror to most. What a prey and what dangerous hunting forthe Pompilus! And here, on a hot summer afternoon, is the Amazon-ant, who leaves her barrack-rooms in long battalions and marches far afieldto hunt for slaves. We will follow her in her raids when we find time. Here again, around a heap of grasses turned to mould, are Scoliae(Large Hunting-wasps--Translator's Note. ) an inch and a half long, whofly gracefully and dive into the heap, attracted by a rich prey, thegrubs of Lamellicorns, Oryctes, and Cetoniae. (Different species ofBeetles. The Cetonia is the Rose-chafer--Translator's Note. )

What subjects for study! And there are more to come. The house was asutterly deserted as the ground. When man was gone and peace assured, the animal hastily seized on everything. The Warbler took up his abodein the lilac-shrubs; the Greenfinch settled in the thick shelter of thecypresses; the Sparrow carted rags and straw under every slate; theSerin-finch, whose downy nest is no bigger than half an apricot, cameand chirped in the plane-tree tops; the Scops made a habit of utteringhis monotonous, piping note here, of an evening; the bird of PallasAthene, the Owl, came hurrying along to hoot and hiss. 

In front of the house is a large pond, fed by the aqueduct thatsupplies the village pumps with water. Here, from half a mile and morearound, come the Frogs and Toads in the lovers' season. The Natterjack, sometimes as large as a plate, with a narrow stripe of yellow down hisback, makes his appointments here to take his bath; when the eveningtwilight falls, we see hopping along the edge the Midwife Toad, themale, who carries a cluster of eggs, the size of peppercorns, wrappedround his hind-legs: the genial paterfamilias has brought his preciouspacket from afar, to leave it in the water and afterwards retire undersome flat stone, whence he will emit a sound like a tinkling bell. Lastly, when not croaking amid the foliage, the Tree-frogs indulge inthe most graceful dives. And so, in May, as soon as it is dark, thepond becomes a deafening orchestra: it is impossible to talk at table, impossible to sleep. We had to remedy this by means perhaps a littletoo rigorous. What could we do? He who tries to sleep and cannot needsbecome ruthless. 

Bolder still, the Wasp has taken possession of the dwelling-house. Onmy door-sill, in a soil of rubbish, nestles the White-banded Sphex:when I go indoors, I must be careful not to damage her burrows, not totread upon the miner absorbed in her work. It is quite a quarter of acentury since I last saw the saucy Cricket-hunter. When I made heracquaintance, I used to visit her at a few miles' distance: each time, it meant an expedition under the blazing August sun. To-day I find herat my door; we are intimate neighbours. The embrasure of the closedwindow provides an apartment of a mild temperature for the Pelopaeus. (A species of Mason-wasp--Translator's Note. ) The earth-built nest isfixed against the freestone wall. To enter her home, theSpider-huntress uses a little hole left open by accident in theshutters. On the mouldings of the Venetian blinds, a few strayMason-bees build their group of cells; inside the outer shutters, leftajar, a Eumenes (Another Mason-wasp--Translator's Note. ) constructs herlittle earthen dome, surmounted by a short, bell-mouthed neck. TheCommon Wasp and the Polistes (A Wasp that builds her nest intrees--Translator's Note. ) are my dinner-guests: they visit my table tosee if the grapes served are as ripe as they look. 

Here surely--and the list is far from complete--is a company bothnumerous and select, whose conversation will not fail to charm mysolitude, if I succeed in drawing it out, my dear beasts of formerdays, my old friends, and others, more recent acquaintances, all arehere, hunting, foraging, building in close proximity. Besides, shouldwe wish to vary the scene of observation, the mountain (Mont Ventoux, an outlying summit of the Alps, 6, 270 feet high. --Translator's Note. )is but a few hundred steps away, with its tangle of arbutus, rock-rosesand arborescent heather; with its sandy spaces dear to the Bembeces;with its marly slopes exploited by different Wasps and Bees. And thatis why, foreseeing these riches, I have abandoned the town for thevillage and come to Sérignan to weed my turnips and water my lettuces. 

Laboratories are being founded at great expense, on our Atlantic andMediterranean coasts, where people cut up small sea-animals, of butmeagre interest to us; they spend a fortune on powerful microscopes, delicate dissecting-instruments, engines of capture, boats, fishing-crews, aquariums, to find out how the yolk of an Annelid's (Ared-blooded Worm. --Translator's Note. ) egg is constructed, a questionwhereof I have never yet been able to grasp the full importance; andthey scorn the little land-animal, which lives in constant touch withus, which provides universal psychology with documents of inestimablevalue, which too often threatens the public wealth by destroying ourcrops. When shall we have an entomological laboratory for the study notof the dead insect, steeped in alcohol, but of the living insect; alaboratory having for its object the instinct, the habits, the mannerof living, the work, the struggles, the propagation of that littleworld with which agriculture and philosophy have most seriously toreckon? To know thoroughly the history of the destroyer of our vinesmight perhaps be more important than to know how this or thatnerve-fibre of a Cirriped ends (Cirripeds are sea-animals withhair-like legs, including the Barnacles and Acorn-shells. --Translator'sNote. ); to establish by experiment the line of demarcation betweenintellect and instinct; to prove, by comparing facts in the zoologicalprogression, whether human reason be an irreducible faculty or not: allthis ought surely to take precedence of the number of joints in aCrustacean's antenna. These enormous questions would need an army ofworkers; and we have not one. The fashion is all for the Mollusc andthe Zoophyte. (Zoophytes are plant-like sea-animals, includingStar-fishes, Jelly-fishes, Sea-anemones, and Sponges. --Translator'sNote. ) The depths of the sea are explored with many drag-nets; the soilwhich we tread is consistently disregarded. While waiting for thefashion to change, I open my harmas laboratory of living entomology;and this laboratory shall not cost the ratepayers one farthing. 

CHAPTER 2. THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER. 

We are in the middle of July. The astronomical dog-days are justbeginning; but in reality the torrid season has anticipated thecalendar and for some weeks past the heat has been overpowering. 

This evening in the village they are celebrating the National Festival. (The 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of theBastille. --Translator's Note. ) While the little boys and girls arehopping round a bonfire whose gleams are reflected upon thechurch-steeple, while the drum is pounded to mark the ascent of eachrocket, I am sitting alone in a dark corner, in the comparativecoolness that prevails at nine o'clock, harking to the concert of thefestival of the fields, the festival of the harvest, grander by farthan that which, at this moment, is being celebrated in the villagesquare with gunpowder, lighted torches, Chinese lanterns and, aboveall, strong drink. It has the simplicity of beauty and the repose ofstrength. 

It is late; and the Cicadae are silent. Glutted with light and heat, they have indulged in symphonies all the livelong day. The advent ofthe night means rest for them, but a rest frequently disturbed. In thedense branches of the plane-trees a sudden sound rings out like a cryof anguish, strident and short. It is the desperate wail of the Cicada, surprised in his quietude by the Green Grasshopper, that ardentnocturnal huntress, who springs upon him, grips him in the side, opensand ransacks his abdomen. An orgy of music, followed by butchery. 

I have never seen and never shall see that supreme expression of ournational revelry, the military review at Longchamp; nor do I muchregret it. The newspapers tell me as much about it as I want to know. They give me a sketch of the site. I see, installed here and there amidthe trees, the ominous Red Cross, with the legend, "Military Ambulance;Civil Ambulance. " There will be bones broken, apparently; cases ofsunstroke; regrettable deaths, perhaps. It is all provided for and allin the programme. 

Even here, in my village, usually so peaceable, the festival will notend, I am ready to wager, without the exchange of a few blows, thatcompulsory seasoning of a day of merry-making. No pleasure, it appears, can be fully relished without an added condiment of pain. 

Let us listen and meditate far from the tumult. While the disembowelledCicada utters his protest, the festival up there in the plane-trees iscontinued with a change of orchestra. It is now the time of thenocturnal performers. Hard by the place of slaughter, in the greenbushes, a delicate ear perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers. It is thesort of noise that a spinning-wheel makes, a very unobtrusive sound, avague rustle of dry membranes rubbed together. Above this dull bassthere rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost metallicclicking. There you have the air and the recitative, intersected bypauses. The rest is the accompaniment. 

Despite the assistance of a bass, it is a poor concert, very poorindeed, though there are about ten executants in my immediate vicinity. The tone lacks intensity. My old tympanum is not always capable ofperceiving these subtleties of sound. The little that reaches me isextremely sweet and most appropriate to the calm of twilight. Just alittle more breadth in your bow-stroke, my dear Green Grasshopper, andyour technique would be better than the hoarse Cicada's, whose name andreputation you have been made to usurp in the countries of the north. 

Still, you will never equal your neighbour, the little bell-ringingToad, who goes tinkling all round, at the foot of the plane-trees, while you click up above. He is the smallest of my batrachian folk andthe most venturesome in his expeditions. 

How often, at nightfall, by the last glimmers of daylight, have I notcome upon him as I wandered through my garden, hunting for ideas!Something runs away, rolling over and over in front of me. Is it a deadleaf blown along by the wind? No, it is the pretty little Toaddisturbed in the midst of his pilgrimage. He hurriedly takes shelterunder a stone, a clod of earth, a tuft of grass, recovers from hisexcitement and loses no time in picking up his liquid note. 

On this evening of national rejoicing, there are nearly a dozen of himtinkling against one another around me. Most of them are crouchingamong the rows of flower-pots that form a sort of lobby outside myhouse. Each has his own note, always the same, lower in one case, higher in another, a short, clear note, melodious and of exquisitepurity. 

With their slow, rhythmical cadence, they seem to be intoning litanies. "Cluck, " says one; "click, " responds another, on a finer note; "clock, "adds a third, the tenor of the band. And this is repeated indefinitely, like the bells of the village pealing on a holiday: "cluck, click, clock; cluck, click, clock!"

The batrachian choristers remind me of a certain harmonica which I usedto covet when my six-year-old ear began to awaken to the magic ofsounds. It consisted of a series of strips of glass of unequal length, hung on two stretched tapes. A cork fixed to a wire served as a hammer. Imagine an unskilled hand striking at random on this key-board, with asudden clash of octaves, dissonances and topsy-turvy chords; and youwill have a pretty clear idea of the Toads' litany. 

As a song, this litany has neither head nor tail to it; as a collectionof pure sounds, it is delicious. This is the case with all the music innature's concerts. Our ear discovers superb notes in it and thenbecomes refined and acquires, outside the realities of sound, thatsense of order which is the first condition of beauty. 

Now this sweet ringing of bells between hiding-place and hiding-placeis the matrimonial oratorio, the discreet summons which every Jackissues to his Jill. The sequel to the concert may be guessed withoutfurther enquiry; but what it would be impossible to foresee is thestrange finale of the wedding. Behold the father, in this case a realpaterfamilias, in the noblest sense of the word, coming out of hisretreat one day in an unrecognizable state. He is carrying the future, tight-packed around his hind-legs; he is changing houses laden with acluster of eggs the size of peppercorns. His calves are girt, histhighs are sheathed with the bulky burden; and it covers his back likea beggar's wallet, completely deforming him. 

Whither is he going, dragging himself along, incapable of jumping, thanks to the weight of his load? He is going, the fond parent, wherethe mother refuses to go; he is on his way to the nearest pond, whosewarm waters are indispensable to the tadpoles' hatching and existence. When the eggs are nicely ripened around his legs under the humidshelter of a stone, he braves the damp and the daylight, he thepassionate lover of dry land and darkness; he advances by short stages, his lungs congested with fatigue. The pond is far away, perhaps; nomatter: the plucky pilgrim will find it. 

He's there. Without delay, he dives, despite his profound antipathy tobathing; and the cluster of eggs is instantly removed by the legsrubbing against each other. The eggs are now in their element; and therest will be accomplished of itself. Having fulfilled his obligation togo right under, the father hastens to return to his well-shelteredhome. He is scarcely out of sight before the little black tadpoles arehatched and playing about. They were but waiting for the contact of thewater in order to burst their shells. 

Among the singers in the July gloaming, one alone, were he able to varyhis notes, could vie with the Toad's harmonious bells. This is thelittle Scops-owl, that comely nocturnal bird of prey, with the roundgold eyes. He sports on his forehead two small feathered horns whichhave won for him in the district the name of Machoto banarudo, theHorned Owl. His song, which is rich enough to fill by itself the stillnight air, is of a nerve-shattering monotony. With imperturbable andmeasured regularity, for hours on end, "kew, kew, " the bird spits outits cantata to the moon. 

One of them has arrived at this moment, driven from the plane-trees inthe square by the din of the rejoicings, to demand my hospitality. Ican hear him in the top of a cypress near by. From up there, dominatingthe lyrical assembly, at regular intervals he cuts into the vagueorchestration of the Grasshoppers and the Toads. 

His soft note is contrasted, intermittently, with a sort of Cat's mew, coming from another spot. This is the call of the Common Owl, themeditative bird of Minerva. After hiding all day in the seclusion of ahollow olive-tree, he started on his wanderings when the shades ofevening began to fall. Swinging along with a sinuous flight, he camefrom somewhere in the neighbourhood to the pines in my enclosure, whence he mingles his harsh mewing, slightly softened by distance, withthe general concert. 

The Green Grasshopper's clicking is too faint to be clearly perceivedamidst these clamourers; all that reaches me is the least ripple, justnoticeable when there is a moment's silence. He possesses as hisapparatus of sound only a modest drum and scraper, whereas they, morehighly privileged, have their bellows, the lungs, which send forth acolumn of vibrating air. There is no comparison possible. Let us returnto the insects. 

One of these, though inferior in size and no less sparingly equipped, greatly surpasses the Grasshopper in nocturnal rhapsodies. I speak ofthe pale and slender Italian Cricket (Oecanthus pellucens, Scop. ), whois so puny that you dare not take him up for fear of crushing him. Hemakes music everywhere among the rosemary-bushes, while the Glow-wormslight up their blue lamps to complete the revels. The delicateinstrumentalist consists chiefly of a pair of large wings, thin andgleaming as strips of mica. Thanks to these dry sails, he fiddles awaywith an intensity capable of drowning the Toads' fugue. His performancesuggests, but with more brilliancy, more tremolo in the execution, thesong of the Common Black Cricket. Indeed the mistake would certainly bemade by any one who did not know that, by the time the very hot weathercomes, the true Cricket, the chorister of spring, has disappeared. Hispleasant violin has been succeeded by another more pleasant still andworthy of special study. We shall return to him at an opportune moment. 

These then, limiting ourselves to select specimens, are the principalparticipants in this musical evening: the Scops-owl, with hislanguorous solos; the Toad, that tinkler of sonatas; the ItalianCricket, who scrapes the first string of a violin; and the GreenGrasshopper, who seems to beat a tiny steel triangle. 

We are celebrating to-day, with greater uproar than conviction, the newera, dating politically from the fall of the Bastille; they, withglorious indifference to human things, are celebrating the festival ofthe sun, singing the happiness of existence, sounding the loud hosannaof the July heats. 

What care they for man and his fickle rejoicings! For whom or for whatwill our squibs be spluttering a few years hence? Far-seeing indeedwould he be who could answer the question. Fashions change and bring usthe unexpected. The time-serving rocket spreads its sheaf of sparks forthe public enemy of yesterday, who has become the idol of to-day. Tomorrow it will go up for somebody else. 

In a century or two, will any one, outside the historians, give athought to the taking of the Bastille? It is very doubtful. We shallhave other joys and also other cares. 

Let us look a little farther ahead. A day will come, so everythingseems to tell us, when, after making progress upon progress, man willsuccumb, destroyed by the excess of what he calls civilization. Tooeager to play the god, he cannot hope for the animal's placidlongevity; he will have disappeared when the little Toad is stillsaying his litany, in company with the Grasshopper, the Scops-owl andthe others. They were singing on this planet before us; they will singafter us, celebrating what can never change, the fiery glory of thesun. 

I will dwell no longer on this festival and will become once more thenaturalist, anxious to obtain information concerning the private lifeof the insect. The Green Grasshopper (Locusta viridissima, Lin. ) doesnot appear to be common in my neighbourhood. Last year, intending tomake a study of this insect and finding my efforts to hunt itfruitless, I was obliged to have recourse to the good offices of aforest-ranger, who sent me a pair of couples from the Lagarde plateau, that bleak district where the beech-tree begins its escalade of theVentoux. 

Now and then freakish fortune takes it into her head to smile upon thepersevering. What was not to be found last year has become almostcommon this summer. Without leaving my narrow enclosure, I obtain asmany Grasshoppers as I could wish. I hear them rustling at night in thegreen thickets. Let us make the most of the windfall, which perhapswill not occur again. 

In the month of June my treasures are installed, in a sufficient numberof couples, under a wire cover standing on a bed of sand in an earthenpan. It is indeed a magnificent insect, pale-green all over, with twowhitish stripes running down its sides. Its imposing size, its slimproportions and its great gauze wings make it the most elegant of ourLocustidae. I am enraptured with my captives. What will they teach me?We shall see. For the moment, we must feed them. 

I offer the prisoners a leaf of lettuce. They bite into it, certainly, but very sparingly and with a scornful tooth. It soon becomes plainthat I am dealing with half-hearted vegetarians. They want somethingelse: they are beasts of prey, apparently. But what manner of prey? Alucky chance taught me. 

At break of day I was pacing up and down outside my door, whensomething fell from the nearest plane-tree with a shrill grating sound. I ran up and saw a Grasshopper gutting the belly of a strugglingCicada. In vain the victim buzzed and waved his limbs: the other didnot let go, dipping her head right into the entrails and rooting themout by small mouthfuls. 

I knew what I wanted to know: the attack had taken place up above, early in the morning, while the Cicada was asleep; and the plunging ofthe poor wretch, dissected alive, had made assailant and assailed fallin a bundle to the ground. Since then I have repeatedly had occasion towitness similar carnage. 

I have even seen the Grasshopper--the height of audacity, this--dart inpursuit of a Cicada in mad flight. Even so does the Sparrow-hawk pursuethe Swallow in the sky. But the bird of prey here is inferior to theinsect. It attacks a weaker than itself. The Grasshopper, on the otherhand, assaults a colossus, much larger than herself and stronger; andnevertheless the result of the unequal fight is not in doubt. TheGrasshopper rarely fails with the sharp pliers of her powerful jaws todisembowel her capture, which, being unprovided with weapons, confinesitself to crying out and kicking. 

The main thing is to retain one's hold of the prize, which is notdifficult in somnolent darkness. Any Cicada encountered by the fierceLocustid on her nocturnal rounds is bound to die a lamentable death. This explains those sudden agonized notes which grate through the woodsat late, unseasonable hours, when the cymbals have long been silent. The murderess in her suit of apple-green has pounced on some sleepingCicada. 

My boarders' menu is settled: I will feed them on Cicadae. They takesuch a liking to this fare that, in two or three weeks, the floor ofthe cage is a knacker's yard strewn with heads and empty thoraces, withtorn-off wings and disjointed legs. The belly alone disappears almostentirely. This is the tit-bit, not very substantial, but extremelytasty, it would seem. Here, in fact, in the insect's crop, the syrup isaccumulated, the sugary sap which the Cicada's gimlet taps from thetender bark. Is it because of this dainty that the prey's abdomen ispreferred to any other morsel? It is quite possible. 

I do, in fact, with a view to varying the diet, decide to serve up somevery sweet fruits, slices of pear, grape-bits, bits of melon. All thismeets with delighted appreciation. The Green Grasshopper resembles theEnglish: she dotes on underdone meat seasoned with jelly. This perhapsis why, on catching the Cicada, she first rips up his paunch, whichsupplies a mixture of flesh and preserves. 

To eat Cicadae and sugar is not possible in every part of the country. In the north, where she abounds, the Green Grasshopper would not findthe dish which attracts her so strongly here. She must have otherresources. To convince myself of this, I give her Anoxiae (A. Pilosa, Fab. ), the summer equivalent of the spring Cockchafer. The Beetle isaccepted without hesitation. Nothing is left of him but the wing-cases, head and legs. The result is the same with the magnificent plump PineCockchafer (Melolontha fullo, Lin. ), a sumptuous morsel which I findnext day eviscerated by my gang of knackers. 

These examples teach us enough. They tell us that the Grasshopper is aninveterate consumer of insects, especially of those which are notprotected by too hard a cuirass; they are evidence of tastes which arehighly carnivorous, but not exclusively so, like those of the PrayingMantis, who refuses everything except game. The butcher of the Cicadaeis able to modify an excessively heating diet with vegetable fare. After meat and blood, sugary fruit-pulp; sometimes even, for lack ofanything better, a little green stuff. 

Nevertheless, cannibalism is prevalent. True, I never witness in myGrasshopper-cages the savagery which is so common in the PrayingMantis, who harpoons her rivals and devours her lovers; but, if someweakling succumb, the survivors hardly ever fail to profit by hiscarcass as they would in the case of any ordinary prey. With noscarcity of provisions as an excuse, they feast upon their defunctcompanion. For the rest, all the sabre-bearing clan display, in varyingdegrees, a propensity for filling their bellies with their maimedcomrades. 

In other respects, the Grasshoppers live together very peacefully in mycages. No serious strife ever takes place among them, nothing beyond alittle rivalry in the matter of food. I hand in a piece of pear. AGrasshopper alights on it at once. Jealously she kicks away any onetrying to bite at the delicious morsel. Selfishness reigns everywhere. When she has eaten her fill, she makes way for another, who in her turnbecomes intolerant. One after the other, all the inmates of themenagerie come and refresh themselves. After cramming their crops, theyscratch the soles of their feet a little with their mandibles, polishup their forehead and eyes with a leg moistened with spittle and then, hanging to the trellis-work or lying on the sand in a posture ofcontemplation, blissfully they digest and slumber most of the day, especially during the hottest part of it. 

It is in the evening, after sunset, that the troop becomes lively. Bynine o'clock the animation is at its height. With sudden rushes theyclamber to the top of the dome, to descend as hurriedly and climb uponce more. They come and go tumultuously, run and hop around thecircular track and, without stopping, nibble at the good things on theway. 

The males are stridulating by themselves, here and there, teasing thepassing fair with their antennae. The future mothers stroll aboutgravely, with their sabre half-raised. The agitation and feverishexcitement means that the great business of pairing is at hand. Thefact will escape no practised eye. 

It is also what I particularly wish to observe. My wish is satisfied, but not fully, for the late hours at which events take place did notallow me to witness the final act of the wedding. It is late at nightor early in the morning that things happen. 

The little that I see is confined to interminable preludes. Standingface to face, with foreheads almost touching, the lovers feel and soundeach other for a long time with their limp antennae. They suggest twofencers crossing and recrossing harmless foils. From time to time, themale stridulates a little, gives a few short strokes of the bow andthen falls silent, feeling perhaps too much overcome to continue. Eleven o'clock strikes; and the declaration is not yet over. Veryregretfully, but conquered by sleepiness, I quit the couple. 

Next morning, early, the female carries, hanging at the bottom of herovipositor, a queer bladder-like arrangement, an opaline capsule, thesize of a large pea and roughly subdivided into a small number ofegg-shaped vesicles. When the insect walks, the thing scrapes along theground and becomes dirty with sticky grains of sand. The Grasshopperthen makes a banquet off this fertilizing capsule, drains it slowly ofits contents, and devours it bit by bit; for a long time she chews andrechews the gummy morsel and ends by swallowing it all down. In lessthan half a day, the milky burden has disappeared, consumed with zestdown to the last atom. 

This inconceivable banquet must be imported, one would think, fromanother planet, so far removed is it from earthly habits. What asingular race are the Locustidae, one of the oldest in the animalkingdom on dry land and, like the Scolopendra and the Cephalopod, acting as a belated representative of the manners of antiquity!

CHAPTER 3. THE EMPUSA. 

The sea, life's first foster-mother, still preserves in her depths manyof those singular and incongruous shapes which were the earliestattempts of the animal kingdom; the land, less fruitful, but with morecapacity for progress, has almost wholly lost the strange forms ofother days. The few that remain belong especially to the series ofprimitive insects, insects exceedingly limited in their industrialpowers and subject to very summary metamorphoses, if to any at all. Inmy district, in the front rank of those entomological anomalies whichremind us of the denizens of the old coal-forests, stand the Mantidae, including the Praying Mantis, so curious in habits and structure. Herealso is the Empusa (E. Pauperata, Latr. ), the subject of this chapter. 

Her larva is certainly the strangest creature among the terrestrialfauna of Provence: a slim, swaying thing of so fantastic an appearancethat uninitiated fingers dare not lay hold of it. The children of myneighbourhood, impressed by its startling shape, call it "theDevilkin. " In their imaginations, the queer little creature savours ofwitchcraft. One comes across it, though always sparsely, in spring, upto May; in autumn; and sometimes in winter, if the sun be strong. Thetough grasses of the waste-lands, the stunted bushes which catch thesun and are sheltered from the wind by a few heaps of stones are thechilly Empusa's favourite abode. 

Let us give a rapid sketch of her. The abdomen, which always curls upso as to join the back, spreads paddle wise and twists into a crook. Pointed scales, a sort of foliaceous expansions arranged in three rows, cover the lower surface, which becomes the upper surface because of thecrook aforesaid. The scaly crook is propped on four long, thin stilts, on four legs armed with knee-pieces, that is to say, carrying at theend of the thigh, where it joins the shin, a curved, projecting bladenot unlike that of a cleaver. 

Above this base, this four-legged stool, rises, at a sudden angle, thestiff corselet, disproportionately long and almost perpendicular. Theend of this bust, round and slender as a straw, carries thehunting-trap, the grappling limbs, copied from those of the Mantis. They consist of a terminal harpoon, sharper than a needle, and a cruelvice, with the jaws toothed like a saw. The jaw formed by the armproper is hollowed into a groove and carries on either side five longspikes, with smaller indentations in between. The jaw formed by theforearm is similarly furrowed, but its double saw, which fits into thegroove of the upper arm when at rest, is formed of finer, closer andmore regular teeth. The magnifying-glass reveals a score of equalpoints in each row. The machine only lacks size to be a fearfulimplement of torture. 

The head is in keeping with this arsenal. What a queer-shaped head itis! A pointed face, with walrus moustaches furnished by the palpi;large goggle eyes; between them, a dirk, a halberd blade; and, on theforehead a mad, unheard of thing: a sort of tall mitre, an extravaganthead-dress that juts forward, spreading right and left into peakedwings and cleft along the top. What does the Devilkin want with thatmonstrous pointed cap, than which no wise man of the East, noastrologer of old ever wore a more splendiferous? This we shall learnwhen we see her out hunting. 

The dress is commonplace; grey tints predominate. Towards the end ofthe larval period, after a few moultings, it begins to give a glimpseof the adult's richer livery and becomes striped, still very faintly, with pale-green, white and pink. Already the two sexes aredistinguished by their antennae. Those of the future mothers arethread-like; those of the future males are distended into a spindle atthe lower half, forming a case or sheath whence graceful plumes willspring at a later date. 

Behold the creature, worthy of a Callot's fantastic pencil. (JacquesCallot (1592-1635), the French engraver and painter, famed for thegrotesque nature of his subjects. --Translator's Note. ) If you comeacross it in the bramble-bushes, it sways upon its four stilts, it wagsits head, it looks at you with a knowing air, it twists its mitre roundand peers over its shoulder. You seem to read mischief in its pointedface. You try to take hold of it. The imposing attitude ceasesforthwith, the raised corselet is lowered and the creature makes offwith mighty strides, helping itself along with its fighting-limbs, which clutch the twigs. The flight need not last long, if you have apractised eye. The Empusa is captured, put into a screw of paper, whichwill save her frail limbs from sprains, and lastly penned in awire-gauze cage. In this way, in October, I obtain a flock sufficientfor my purpose. 

How to feed them? My Devilkins are very little; they are a month or twoold at most. I give them Locusts suited to their size, the smallestthat I can find. They refuse them. Nay more, they are frightened ofthem. Should a thoughtless Locust meekly approach one of the Empusae, suspended by her four hind-legs to the trellised dome, the intrudermeets with a bad reception. The pointed mitre is lowered; and an angrythrust sends him rolling. We have it: the wizard's cap is a defensiveweapon, a protective crest. The Ram charges with his forehead, theEmpusa butts with her mitre. 

But this does not mean dinner. I serve up the House-fly, alive. She isaccepted, without hesitation. The moment that the Fly comes withinreach, the watchful Devilkin turns her head, bends the stalk of hercorselet slantwise and, flinging out her fore-limb, harpoons the Flyand grips her between her two saws. No Cat pouncing upon a Mouse couldbe quicker. 

The game, however small, is enough for a meal. It is enough for thewhole day, often for several days. This is my first surprise: theextreme abstemiousness of these fiercely-armed insects. I was preparedfor ogres: I find ascetics satisfied with a meagre collation at rareintervals. A Fly fills their belly for twenty-four hours at least. 

Thus passes the late autumn: the Empusae, more and more temperate fromday to day, hang motionless from the wire gauze. Their naturalabstinence is my best ally, for Flies grow scarce; and a time comeswhen I should be hard put to it to keep the menageries supplied withprovisions. 

During the three winter months, nothing stirs. From time to time, onfine days, I expose the cage to the sun's rays, in the window. Underthe influence of this heat-bath, the captives stretch their legs alittle, sway from side to side, make up their minds to move about, butwithout displaying any awakening appetite. The rare Midges that fall tomy assiduous efforts do not appear to tempt them. It is a rule for themto spend the cold season in a state of complete abstinence. 

My cages tell me what must happen outside, during the winter. Ensconcedin the crannies of the rockwork, in the sunniest places, the youngEmpusae wait, in a state of torpor, for the return of the hot weather. Notwithstanding the shelter of a heap of stones, there must be painfulmoments when the frost is prolonged and the snow penetrates little bylittle into the best-protected crevices. No matter: hardier than theylook, the refugees escape the dangers of the winter season. Sometimes, when the sun is strong, they venture out of their hiding-place and cometo see if spring be nigh. 

Spring comes. We are in March. My prisoners bestir themselves, changetheir skin. They need victuals. My catering difficulties recommence. The House-fly, so easy to catch, is lacking in these days. I fall backupon earlier Diptera: Eristales, or Drone-flies. The Empusa refusesthem. They are too big for her and can offer too strenuous aresistance. She wards off their approach with blows of her mitre. 

A few tender morsels, in the shape of very young Grasshoppers, arereadily accepted. Unfortunately, such windfalls do not often find theirway into my sweeping-net. Abstinence becomes obligatory until thearrival of the first Butterflies. Henceforth, Pieris brassicae, theWhite Cabbage Butterfly, will contribute the greater portion of thevictuals. 

Let loose in the wire cage, the Pieris is regarded as excellent game. The Empusa lies in wait for her, seizes her, but releases her at once, lacking the strength to overpower her. The Butterfly's great wings, beating the air, give her shock after shock and compel her to let go. Icome to the weakling's assistance and cut the wings of her prey with myscissors. The maimed ones, still full of life, clamber up thetrellis-work and are forthwith grabbed by the Empusae, who, in no wayfrightened by their protests, crunch them up. The dish is to theirtaste and, moreover, plentiful, so much so that there are always somedespised remnants. 

The head only and the upper portion of the breast are devoured: therest--the plump abdomen, the best part of the thorax, the legs andlastly, of course, the wing-stumps--is flung aside untouched. Does thismean that the tenderest and most succulent morsels are chosen? No, forthe belly is certainly more juicy; and the Empusa refuses it, thoughshe eats up her House-fly to the last particle. It is a strategy ofwar. I am again in the presence of a neck-specialist as expert as theMantis herself in the art of swiftly slaying a victim that strugglesand, in struggling, spoils the meal. 

Once warned, I soon perceive that the game, be it Fly, Locust, Grasshopper, or Butterfly, is always struck in the neck, from behind. The first bite is aimed at the point containing the cervical gangliaand produces sudden death or immobility. Complete inertia will leavethe consumer in peace, the essential condition of every satisfactoryrepast. 

The Devilkin, therefore, frail though she be, possesses the secret ofimmediately destroying the resistance of her prey. She bites at theback of the neck first, in order to give the finishing stroke. She goeson nibbling around the original attacking-point. In this way theButterfly's head and the upper part of the breast are disposed of. But, by that time, the huntress is surfeited: she wants so little! The restlies on the ground, disdained, not for lack of flavour, but becausethere is too much of it. A Cabbage Butterfly far exceeds the capacityof the Empusa's stomach. The Ants will benefit by what is left. 

There is one other matter to be mentioned, before observing themetamorphosis. The position adopted by the young Empusae in thewire-gauze cage is invariably the same from start to finish. Grippingthe trellis-work by the claws of its four hind-legs, the insectoccupies the top of the dome and hangs motionless, back downwards, withthe whole of its body supported by the four suspension-points. If itwishes to move, the front harpoons open, stretch out, grasp a mesh anddraw it to them. When the short walk is over, the lethal arms arebrought back against the chest. One may say that it is nearly alwaysthe four hind-shanks which alone support the suspended insect. 

And this reversed position, which seems to us so trying, lasts for noshort while: it is prolonged, in my cages, for ten months without abreak. The Fly on the ceiling, it is true, occupies the same attitude;but she has her moments of rest: she flies, she walks in a normalposture, she spreads herself flat in the sun. Besides, her acrobaticfeats do not cover a long period. The Empusa, on the other hand, maintains her curious equilibrium for ten months on end, without abreak. Hanging from the trellis-work, back downwards, she hunts, eats, digests, dozes, casts her skin, undergoes her transformation, mates, lays her eggs and dies. She clambered up there when she was still quiteyoung; she falls down, full of days, a corpse. 

Things do not happen exactly like this under natural conditions. Theinsect stands on the bushes back upwards; it keeps its balance in theregular attitude and turns over only in circumstances that occur atlong intervals. The protracted suspension of my captives is all themore remarkable inasmuch as it is not at all an innate habit of theirrace. 

It reminds one of the Bats, who hang, head downwards, by theirhind-legs from the roof of their caves. A special formation of the toesenables birds to sleep on one leg, which automatically and withoutfatigue clutches the swaying bough. The Empusa shows me nothing akin totheir contrivance. The extremity of her walking-legs has the ordinarystructure: a double claw at the tip, a double steelyard-hook; and thatis all. 

I could wish that anatomy would show me the working of the muscles andnerves in those tarsi, in those legs more slender than threads, theaction of the tendons that control the claws and keep them gripped forten months, unwearied in waking and sleeping. If some dexterous scalpelshould ever investigate this problem, I can recommend another, evenmore singular than that of the Empusa, the Bat and the bird. I refer tothe attitude of certain Wasps and Bees during the night's rest. 

An Ammophila with red fore-legs (A. Holosericea) is plentiful in myenclosure towards the end of August and selects a certainlavender-border for her dormitory. At dusk, especially after a stiflingday, when a storm is brewing, I am sure to find the strange sleepersettled there. Never was more eccentric attitude adopted for a night'srest! The mandibles bite right into the lavender-stem. Its square shapesupplies a firmer hold than a round stalk would do. With this one andonly prop, the animal's body juts out stiffly, at full length, withlegs folded. It forms a right angle with the supporting axis, so muchso that the whole weight of the insect, which has turned itself intothe arm of a lever rests upon the mandibles. 

The Ammophila sleeps extended in space by virtue of her mighty jaws. Ittakes an animal to think of a thing like that, which upsets all ourpreconceived ideas of repose. Should the threatening storm burst, should the stalk sway in the wind, the sleeper is not troubled by herswinging hammock; at most, she presses her fore-legs for a momentagainst the tossed mast. As soon as equilibrium is restored, thefavourite posture, that of the horizontal lever, is resumed, perhapsthe mandibles, like the bird's toes, possess the faculty of grippingtighter in proportion to the rocking of the wind. 

The Ammophila is not the only one to sleep in this singular position, which is copied by many others--Anthidia (Cotton-bees. --Translator'sNote. ), Odyneri (A genus of Mason-wasps. --Translator's Note. ), Eucerae(A species of Burrowing-bees. --Translator's Note. )--and mainly by themales. All grip a stalk with their mandibles and sleep with theirbodies outstretched and their legs folded back. Some, the stouterspecies, allow themselves to rest the tip of their arched abdomenagainst the pole. 

This visit to the dormitory of certain Wasps and Bees does not explainthe problem of the Empusa; it sets up another one, no less difficult. It shows us how deficient we are in insight, when it comes todifferentiating between fatigue and rest in the cogs of the animalmachine. The Ammophila, with the static paradox afforded by hermandibles; the Empusa, with her claws unwearied by ten months' hanging, leave the physiologist perplexed and make him wonder what reallyconstitutes rest. In absolute fact, there is no rest, apart from thatwhich puts an end to life. The struggle never ceases; some muscle isalways toiling, some nerve straining. Sleep, which resembles a returnto the peace of non-existence, is, like waking, an effort, here of theleg, of the curled tail; there of the claw, of the jaws. 

The transformation is effected about the middle of May, and the adultEmpusa makes her appearance. She is even more remarkable in figure andattire than the Praying Mantis. Of her youthful eccentricities, sheretains the pointed mitre, the saw-like arm-guards, the long bust, theknee-pieces, the three rows of scales on the lower surface of thebelly; but the abdomen is now no longer twisted into a crook and theanimal is comelier to look upon. Large pale-green wings, pink at theshoulder and swift in flight in both sexes, cover the belly, which isstriped white and green underneath. The male, the dandy sex, adornshimself with plumed antennae, like those of certain Moths, the Bombyxtribe. In respect of size, he is almost the equal of his mate. 

Save for a few slight structural details, the Empusa is the PrayingMantis. The peasant confuses them. When, in spring, he meets the mitredinsect, he thinks he sees the common Prègo-Dieu, who is a daughter ofthe autumn. Similar forms would seem to indicate similarity of habits. In fact, led away by the extraordinary armour, we should be tempted toattribute to the Empusa a mode of life even more atrocious than that ofthe Mantis. I myself thought so at first; and any one, relying uponfalse analogies, would think the same. It is a fresh error: for all herwarlike aspect, the Empusa is a peaceful creature that hardly repaysthe trouble of rearing. 

Installed under the gauze bell, whether in assemblies of half a dozenor in separate couples, she at no time loses her placidity. Like thelarva, she is very abstemious and contents herself with a Fly or two asher daily ration. 

Big eaters are naturally quarrelsome. The Mantis, bloated with Locusts, soon becomes irritated and shows fight. The Empusa, with her frugalmeals, does not indulge in hostile demonstrations. There is no strifeamong neighbours nor any of those sudden unfurlings of the wings sodear to the Mantis when she assumes the spectral attitude and puffslike a startled Adder; never the least inclination for those cannibalbanquets whereat the sister who has been worsted in the fight isdevoured. Such atrocities or here unknown. 

Unknown also are tragic nuptials. The male is enterprising andassiduous and is subjected to a long trial before succeeding. For daysand days he worries his mate, who ends by yielding. Due decorum ispreserved after the wedding. The feathered groom retires, respected byhis bride, and does his little bit of hunting, without danger of beingapprehended and gobbled up. 

The two sexes live together in peace and mutual indifference until themiddle of July. Then the male, grown old and decrepit, takes counselwith himself, hunts no more, becomes shaky in his walk, creeps downfrom the lofty heights of the trellised dome and at last collapses onthe ground. His end comes by a natural death. And remember that theother, the male of the Praying Mantis, ends in the stomach of hisgluttonous spouse. 

The laying follows close upon the disappearance of the males. 

One word more on comparative manners. The Mantis goes in for battle andcannibalism; the Empusa is peaceable and respects her kind. To whatcause are these profound moral differences due, when the organicstructure is the same? Perhaps to the difference of diet. Frugality, infact, softens character, in animals as in men; gross feeding brutalizesit. The gormandizer gorged with meat and strong drink, a fruitfulsource of savage outbursts, could not possess the gentleness of theascetic who dips his bread into a cup of milk. The Mantis is thatgormandizer, the Empusa that ascetic. 

Granted. But whence does the one derive her voracious appetite, theother her temperate ways, when it would seem as though their almostidentical structure ought to produce an identity of needs? Theseinsects tell us, in their fashion, what many have already told us: thatpropensities and aptitudes do not depend exclusively upon anatomy; highabove the physical laws that govern matter rise other laws that governinstincts. 

CHAPTER 4. THE CAPRICORN. 

My youthful meditations owe some happy moments to Condillac's famousstatue which, when endowed with the sense of smell, inhales the scentof a rose and out of that single impression creates a whole world ofideas. (Etienne Bonnot de Condillac, Abbé de Mureaux (1715-80), theleading exponent of sensational philosophy. His most important work isthe "Traité des sensations, " in which he imagines a statue, organizedlike a man, and endows it with the senses one by one, beginning withthat of smell. He argues by a process of imaginative reconstructionthat all human faculties and all human knowledge are merely transformedsensation, to the exclusion of any other principle, that, in short, everything has its source in sensation: man is nothing but what he hasacquired. --Translator's Note. ) My twenty-year-old mind, full of faithin syllogisms, loved to follow the deductive jugglery of theabbé-philosopher: I saw, or seemed to see, the statue take life in thataction of the nostrils, acquiring attention, memory, judgment and allthe psychological paraphernalia, even as still waters are aroused andrippled by the impact of a grain of sand. I recovered from my illusionunder the instruction of my abler master, the animal. The Capricornshall teach us that the problem is more obscure than the abbé led me tobelieve. 

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 I preferwood that is worm-eaten--chirouna, as he calls it--to sound wood whichburns so much better. I have my views on the subject; and the worthyman 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 which some Buprestis-beetle has built, Osmia-bees, working their paste of masticated leaves, have piled theircells, one above the other; in the deserted chambers and vestibules, Megachiles (Leaf-cutting Bees. --Translator's Note. ) have arranged theirleafy jars; in the live wood, filled with juicy saps, the larvae of theCapricorn (Cerambyx miles), the chief author of the oak's undoing, haveset 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 attain thediameter of a pencil. I find, in addition, pupae more or less fullycoloured, perfect insects, with a distended abdomen, ready to leave thetrunk 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 Job swallowsthe ground in a figure of speech; the Capricorn's grub literally eatsits way. ("Chafing and raging, he swalloweth the ground, neither dothhe make account when the noise of the trumpet soundeth. "--Job 39, 23(Douai version). --Translator's Note. ) With its carpenter's gouge, astrong black mandible, short, devoid of notches, scooped into asharp-edged spoon, it digs the opening of its tunnel. The piece cut outis a mouthful which, as it enters the stomach, yields its scanty juicesand accumulates behind the worker in heaps of wormed wood. The refuseleaves room in front by passing through the worker. A labour at once ofnutrition and of road-making, the path is devoured while constructed;it is blocked behind as it makes way ahead. That, however, is how allthe borers who look to wood for victuals and lodging set about theirbusiness. 

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, those otherindustrious carpenters, adopt a similar form; they even exaggeratetheir pestle. The part that toils and carves hard wood requires arobust structure; the rest of the body, which has but to follow after, continues slim. The essential thing is that the implement of the jawsshould possess a solid support and a powerful motor. The Cerambyx-larvastrengthens its chisels with a stout, black, horny armour thatsurrounds the mouth; yet, apart from its skull and its equipment oftools, the grub has a skin as fine as satin and white as ivory. Thisdead white comes from a copious layer of grease which the animal'sspare diet would not lead us to suspect. True, it has nothing to do, atevery hour of the day and night, but gnaw. The quantity of wood thatpasses into its stomach makes up for the dearth of nourishing elements. 

The legs, consisting of three pieces, the first globular, the lastsharp-pointed, are mere rudiments, vestiges. They are hardly amillimetre long. (. 039 inch. --Translator's Note. ) For this reason theyare of no use whatever for walking; they do not even bear upon thesupporting surface, being kept off it by the obesity of the chest. Theorgans of locomotion are something altogether different. The grub ofthe Capricorn 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. 

The first seven segments of the abdomen have, both above and below, afour-sided facet, bristling with rough protuberances. This the grub caneither expand or contract, making it stick out or lie flat at will. Theupper facets consist of two excrescences separated by the mid-dorsalline; the lower ones have not this divided appearance. These are theorgans of locomotion, the ambulacra. When the larva wishes to moveforwards, it expands its hinder ambulacra, those on the back as well asthose on the belly, and contracts its front ones. Fixed to the side ofthe narrow gallery by their ridges, the hind-pads give the grub apurchase. The flattening of the fore-pads, by decreasing the diameter, allows it to slip forward and to take half a step. To complete the stepthe hind-quarters have to be brought up the same distance. With thisobject, the front pads fill out and provide support, while those behindshrink and leave free scope for their 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 ifthe locomotory pads grip only on one side progress becomes impossible. When placed on the smooth wood of my table, the animal wriggles slowly;it lengthens and shortens without advancing by a hair's-breadth. Laidon the surface of a piece of split oak, a rough, uneven surface, due tothe gash made by the wedge, it twists and writhes, moves the front partof its body very slowly from left to right and right to left, lifts ita little, lowers it and begins again. These are the most extensivemovements made. The vestigial legs remain inert and absolutely useless. Then why are they there? It were better to lose them altogether, if itbe true that crawling inside the oak has deprived the animal of thegood legs with which it started. The influence of environment, sowell-inspired in endowing the grub with ambulatory pads, becomes amockery when it leaves it these ridiculous stumps. Can the structure, perchance, be obeying 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 inquire 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 amovement of the skin; no sign of awakened attention. I succeed nobetter when I scratch the wood close by with a hard point, to imitatethe sound 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 the naturalgalleries and I place the worm inside it. Cypress-wood is stronglyscented; it possesses in a high degree that resinous aroma whichcharacterizes 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 point tothe absence of a sense of smell? The resinous flavour, so strange tothe grub which has always lived in oak, ought to vex it, to trouble it;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, inits 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 the fictitious. 

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! Theywould change much more if interpreted by the intellect of the grub. What have the lessons of touch and taste contributed to thatrudimentary receptacle of impressions? Very little; almost nothing. Theanimal knows that the best bits possess an astringent flavour; that thesides of a passage not carefully planed are painful to the skin. Thisis the utmost limit of its acquired wisdom. In comparison, the statuewith the sensitive nostrils was a marvel of knowledge, a paragon toogenerously endowed by its inventor. It remembered, compared, judged, reasoned: does the drowsily digesting paunch remember? Does it compare?Does it reason? I defined the Capricorn-grub as a bit of an intestinethat crawls about. The undeniable accuracy of this definition providesme with my answer: the grub has the aggregate of sense-impressions thata bit of an intestine may hope to have. 

And this nothing-at-all is capable of marvellous acts of foresight;this belly, which knows hardly aught of the present, sees very clearlyinto the future. Let us take an illustration on this curious subject. For three years on end the larva wanders about in the thick of thetrunk; it goes up, goes down, turns to this side and that; it leavesone vein for another of better flavour, but without moving too far fromthe inner depths, where the temperature is milder and greater safetyreigns. A day is at hand, a dangerous day for the recluse obliged toquit its excellent retreat and face the perils of the surface. Eatingis not everything: we have to get out of this. The larva, sowell-equipped with tools and muscular strength, finds no difficulty ingoing where it pleases, by boring through the wood; but does the comingCapricorn, whose short spell of life must be spent in the open air, possess the same advantages? Hatched inside the trunk, will thelong-horned insect 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. It isa very long and very irregular maze, blocked with great heaps of wormedwood. Its diameter decreases progressively from the final blind alleyto the starting-point. The larva entered the timber as slim as a tinybit of straw; it is to-day as thick as my finger. In its three years'wanderings it always dug its gallery according to the mould of itsbody. Evidently, the road by which the larva entered and moved aboutcannot be the Capricorn's exit-way: his immoderate antennae, his longlegs, 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 would beless fatiguing to attack the untouched timber and dig straight ahead. 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, suchas 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 Ihave said elsewhere, the tool does not make the workman. In spite oftheir boring-implements, the hermits die in my cases for lack of skill. I subject others to less arduous tests. I enclose them in spaciousreed-stumps, equal in diameter to the natal cell. The obstacle to bepierced is the natural diaphragm, a yielding partition two or threemillimetres thick. (. 078 to . 117 inch. --Translator's Note. ) Some freethemselves; others cannot. The less vibrant ones succumb, stopped bythe frail barrier. What would it be if they had to pass through athickness of oak?

We are now persuaded: despite his stalwart appearance, the Capricorn ispowerless to leave the tree-trunk by his unaided efforts. It thereforefalls to the worm, to the wisdom of that bit of an intestine, toprepare the way for him. We see renewed, in another form, the feats ofprowess of the Anthrax, whose pupa, armed with trepans, bores throughrock on the feeble Fly's behalf. Urged by a presentiment that to usremains an unfathomable mystery, the Cerambyx-grub leaves the inside ofthe oak, its peaceful retreat, its unassailable stronghold, to wriggletowards the outside, where lives the foe, the Woodpecker, who maygobble up the succulent little sausage. At the risk of its life, itstubbornly digs and gnaws to the very bark, of which it leaves no moreintact than the thinnest film, a slender screen. Sometimes, even, therash one opens the window wide. 

This is the Capricorn's exit-hole. 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 the darknessthrough this opening when the summer heats arrive. 

After the cares of the future come the cares of the present. The larva, which has just opened the aperture of escape, retreats some distancedown its gallery and, in the side of the exit-way, digs itself atransformation-chamber more sumptuously furnished and barricaded thanany that I have ever seen. It is a roomy niche, shaped like a flattenedellipsoid, the length of which reaches eighty to a hundred millimetres. (3 to 4 inches. --Translator's Note. ) The two axes of the cross-sectionvary: the horizontal measures twenty-five to thirty millimetres (. 975to 1. 17 inch. --Translator's Note. ); the vertical measures only fifteen. (. 585 inch. --Translator's Note. ) This greater dimension of the cell, where the thickness of the perfect insect is concerned, leaves acertain scope for the action of its legs when the time comes forforcing the barricade, which is more than a close-fitting mummy-casewould do. 

The barricade in question, a door which the larva builds to exclude thedangers from without, is two-and even three-fold. Outside, it is astack 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, isapplied to the wall in a continuous felt at least a millimetre thick. (. 039 inch. --Translator's Note. ) The chamber is thus padded throughoutwith a fine swan's-down, a delicate precaution taken by the rough wormon behalf of the tender pupa. 

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 insect 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 hatch, whensubjected to heat, blackens, proving the presence of an organic gluecementing the mineral matter. The solution becomes muddy if oxalate ofammonia be added; it then deposits a copious white precipitate. Thesesigns indicate calcium carbonate. I look for urate of ammonia, thatconstantly recurring product of the various stages of themetamorphoses. It is not there: I find not the least trace of murexide. The lid, therefore, is composed solely of carbonate of lime and of anorganic cement, no doubt of an albuminous character, which givesconsistency 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 supplies thechalk. It keeps it separated from the food, either as original matteror as a derivative of the ammonium urate; it purges it of all foreignbodies, when the larval period comes to an end, and holds it in reserveuntil the time comes to disgorge it. This freestone factory causes meno astonishment: when the manufacturer undergoes his change, it servesfor various chemical works. Certain Oil-beetles, such as the Sitaris, locate in it the urate of ammonia, the refuse of the transformedorganism; the Sphex, the Pelopaei, the Scoliae use it to manufacturethe shellac wherewith the silk of the cocoon is varnished. Furtherinvestigations will only swell the aggregate of the products of thisobliging organ. 

When the exit-way is prepared and the cell upholstered in velvet andclosed with a threefold 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 or thatin the long cell is a matter of great indifference to the grub, whichis very supple, turning easily in its narrow lodging and adoptingwhatever position it pleases. The coming Capricorn will not enjoy thesame privileges. Stiffly girt in his horn cuirass, he will not be ableto turn from end to end; he will not even be capable of bending, ifsome sudden wind should make the passage difficult. He must absolutelyfind the door in front of him, lest he perish in the casket. Should thegrub forget this little formality, should it lie down to its nymphalsleep with its head at the back of the cell, the Capricorn isinfallibly lost: his cradle becomes a hopeless dungeon. 

But there is no fear of this danger: the knowledge of our 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 a secondmass of woody remnants, as easy to disperse as the first. The road isnow free: the Cerambyx has but to follow the spacious vestibule, whichwill lead him, without the possibility of mistake, to the exit. Shouldthe window not be open, all that he has to do is to gnaw through a thinscreen: an easy task; and behold him outside, his long antennae aquiverwith excitement. 

What have we learnt from him? Nothing, from him; much from his grub. This grub, so poor in sensory organs, gives us no little food forreflection with its prescience. It knows that the coming Beetle willnot be able to cut himself a road through the oak and it bethinksitself of opening one for him at its own risk and peril. It knows thatthe Cerambyx, in his stiff armour, will never be able to turn and makefor the 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 the enemyis likely to break in during the slow work of the transformation and, to set a bulwark against his attacks, it stores a calcium pap insideits stomach. It knows the future with a clear vision, or, to beaccurate, behaves as though it knew it. Whence did it derive themotives 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 senseless creature fills uswith amazement! I regret that the clever logician, instead ofconceiving a statue smelling a rose, did not imagine it gifted withsome instinct. How quickly he would have recognized that, quite apartfrom sense-impressions, the animal, including man, possesses certainpsychological resources, certain inspirations that are innate and notacquired!

CHAPTER 5. THE 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 of windhas thrown a tiny unfeathered bird from its nest. What will become ofthese little bodies and of so many other pitiful remnants of life? Theywill 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 of the corpse attracts the Fly, the genitrix of the odiousmaggot. At the same time, the flattened Silpha, the glistening, slow-trotting Horn-beetle, the Dermestes, powdered with snow upon theabdomen, and the slender Staphylinus, all, whence coming no one knows, hurry hither in squads, with never-wearied zeal, investigating, probingand draining the infection. 

What a spectacle, in the spring, beneath a dead Mole! The horror ofthis laboratory is a beautiful sight for one who is able to observe andto meditate. Let us overcome our disgust; let us turn over the uncleanrefuse with our foot. What a swarming there is beneath it, what atumult of busy workers! The Silphae, with wing-cases wide and dark, asthough in mourning, fly distraught, hiding in the cracks in the soil;the Saprini, of polished ebony which mirrors the sunlight, jog hastilyoff, deserting their workshop; the Dermestes, of whom one wears afawn-coloured tippet, spotted with white, seek to fly away, but, tipsywith their putrid nectar, tumble over and reveal the immaculatewhiteness of their bellies, which forms a violent contrast with thegloom of the rest of their attire. 

What were they doing there, all these feverish workers? They weremaking a clearance of death on behalf of life. Transcendent alchemists, they were transforming that horrible putridity into a living andinoffensive product. They were draining the dangerous corpse to thepoint of rendering it as dry and sonorous as the remains of an oldslipper hardened on the refuse-heap by the frosts of winter and theheats of summer. They were working their hardest to render the carrioninnocuous. 

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 been resumedby the treasury of life. All honour to these purifiers! Let us put backthe Mole and go our way. 

Some other victim of the agricultural labours of spring--a Shrew-mouse, Field-mouse, Mole, Frog, Adder, or Lizard--will provide us with themost vigorous and famous of these expurgators of the soil. This is theBurying-beetle, the Necrophorus, so different from the cadaveric mob indress and habits. In honour of his exalted functions he exhales anodour of musk; he bears a red tuft at the tip of his antennae; hisbreast is covered with nankeen; and across his wing-cases he wears adouble, scalloped scarf of vermilion. An elegant, almost sumptuouscostume, very superior to that of the others, but yet lugubrious, asbefits your undertaker's man. 

He is no anatomical dissector, cutting his subject open, carving itsflesh with the scalpel of his mandibles; he is literally a gravedigger, a sexton. While the others--Silphae, Dermestes, Horn-beetles--gorgethemselves with the exploited flesh, without, of course, forgetting theinterests of the family, he, a frugal eater, hardly touches his bootyon his own account. He buries it entire, on the spot, in a cellar wherethe thing, duly ripened, will form the diet of his larvae. He buries itin order to establish his progeny therein. 

This hoarder of dead bodies, with his stiff and almost heavy movements, is astonishingly quick at storing away wreckage. In a shift of a fewhours, a comparatively enormous animal--a Mole, forexample--disappears, engulfed by the earth. The others leave the dried, emptied carcass 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, atumulus. 

With his expeditious method, the Necrophorus is the first of the littlepurifiers of the fields. He is also one of the most celebrated ofinsects 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, thecollectors of honey or game. He is honoured by the two followinganecdotes, which I quote from Lacordaire's "Introduction toEntomology, " the only general treatise at my disposal:

"Clairville, " says the author, "records that he saw a Necrophorusvespillo, who, wishing to bury a dead Mouse and finding the soil onwhich the body lay too hard, proceeded to dig a hole at some distancein soil more easily displaced. This operation completed, he attemptedto bury the Mouse in this cavity, but, not succeeding, he flew away, returning a few moments later accompanied by four of his fellows, whoassisted him to move the Mouse and bury it. "

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

"The following case, " he continues, "recorded by Gledditsch, has alsoevery indication of the intervention of reason. One of his friends, wishing to desiccate a Frog, placed it on the top of a stick thrustinto the ground, in order to make sure that the Necrophori should notcome and carry it off. But this precaution was of no effect; theinsects, being unable to reach the Frog, dug under the stick and, having caused it to fall, buried it as well as the body. " ("Suites aBuffon. Introduction a l'entomologie" volume 2 pages 460-61. --Author'sNote. )

To grant, in the intellect of the insect, a lucid understanding of therelations between cause and effect, between the end and the means, isan affirmation of serious import. I know of scarcely any better adaptedto the philosophical brutalities of my time. But are these two littlestories really true? Do they involve the consequences deduced fromthem? Are not those who accept them as reliable testimony a littleover-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 us reasona little ourselves; let us, above all, consult the experimental test. Afact gathered at hazard, without criticism, cannot establish a law. 

I do not propose, O valiant grave-diggers, to belittle 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 case 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 lessen your renown. However, it is not thebusiness of impartial history to maintain a given thesis; it followswhither the facts lead it. I wish simply to question you upon the powerof logic attributed to you. Do you or do you not enjoy gleams ofreason? Have you within you the humble germ of human thought? That isthe problem before 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, continued inquiry and a variety ofartifices. But how populate the cage? The land of the olive-tree is notrich in Necrophori. To my knowledge it possesses only a single species, N. Vestigator (Hersch. ); and even this rival of the grave-diggers ofthe north is pretty scarce. The discovery of three or four in thecourse of the spring was as much as my searches yielded in the olddays. This time, if I do not resort to the ruses of the trapper, Ishall obtain them in no greater numbers; whereas I stand in need of atleast a dozen. 

These ruses are very simple. To go in search of the layer-out ofbodies, who exists only here and there in the country-side, would bealmost always waste of time; the favourable month, April, would elapsebefore my cage was suitably populated. To run after him is to trust toomuch to accident; so we will make him come to us by scattering in theorchard an abundant collection of dead Moles. To this carrion, ripenedby the sun, the insect will not fail to hasten from the various pointsof the horizon, so accomplished is he in the detection of such adelicacy. 

I make an arrangement with a gardener in the neighbourhood, who, two orthree times a week, supplements the penury of my acre and a half ofstony ground, providing me with vegetables raised in a better soil. Iexplain to him my urgent need of Moles, an indefinite number of moles. Battling daily with trap and spade against the importunate excavatorwho uproots his crops, he is in a better position than any one else toprocure for me that which I regard for the moment as more precious thanhis bunches 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 creature, theDarboun; but at last he consents, not without a suspicion at the backof his mind that I am going to make myself a wonderful flannel-linedwaist-coat with the soft, velvety skins of the Moles, something goodfor pains in the back. Very well. We settle the matter. The essentialthing is that the Darbouns shall reach me. 

They reach me punctually, by twos, by threes, by fours, packed in a fewcabbage-leaves, at the bottom of the gardener's basket. The worthy manwho lent himself with such good grace to my strange requirements willnever guess how much comparative psychology will owe him! In a few daysI was the possessor of thirty Moles, which were scattered here andthere, as they reached me, in bare portions of the orchard, amid therosemary-bushes, the arbutus-trees, and the lavender-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 who had not the sacred fire in his veins. Only little Paul, ofall the household, lent me the aid of his nimble hand to seize thefugitives. I have already stated that the entomologist has need ofsimplicity of mind. In this important business of the Necrophori, myassistants were a child 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, begunwith four subjects, were continued with fourteen, a number not attainedduring the whole of my previous searches, which were unpremeditated andin which no bait was used as decoy. My trapper's ruse was completelysuccessful. 

Before I report the results obtained in the cage, let us for a momentstop to consider the normal conditions of the labours that fall to thelot of the Necrophori. The Beetle does not select his head of game, choosing one in proportion to his strength, as do the predatory Wasps;he accepts it as hazard presents it to him. Among his finds there arelittle creatures, such as the Shrew-mouse; animals of medium size, suchas the Field-mouse; and enormous beasts, such as the Mole, theSewer-rat and the Snake, any of which exceeds the powers of excavationof a single grave-digger. In the majority of cases transportation isimpossible, so disproportioned is the burden to the motive-power. Aslight displacement, caused by the effort of the insects' backs, is allthat can possibly be effected. 

Ammophilus and Cerceris, Sphex and Pompilus excavate their burrowswherever they please; they carry their prey thither on the wing, or, iftoo heavy, drag it afoot. The Necrophorus knows no such facilities inhis task. Incapable of carrying the monstrous corpse, no matter whereencountered, he is forced to dig the grave where the body lies. 

This obligatory place of sepulture may be in stony soil; it may occupythis or that bare spot, or some other where the grass, especially thecouch-grass, plunges into the ground its inextricable network of littlecords. There is a great probability, too, that a bristle of stuntedbrambles may support the body at some inches from the soil. Slung bythe labourers' spade, which has just broken his back, the Mole fallshere, there, anywhere, at random; and where the body falls, no matterwhat the obstacles--provided they be not insurmountable--there theundertaker must utilize it. 

The difficulties of inhumation are capable of such variety as causes usalready to foresee that the Necrophorus cannot employ fixed methods inthe accomplishment of his labours. Exposed to fortuitous hazards, hemust be able to modify his tactics within the limits of his modestperceptions. To saw, to break, to disentangle, to lift, to shake, todisplace: these are so many methods of procedure which areindispensable to the grave-digger in a predicament. Deprived of theseresources, reduced to uniformity of method, the insect would beincapable of pursuing the calling which has fallen to its lot. 

We see at once how imprudent it would be to draw conclusions from anisolated case in which rational coordination or premeditated intentionmight appear to intervene. Every instinctive action no doubt has itsmotive; but does the animal in the first place judge whether the actionis opportune? Let us begin by a careful consideration of the creature'slabours; let us support each piece of evidence by others; and then weshall be able to answer the question. 

First of all, a word as to diet. A general scavenger, theBurying-beetle refuses nothing in the way of cadaveric putridity. Allis good to his senses, feathered game or furry, provided that theburden do not exceed his strength. He exploits the batrachian or thereptile with no less animation, he accepts without hesitationextraordinary finds, probably unknown to his race, as witness a certainGold-fish, a red Chinese Carp, whose body, placed in one of my cages, was instantly considered an excellent tit-bit and buried according tothe rules. Nor is butcher's meat despised. A mutton-cutlet, a strip ofbeefsteak, in the right stage of maturity, disappeared beneath thesoil, receiving the same attention as those which were lavished on theMole or the Mouse. In short, the Necrophorus has no exclusivepreferences; anything putrid he 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. Neither is there much trouble inestablishing the site of his industry. A capacious dish-cover of wiregauze is sufficient, resting on an earthen pan filled to the brim withfresh, heaped sand. To obviate criminal attempts on the part of theCats, whom the game would not fail to tempt, the cage is installed in aclosed room with glazed windows, which in winter is the refuge of theplants and in summer 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 carcass, whichfrom time to time seems to return to life, shaken from end to end bythe backs of the workers. An observer not in the secret would besomewhat astonished to see the dead creature move. From time to time, one of the sextons, almost always a male, emerges and goes the roundsof the animal, which he explores, probing its velvet coat. He hurriedlyreturns, appears again, once more investigates and creeps back underthe corpse. 

The tremors become more pronounced; the carcass oscillates, while acushion of sand, pushed outward from below, grows up all about it. TheMole, by reason of his own weight and the efforts of the grave-diggers, who are labouring at their task beneath him, gradually sinks, for lackof support, into the undermined soil. 

Presently the sand which has been pushed outward quivers under thethrust of the invisible miners, slips into the pit and covers theinterred Mole. It is a clandestine burial. The body seems to disappearof itself, 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, when all is taken into account, a very simple operation. As thediggers, underneath the corpse, deepen the cavity into which it sinks, tugged and shaken by the sextons, the grave, without theirintervention, fills of itself by the mere downfall of the shaken soil. Useful shovels at the tips of their claws, powerful backs, capable ofcreating a little earthquake: the diggers need nothing more for thepractice of their profession. Let us add--for this is an essentialpoint--the art of continually jerking and shaking the body, so as topack it into a lesser volume and cause it to pass when passage isobstructed. We shall presently see that this art plays a part of thegreatest importance 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 complete their task. What they are now doing below ground is a continuation of what they didon the surface and would teach us nothing new. We will wait for two orthree days. 

The moment has come. Let us inform ourselves of what is happening downthere. Let us visit the retting-vat. I shall invite no one to bepresent at 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 round, greasy mass. The thing must have undergone carefulmanipulation to be thus condensed into a small volume, like a fowl inthe hands of the cook, and, above all, to be so completely deprived ofits fur. Is this culinary procedure undertaken in respect of thelarvae, which might be incommoded by the fur? Or is it just a casualresult, a mere loss of hair due to putridity? I am not certain. But itis always the case that these exhumations, from first to last, haverevealed the furry game furless and the feathered game featherless, except for the tail-feathers and the pinion-feathers of the wings. Reptiles and fish, on the other hand, retain their scales. 

Let us return to the unrecognizable thing which 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-beetle. Except for the fur, which is lying in scattered flocks, it is intact. The grave-diggershave not eaten into it; it is the patrimony of the sons, not theprovision of the parents, who, in order to sustain themselves, levy atmost a few mouthfuls 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 at the surface. 

This observation is not an isolated one. Whenever I am present at aburial 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. Having lent their assistance, the resthave discreetly retired. 

These grave-diggers, in truth, are remarkable fathers. They havenothing of the happy-go-lucky paternal carelessness that is the generalrule among insects, which plague and pester the mother for a momentwith their attentions and thereupon leave her to care for theoffspring! But those who in the other races are unemployed in this caselabour valiantly, now in the interest of their own family, now for thesake of another's, without distinction. If a couple is in difficulties, helpers arrive, attracted by the odour of carrion; anxious to serve alady, they creep under the body, work at it with back and claw, bury itand then go their ways, leaving the householders to their happiness. 

For some time longer these latter manipulate the morsel in concert, stripping it of fur or feather, trussing it and allowing it to simmerto the taste of the larvae. When all is in order, the couple go forth, dissolving their partnership, and each, following his fancy, recommences 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-beetles and with the Necrophori, who burydead bodies. Scavengers and undertakers both have exemplary morals. Whowould look for virtue in such a quarter?

What follows--the larval existence and the metamorphosis--is asecondary detail and, for that matter, familiar. It is a dry subjectand I shall deal with it briefly. About the end of May, I exhume aBrown Rat, buried by the grave-diggers a fortnight earlier. Transformedinto a black, sticky jelly, the horrible dish provides me with fifteenlarvae, already, for the most part, of the normal size. A few adults, connections, assuredly, of the brood, are also stirring amid theinfected mass. The period of hatching is over now; and food isplentiful. Having nothing else to do, the foster-parents have sat downto the feast with the nurselings. 

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. Such precocityamazes me. It would seem as though the liquefaction of carrion, deadlyto any other stomach, is in this case a food productive of especialenergy, which stimulates the organism and accelerates its growth, sothat the victuals may be consumed before its approaching conversioninto mould. Living chemistry makes haste to outstrip the ultimatereactions of mineral chemistry. 

White, naked, blind, possessing the habitual attributes of life indarkness, the larva, with its lanceolate outline, is slightlyreminiscent of the grub of the Ground-beetle. The mandibles are blackand powerful, making excellent scissors for dissection. The limbs areshort, but capable of a quick, toddling gait. The segments of theabdomen are armoured on the upper surface with a narrow reddish plate, armed with four tiny spikes, whose office apparently is to furnishpoints of support when the larva quits the natal dwelling and divesinto the soil, there to undergo the transformation. The thoracicsegments are provided with wider plates, but unarmed. 

The adults discovered in the company of their larval family, in thisputridity that was a Rat, are all abominably verminous. So shiny andneat in their attire, when at work under the first Moles of April, theNecrophori, when June approaches, become odious to look upon. A layerof parasites envelops them; insinuating itself into the joints, itforms an almost continuous surface. The insect presents a misshapenappearance under this overcoat of vermin, which my hair-pencil canhardly brush aside. Driven off the belly, the horde make the tour ofthe sufferer and encamp on his back, refusing to relinquish their hold. 

I recognize among them the Beetle's Gamasis, the Tick who so oftensoils the ventral amethyst of our Geotrupes. No; the prizes of life donot fall to the share of the useful. Necrophori and Geotrupes devotethemselves to works of general salubrity; and these two corporations, so interesting in the accomplishment of their hygienic functions, soremarkable for their domestic morality, are given over to the vermin ofpoverty. Alas, of this discrepancy between the services rendered andthe harshness of life there are many other examples outside the worldof scavengers and undertakers!

The Burying-beetles display an exemplary domestic morality, but it doesnot persist until the end. During the first fortnight of June, thefamily being sufficiently provided for, the sextons strike work and mycages are deserted, so far as the surface is concerned, in spite of newarrivals of Mice and Sparrows. From time to time some grave-diggerleaves the subsoil and comes crawling languidly in the fresh air. 

Another rather curious fact now attracts my attention. All, as soon asthey emerge from underground, are cripples, whose limbs have beenamputated at the joints, some higher up, some lower down. I see onemutilated Beetle who has only one leg left entire. With this odd limband the stumps of the others lamentably tattered, scaly with vermin, herows himself, as it were, over the dusty surface. A comrade emerges, one better off for legs, who finishes the cripple and cleans out hisabdomen. So my thirteen remaining Necrophori end their days, half-devoured by their companions, or at least shorn of several limbs. The pacific relations of the outset are succeeded by cannibalism. 

History tells us that certain peoples, the Massagetae and others, usedto kill their aged folk in order to spare them the miseries ofsenility. The fatal blow on the hoary skull was in their eyes an act offilial piety. The Necrophori have their share of these ancientbarbarities. Full of days and henceforth useless, dragging out a wearyexistence, they mutually exterminate one another. Why prolong the agonyof the impotent and the imbecile?

The Massagetae might invoke, 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 superabundant, both beneath the soil and on the surface. Famine plays no part in thisslaughter. Here we have the aberration of exhaustion, the morbid furyof a life on the point of extinction. As is generally the case, workbestows a peaceable disposition on the grave-digger, while inactioninspires him with perverted tastes. Having no longer anything to do, hebreaks his fellow's limbs, eats him up, heedless of being mutilated oreaten up himself. This is the ultimate deliverance of verminous oldage. 

CHAPTER 6. THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS. 

Let us proceed to the rational prowess which has earned for theNecrophorus the better part of his renown and, to begin with, let ussubmit the case related by Clairville--that of the too hard soil andthe call for assistance--to experimental test. 

With this object in view, I pave the centre of the space beneath thecover, level with the soil, with a brick and sprinkle the latter with athin layer of sand. This will be the soil in which digging isimpracticable. All about it, for some distance and on the same level, spreads the loose soil, which is easy to dig. 

In order to approximate to the conditions of the little story, I musthave a Mouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the work of removal wouldperhaps present too much difficulty. To obtain the Mouse I place myfriends and neighbours under requisition; they laugh at my whim butnone the less proffer their traps. Yet, the moment a Mouse is needed, that very common animal becomes rare. Braving decorum in his speech, which follows the Latin of his ancestors, the Provençal says, but evenmore crudely than in my translation: "If you look for dung, the Assesbecome 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 charitygives the hospitality of a day to the beggar wandering over the face ofthe fertile earth; from that municipal hostel whence one invariablyemerges verminous. O Réaumur, who used to invite marquises to see yourcaterpillars change their skins, what would you have said of a futuredisciple conversant with such wretchedness as this? Perhaps it is wellthat we should not be ignorant of it, so that we may take compassion onthe sufferings of beasts. 

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, of whom three are 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 promptly perceived. About seven o'clockin the morning, three Necrophori hurry up, two males and a female. Theyslip under the Mouse, who moves in jerks, a sign of the efforts of theburying-party. An attempt is made to dig into the layer of sand whichhides the brick, so that a bank of sand accumulates about the body. 

For a couple of hours the jerks continue without results. I profit bythe circumstance to investigate the manner in which the work isperformed. The bare brick allows me to see what the excavated soilconcealed from me. If it is necessary to move the body, the Beetleturns over; with his six claws he grips the hair of the dead animal, props himself upon his back and pushes, making a lever of his head andthe tip of his abdomen. If digging is required, he resumes the normalposition. So, turn and turn about, the sexton strives, now with hisclaws 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 deepen the grave. 

The point at which the Mouse lies is finally recognized asunassailable. A male appears in the open. He explores the specimen, goes the round of it, scratches a little at random. He goes back; andimmediately the body rocks. Is he advising his collaborators of what hehas discovered? Is he arranging matters with a view to theirestablishing themselves 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 efforts ina given direction, for, after advancing a little towards the edge ofthe brick, the burden goes back again, returning to the point ofdeparture. In the absence of any concerted understanding, their effortsof leverage are wasted. Nearly three hours are occupied by oscillationswhich mutually annul one another. The Mouse does not cross the littlesand-hill heaped about it by the rakes of the workers. 

For the second time a male emerges and makes a round of exploration. Abore is made in workable earth, close beside the brick. This is a trialexcavation, to reveal the nature of the soil; a narrow well, of nogreat depth, into which the insect plunges to half its length. Thewell-sinker returns to the other workers, who arch their backs, and theload progresses a finger's-breadth towards the point recognized asfavourable. Have they done the trick this time? No, for after a whilethe Mouse recoils. No progress towards a solution of the difficulty. 

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, which wouldsave laborious transportation, they precipitately scour the whole areaof the cage, sounding the soil on this side and on that and ploughingsuperficial furrows in it. They get as far from the brick as the limitsof 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; the firstpoint sounded is abandoned for a second, which is rejected in its turn. A third and a fourth are tried; then another and yet another. At thesixth point the selection is made. In all these cases the excavation isby no means a grave destined to receive the Mouse, but a mere trialboring, of inconsiderable depth, its diameter being that of thedigger's body. 

A return is made to the Mouse, who suddenly quivers, oscillates, advances, recoils, first in one direction, then in another, until inthe end the little hillock of sand is crossed. Now we are free of thebrick and on excellent soil. Little by little the load advances. Thisis no cartage by a team hauling in the open, but a jerky displacement, the work of invisible levers. The body seems to move of its own accord. 

This time, after so many hesitations, their efforts are concerted; atall events, the load reaches the region sounded far more rapidly than Iexpected. Then begins the burial, according to the usual method. It isone o'clock. The Necrophori have allowed the hour-hand of the clock togo half round the dial while verifying the condition of the surroundingspots and displacing the Mouse. 

In this experiment it appears at the outset that the males play a majorpart in the affairs of the household. Better-equipped, perhaps, thantheir mates, they make investigations when a difficulty occurs; theyinspect the soil, recognize whence the check arises and choose thepoint at which the grave shall be made. In the lengthy experiment ofthe brick, the two males alone explored the surroundings and set towork to solve the difficulty. Confiding in their assistance, thefemale, motionless beneath the Mouse, awaited the result of theirinvestigations. The tests which are to follow will confirm the meritsof these valiant auxiliaries. 

In the second place, the point where the Mouse lay being recognized aspresenting an insurmountable resistance, there was no grave dug inadvance, a little farther off, in the light soil. All attempts werelimited, I repeat, to shallow soundings which informed 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. To excavate the soil, ourgrave-diggers must feel the weight of their dead on their backs. Theywork only when stimulated by the contact of its fur. Never, never inthis world do they venture to dig a grave unless the body to be buriedalready occupies the site of the cavity. This is absolutely confirmedby my two and a half 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 pellethad rolled into a rut, powerless to withdraw his treasure from thegulf, the wily Dung-beetle called together three or four of hisneighbours, who benevolently recovered the pellet, returning to theirlabours after the work of salvage. 

The exploit--so ill-interpreted--of the thieving pill-roller sets me onmy guard against that of the undertaker. Shall I be too exigent if Ienquire what precautions the observer adopted to recognize the owner ofthe Mouse 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 appeal for help? Can one even be sure that theone to disappear returns and forms one of the band? There is nothing toindicate it; 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 most likely of all in the absence of exactinformation. 

Probability becomes certainty if we submit the case to the verificationof experiment. The test with the brick already gives us someinformation. For six hours my three specimens exhausted themselves inefforts before they got to the length of removing their booty andplacing it on practicable soil. In this long and heavy task helpfulneighbours would have been anything but unwelcome. Four otherNecrophori, buried here and there under a little sand, comrades andacquaintances, helpers of the day before, were occupying the same cage;and not one of those concerned thought of summoning them to giveassistance. 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 considered themselves sufficientlystrong; they needed no one else to lend them a hand. The objection doesnot hold good. On many occasions and under conditions even moredifficult than those presented by a stony soil, I have again and againseen isolated Necrophori exhausting themselves in striving against myartifices; yet not once did they leave their work to recruit helpers. Collaborators, it is true, did often arrive, but they were convoked bytheir sense of smell, not by the first possessor. They were fortuitoushelpers; they were never called in. They were welcomed withoutdisagreement, but also without gratitude. They were not summoned; theywere tolerated. In the glazed shelter where I keep the cage I happenedto catch one of these chance assistants in the act. Passing that way inthe night and scenting dead flesh, he had entered where none of hiskind had yet penetrated of his own free will. I surprised him on thewire-gauze dome of the cover. If the wire had not prevented him, hewould have set to work incontinently, in company with the rest. Had mycaptives invited him? Assuredly not. He had hastened thither attractedby the odour of the Mole, heedless of the efforts of others. So it waswith those whose obliging assistance is extolled. I repeat, in respectof their imaginary prowess, what I have said elsewhere of that of theSacred Beetles: the story is a childish one, worthy of ranking with anyfairy-tale written for the amusement of the simple. 

A hard soil, necessitating the removal of the body, is not the onlydifficulty familiar to the Necrophori. Often, perhaps more often thannot, the ground is covered with grass, above all with couch-grass, whose tenacious rootlets form an inextricable network below thesurface. To dig in the interstices is possible, but to drag the deadanimal through them is another matter: the meshes of the net are tooclose to give it passage. Will the grave-digger find himself reduced toimpotence by such an impediment, which must be an extremely common one?That could not be. 

Exposed to this or that habitual obstacle in the exercise of hiscalling, the animal is always equipped accordingly; otherwise hisprofession 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 and maybe foreseen with complete lucidity. Nevertheless, let us invokeexperiment, the best of witnesses. 

I borrow from the kitchen-range an iron trivet whose legs will supply asolid foundation for the engine which I am devising. This is a coarsenetwork of strips of raphia, a fairly accurate imitation of the networkof couch-grass roots. The very irregular meshes are nowhere wide enoughto admit of the passage of the creature to be buried, which in thiscase is a Mole. The trivet is planted with its three feet in the soilof the cage; its top is level with the surface of the soil. A littlesand conceals the meshes. The Mole is placed in the centre; and mysquad of sextons is let loose upon the body. 

Without a hitch the burial is accomplished in the course of anafternoon. The hammock of raphia, almost equivalent to the naturalnetwork of couch-grass turf, scarcely disturbs the process ofinhumation. Matters do not go forward quite so quickly; and that isall. No attempt is made to shift the Mole, who sinks into the groundwhere he lies. The operation completed, I remove the trivet. Thenetwork is broken at the spot where the corpse lay. A few strips havebeen gnawed through; a small number, only so many as were strictlynecessary to permit the passage of the body. 

Well done, my undertakers! I expected no less of your savoir-faire. Youhave foiled the artifices of the experimenter by employing yourresources against natural obstacles. With mandibles for shears, youhave patiently cut my threads as you would have gnawed the cordage ofthe grass-roots. This is meritorious, if not deserving of exceptionalglorification. The most limited of the insects which work in earthwould have done as much if subjected to similar conditions. 

Let us ascend a stage in the series of difficulties. The Mole is nowfixed with a lashing of raphia fore and aft to a light horizontalcross-bar which rests on two firmly-planted forks. It is like a jointof venison on a spit, though rather oddly fastened. The dead animaltouches the 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 ascends to the surface, wanders overthe Mole, inspects him and ends by perceiving the hinder strap. Tenaciously he gnaws and ravels it. I hear the click of the shears thatcompletes the rupture. Crack! The thing is done. Dragged down by hisown weight, the Mole sinks into the grave, but slantwise, with his headstill outside, kept in place by the second ligature. 

The Beetles proceed to the burial of the hinder part of the Mole; theytwitch and jerk it now in this direction, now in that. Nothing comes ofit; the thing refuses to give. A fresh sortie is made by one of them todiscover what is happening overhead. The second ligature is perceived, is severed in turn, and henceforth the work proceeds as well as couldbe desired. 

My compliments, perspicacious cable-cutters! But I must not exaggerate. The lashings of the Mole were for you the little cords with which youare so familiar in turfy soil. You have severed them, as well as thehammock of the previous experiment, just as you sever with the bladesof your shears any natural filament which stretches across yourcatacombs. It is, in your calling, an indispensable knack. If you hadhad to learn it by experience, to think it out before practising it, your race would have disappeared, killed by the hesitations of itsapprenticeship, for the spots fertile in Moles, Frogs, Lizards andother victuals to your taste are usually grass-covered. 

You are capable of far better things yet; but, before proceeding tothese, 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 suspended by the hazard of its fall remainunemployed? Will the Necrophori pass on, indifferent to the superbtit-bit which they see and smell a few inches above their heads, orwill they make it descend from its gibbet?

Game does not abound to such a point that it can be disdained if a fewefforts will obtain it. Before I see the thing happen I am persuadedthat it will fall, that the Necrophori, often confronted by thedifficulties of a body which is 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 brambles, a thing so common in thefields, should not be able to baffle them. The overthrow of thesuspended body, if placed too high, should certainly form part of theirinstinctive methods. For the rest, let us watch them at work. 

I plant in the sand of the cage a meagre tuft of thyme. The shrub is atmost some four inches in height. In the branches I place a Mouse, entangling the tail, the paws and the neck among the twigs in order toincrease the difficulty. The population of the cage now consists offourteen Necrophori 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, somnolent, or occupiedin setting their cellars in order. Sometimes only one, often two, threeor four, rarely more, busy themselves with the dead creature which Ioffer them. To-day two hasten to the Mouse, who is soon perceivedoverhead in the tuft of thyme. 

They gain the summit of the plant by way of the wire trellis of thecage. Here are repeated, with increased hesitation, due to theinconvenient nature of the support, the tactics employed to remove thebody when the soil is unfavourable. The insect props itself against abranch, thrusting alternately with back and claws, jerking and shakingvigorously until the point where at it is working is freed from itsfetters. In one brief shift, by dint of heaving their backs, the twocollaborators extricate the body from the entanglement of twigs. Yetanother shake; and the Mouse is down. The burial follows. 

There is nothing new in this experiment; the find has been dealt withjust as though it lay upon 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 celebrated by Gledditsch. The batrachian is not indispensable; a Mole will serve as well or evenbetter. With a ligament of raphia I fix him, by his hind-legs, to atwig which I plant vertically in the ground, inserting it to no greatdepth. The creature hangs plumb against the gibbet, its head andshoulders making ample contact with the soil. 

The gravediggers set to work beneath the part which lies upon theground, at the very foot of the stake; they dig a funnel-shaped hole, into which the muzzle, the head and the neck of the mole sink little bylittle. The gibbet becomes uprooted as they sink and eventually falls, dragged over by the weight of its heavy burden. I am assisting at thespectacle of the overturned stake, one of the most astonishing examplesof rational accomplishment which has ever been recorded to the creditof the insect. 

This, for one who is considering the problem of instinct, is anexciting moment. But let us beware of forming conclusions as yet; wemight be in too great a hurry. Let us ask ourselves first whether thefall of the stake was intentional or fortuitous. Did the Necrophori layit bare with the express intention of causing it to 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 gibbet. Under these conditionsabsolutely no attempt is made to overthrow the latter. Not the leastscrape of a claw is delivered at the foot of the gibbet. The entirework of excavation is accomplished at a distance, under the body, whoseshoulders are lying on the ground. There--and there only--a hole is dugto receive the free portion of the body, the part accessible to thesextons. 

A difference of an inch in the position of the suspended animalannihilates the famous legend. Even so, many a time, the mostelementary sieve, handled with a little logic, is enough to winnow theconfused mass of affirmations and to release the good grain of truth. 

Yet another shake of the sieve. The gibbet is oblique or verticalindifferently; but the Mole, always fixed by a hinder limb to the topof the twig, does not touch the soil; he hangs a few fingers'-breadthsfrom the ground, out of the sextons' reach. 

What will the latter do? 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 hanging bodytouch the ground at that point. And, in the latter case, if the twigshould happen to fall, its fall is in nowise an intentional result, buta mere fortuitous effect of the burial already commenced. 

What, then, did the owner of the Frog of whom Gledditsch tells usreally 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 the damp! We may fittinglyattribute more foresight to the preparer of dried Frogs and allow himto hang the creature some inches from the ground. In this case all myexperiments emphatically assert that the fall of the stake underminedby the sextons is a pure matter of imagination. 

Yet another of the fine arguments in favour of the reasoning power ofanimals flies from the light of investigation and founders in theslough of error! I admire your simple faith, you masters who takeseriously the statements of chance-met observers, richer in imaginationthan in veracity; I admire your credulous zeal, when, withoutcriticism, you build up your theories on such absurdities. 

Let us proceed. The stake is henceforth planted vertically, but thebody hanging on it does not reach the base: a condition which sufficesto ensure that there is never any digging at this point. I make use ofa Mouse, who, by reason of her trifling weight, will lend herselfbetter to the insect's manoeuvres. The dead body is fixed by thehind-legs to the top of the stake with a ligature of raphia. It hangsplumb, in contact with the stick. 

Very soon two Necrophori have discovered the tit-bit. They climb up theminiature mast; they explore the body, dividing its fur by thrusts ofthe head. It is recognized to be an excellent find. So to work. Here wehave again, but under far more difficult conditions, the tacticsemployed when it was necessary to displace the unfavourably situatedbody: the two collaborators slip between the Mouse and the stake, when, taking a grip of the latter and exerting a leverage with their backs, they jerk and shake the body, which oscillates, twirls about, swingsaway from the stake and relapses. 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; not veryclearly, for in the first place the two obstinate riflers of thegallows attack the hind-legs of the Mouse, a little below the ligature. They strip them bare, flay them and cut away the flesh about the heel. They have reached the bone, when one of them finds the raphia beneathhis mandibles. This, to him, is a familiar thing, representing thegramineous fibre so frequent in the case of burial in grass-coveredsoil. Tenaciously the shears gnaw at the bond; the vegetable fetter issevered and the Mouse falls, to be buried a little later. 

If it were isolated, this severance of the suspending tie would be amagnificent performance; but considered in connection with the sum ofthe Beetle's customary labours it loses all far-reaching significance. Before attacking the ligature, which was not concealed in any way, theinsect exerted itself for a whole morning in shaking the body, itsusual method. Finally, finding the cord, it severed it, as it wouldhave severed a ligament 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 the bladesof his shears will be useful. He cuts what embarrasses him with no moreexercise of reason than he displays when placing the corpseunderground. So little does he grasp the connection between cause andeffect that he strives to break the bone of the leg before gnawing atthe bast which is knotted close beside him. The difficult task isattacked before the extremely simple. 

Difficult, yes, but not impossible, provided that the Mouse be young. Ibegin again with a ligature of iron wire, on which the shears of theinsect can obtain no purchase, and a tender Mouselet, half the size ofan adult. This time a tibia is gnawed through, cut in two by theBeetle's mandibles near the spring of the heel. The detached memberleaves plenty of space for the other, which readily slips from themetallic band; and the little body falls to the ground. 

But, if the bone be too hard, if the body suspended be that of a Mole, an adult Mouse, or a Sparrow, the wire ligament opposes aninsurmountable obstacle to the attempts of the Necrophori, who, fornearly a week, work at the hanging body, partly stripping it of fur orfeather and dishevelling it until it forms a lamentable object, and atlast abandon it, when desiccation sets in. A last resource, however, remains, one as rational as infallible. It is to overthrow the stake. Of course, not one 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 raphia, I bind together, a little abovethe heels, the hind-legs of an adult Mouse; and between the legs I slipone of the prongs of the fork. To make the body fall it is enough toslide it a little way upwards; it is like a young Rabbit hanging in thefront of a poulterer's shop. 

Five Necrophori come to inspect my preparations. After a great deal offutile shaking, the tibiae are attacked. This, it seems, is the methodusually employed when the body is retained 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 limbs. So situated, he feels against his back the furry touchof the Mouse. Nothing more is needed to arouse his propensity to thrustwith his back. With a few heaves of the lever the thing is done; theMouse rises a little, slides over the supporting peg and falls to theground. 

Is this manoeuvre really thought out? Has the insect indeed perceived, by the light of a flash of reason, that in order to make the tit-bitfall it was necessary to unhook it by sliding it along the peg? Has itreally perceived the mechanism of suspension? I know somepersons--indeed, I know many--who, in the presence of this magnificentresult, would be satisfied without further investigation. 

More difficult to convince, I modify the experiment before drawing aconclusion. I suspect that the Necrophorus, without any prevision ofthe consequences of his action, heaved his back simply because he feltthe legs of the creature above him. With the system of suspensionadopted, the push of the back, employed in all cases of difficulty, wasbrought to bear first upon the point of support; and the fall resultedfrom this happy coincidence. That point, which has to be slipped alongthe peg in order to unhook the object, ought really to be situated at ashort distance from the Mouse, so that the Necrophori shall no longerfeel her directly against their backs when they push. 

A piece of wire binds together now the tarsi of a Sparrow, now theheels of a Mouse and is bent, at a distance of three-quarters of aninch or so, into a little ring, which slips very loosely over one ofthe prongs of the fork, a short, almost horizontal prong. To make thehanging body fall, the slightest thrust upon this ring is sufficient;and, owing to its projection from the peg, it lends itself excellentlyto the insect's methods. In short, the arrangement is the same as itwas just now, with this difference, that the point of support is at ashort distance from the suspended animal. 

My trick, simple though it be, is fully successful. For a long time thebody is repeatedly shaken, but in vain; the tibiae or tarsi, undulyhard, refuse to yield to the patient saw. Sparrows and Mice grow dryand shrivelled, unused, upon the gibbet. Sooner in one case, later inanother, my Necrophori abandon the insoluble problem in mechanics: topush, ever so little, the movable support and so to unhook the covetedcarcass. 

Curious reasoners, in faith! If they had had, but now, a lucid idea ofthe mutual relations between the shackled limbs and the suspending peg;if they had made the Mouse fall by a reasoned manoeuvre, whence comesit that the present artifice, no less simple than the first, is to theman insurmountable obstacle? For days and days they work on the body, examine it from head to foot, without becoming aware of the movablesupport, the cause of their misadventure. In vain do I prolong mywatch; never do I see a single one of them push it with his foot orbutt it with his head. 

Their defeat is not due to lack of strength. Like the Geotrupes, theyare vigorous excavators. Grasped in the closed hand, they insinuatethemselves through the interstices of the fingers and plough up yourskin in a fashion to make you very quickly loose your hold. With hishead, a robust ploughshare, the Beetle might very easily push the ringoff its short support. He is not able to do so because he does notthink of it; he does not think of it because he is devoid of thefaculty attributed to him, in order to support its thesis, by thedangerous prodigality of transformism. 

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

Let us now examine under another aspect the mental obscurity of theNecrophori. 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, the Mole buriedand all in order in the cellar, they stray uneasily over the wire-gauzeof the dome; they clamber up, descend, ascend again and take to flight, a flight which instantly becomes a fall, owing to collision with thewire grating. They pick themselves up and begin again. The sky issuperb; the weather is hot, calm and propitious for those in search ofthe Lizard crushed beside the footpath. Perhaps the effluvia of thegamy tit-bit have reached them, coming from afar, imperceptible to anyother sense than that of the Sexton-beetles. So my Necrophori are fainto go their ways. 

Can they? Nothing would be easier if a glimmer of reason were to aidthem. Through the wire network, over which they have so often strayed, they have seen, outside, the free soil, the promised land which theylong to reach. A hundred times if once have they dug at the foot of therampart. There, in vertical wells, they take up their station, drowsingwhole days on end while unemployed. If I give them a fresh Mole, theyemerge from their retreat by the entrance corridor and come to hidethemselves beneath the belly of the beast. The burial over, theyreturn, one here, one there, to the confines of the enclosure anddisappear beneath the soil. 

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, to prolong his excavation beneath thebarrier, to make an elbow in it and to bring it out on the other side, a trifling task for these vigorous creatures. Of fourteen only onesucceeded 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, discover by rational means the elbowed path leading to theouter world; and the cage would promptly be deserted. The failure ofthe great majority proves that the single fugitive was simply diggingat random. Circumstances favoured him; and that is all. Do not let usmake it a merit that he succeeded where all the others failed. 

Let us also beware of attributing to the Necrophori an understandingmore limited than is usual in entomological psychology. I find theineptness of the undertaker in all the insects reared under the wirecover, on the bed of sand into which the rim of the dome sinks a littleway. With very rare exceptions, fortuitous accidents, no insect hasthought of circumventing the barrier by way of the base; none hassucceeded in gaining the exterior by means of a slanting tunnel, noteven though it were a miner by profession, as are the Dung-beetles parexcellence. Captives under the wire dome, but desirous of escape, Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes, Copres, Gymnopleuri, Sisyphi, all see aboutthem the freedom of space, the joys of the open sunlight; and not onethinks of going round under the rampart, a front which would present nodifficulty to their pick-axes. 

Even in the higher ranks of animality, examples of similar mentalobfuscation are not lacking. Audubon relates how, in his days, the wildTurkeys were caught in North America. 

In a clearing known to be frequented by these birds, a great cage wasconstructed with stakes driven into the ground. In the centre of theenclosure opened a short tunnel, which dipped under the palisade andreturned to the surface outside the cage by a gentle slope, which wasopen to the sky. The central opening, large enough to give a bird freepassage, occupied only a portion of the enclosure, leaving around it, against the circle of stakes, a wide unbroken zone. A few handfuls ofmaize were scattered in the interior of the trap, as well as roundabout it, and in particular along the sloping path, which passed undera sort of bridge and led to the centre of the contrivance. In short, the Turkey-trap presented an ever-open door. The bird found it in orderto enter, but did not think of looking for it in order to return by it. 

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 beaks in the open air, they remained until they wereexhausted. 

Remember, inept fowl, the occurrences of a little while ago; think ofthe tunnel which led you hither! If there be in that poor brain ofyours an atom of capacity, put two ideas together and remind yourselfthat the passage by which you entered is there and open for yourescape! 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 of your exit, leaves you indifferent. Torecognize the use of this opening you would have to reflect a little, to evolve 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 when hehas to baffle the attacks of his nocturnal enemy, the Virginian Owl. Asfor his actions in the snare with the underground passage, any otherbird, 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 open daylight, after resting in a short burrow against the rim of the wire cover, theBeetle, seeing a little light filtering down through the loose soil, reascends by the path of entry, incapable of telling himself that itwould suffice to prolong the tunnel as far in the opposite directionfor him to reach the outer world beyond the wall and gain his freedom. Here again is one in whom we shall seek in vain for any indication ofreflection. Like the rest, in spite of his legendary renown, he has noguide but the unconscious promptings of instinct. 

CHAPTER 7. THE BLUEBOTTLE. 

To purge the earth of death's impurities and cause deceased animalmatter to be once more numbered among the treasures of life there arehosts of sausage-queens, including, in our part of the world, theBluebottle (Calliphora vomitaria, Lin. ) and the Grey Flesh-fly(Sarcophaga carnaria, Lin. ) Every one knows the first, the big, dark-blue Fly who, after effecting her designs in the ill-watchedmeat-safe, settles on our window-panes and keeps up a solemn buzzing, anxious to be off in the sun and ripen a fresh emission of germs. Howdoes she lay her eggs, the origin of the loathsome maggot that battenspoisonously on our provisions whether of game or butcher's meat? Whatare her stratagems and how can we foil them? This is what I propose toinvestigate. 

The Bluebottle frequents our homes during autumn and a part of winter, until the cold becomes severe; but her appearance in the fields datesback much earlier. On the first fine day in February, we shall see herwarming herself, chillily, against the sunny walls. In April, I noticeher in considerable numbers on the laurustinus. It is here that sheseems to pair, while sipping the sugary exudations of the small whiteflowers. The whole of the summer season is spent out of doors, in briefflights from one refreshment-bar to the next. When autumn comes, withits game, she makes her way into our houses and remains until the hardfrosts. 

This suits my stay-at-home habits and especially my legs, which arebending under the weight of years. I need not run after the subjects ofmy present study; they call on me. Besides, I have vigilant assistants. The household knows of my plans. One and all bring me, in a littlescrew of paper, the noisy visitor just captured against the panes. 

Thus do I fill my vivarium, which consists of a large, bell-shaped cageof wire-gauze, standing in an earthenware pan full of sand. A mugcontaining honey is the dining-room of the establishment. Here thecaptives come to recruit themselves in their hours of leisure. Tooccupy their maternal cares, I employ small birds--Chaffinches, Linnets, Sparrows--brought down, in the enclosure, by my son's gun. 

I have just served up a Linnet shot two days ago. I next place in thecage a Bluebottle, one only, to avoid confusion. Her fat bellyproclaims the advent of laying-time. An hour later, when the excitementof being put in prison is allayed, my captive is in labour. With eager, jerky steps, she explores the morsel of game, goes from the head to thetail, returns from the tail to the head, repeats the action severaltimes and at last settles near an eye, a dimmed eye sunk into itssocket. 

The ovipositor bends at a right angle and dives into the junction ofthe beak, straight down to the root. Then the eggs are emitted fornearly half an hour. The layer, utterly absorbed in her seriousbusiness, remains stationary and impassive and is easily observedthrough my lens. A movement on my part would doubtless scare her; butmy restful presence gives her no anxiety. I am nothing to her. 

The discharge does not go on continuously until the ovaries areexhausted; it is intermittent and performed in so many packets. Severaltimes over, the Fly leaves the bird's beak and comes to take a restupon the wire-gauze, where she brushes her hind-legs one against theother. In particular, before using it again, she cleans, smooths andpolishes her laying-tool, the probe that places the eggs. Then, feelingher womb still teeming, she returns to the same spot at the joint ofthe beak. The delivery is resumed, to cease presently and then beginanew. A couple of hours are thus spent in alternate standing near theeye and resting on the wire-gauze. 

At last it is over. The Fly does not go back to the bird, a proof thather ovaries are exhausted. The next day she is dead. The eggs aredabbed in a continuous layer, at the entrance to the throat, at theroot of the tongue, on the membrane of the palate. Their number appearsconsiderable; the whole inside of the gullet is white with them. I fixa little wooden prop between the two mandibles of the beak, to keepthem open and enable me to see what happens. 

I learn in this way that the hatching takes place in a couple of days. As soon as they are born, the young vermin, a swarming mass, leave theplace where they are and disappear down the throat. 

The beak of the bird invaded was closed at the start, as far as thenatural contact of the mandibles allowed. There remained a narrow slitat the base, sufficient at most to admit the passage of a horse-hair. It was through this that the laying was performed. Lengthening herovipositor like a telescope, the mother inserted the point of herimplement, a point slightly hardened with a horny armour. The finenessof the probe equals the fineness of the aperture. But, if the beak wereentirely closed, where would the eggs be laid then?

With a tied thread I keep the two mandibles in absolute contact; and Iplace a second Bluebottle in the presence of the Linnet, whom thecolonists have already entered by the beak. This time the laying takesplace on one of the eyes, between the lid and the eyeball. At thehatching, which again occurs a couple of days later, the grubs maketheir way into the fleshy depths of the socket. The eyes and the beak, therefore, form the two chief entrances into feathered game. 

There are others; and these are the wounds. I cover the Linnet's headwith a paper hood which will prevent invasion through the beak andeyes. I serve it, under the wire-gauze bell, to a third egg-layer. Thebird has been struck by a shot in the breast, but the sore is notbleeding: no outer stain marks the injured spot. Moreover, I am carefulto arrange the feathers, to smooth them with a hair-pencil, so that thebird looks quite smart and has every appearance of being untouched. 

The Fly is soon there. She inspects the Linnet from end to end; withher front tarsi she fumbles at the breast and belly. It is a sort ofauscultation by sense of touch. The insect becomes aware of what isunder the feathers by the manner in which these react. If scent lendsits assistance, it can only be very slightly, for the game is not yethigh. The wound is soon found. No drop of blood is near it, for it isclosed by a plug of down rammed into it by the shot. The Fly takes upher position without separating the feathers or uncovering the wound. She remains here for two hours without stirring, motionless, with herabdomen concealed beneath the plumage. My eager curiosity does notdistract her from her business for a moment. 

When she has finished, I take her place. There is nothing either on theskin or at the mouth of the wound. I have to withdraw the downy plugand dig to some depth before discovering the eggs. The ovipositor hastherefore lengthened its extensible tube and pushed beyond the featherstopper driven in by the lead. The eggs are in one packet; they numberabout three hundred. 

When the beak and eyes are rendered inaccessible, when the body, moreover, has no wounds, the laying still takes place, but this time ina hesitating and niggardly fashion. I pluck the bird completely, thebetter to watch what happens; also, I cover the head with a paper hoodto close the usual means of access. For a long time, with jerky steps, the mother explores the body in every direction; she takes her stand bypreference on the head, which she sounds by tapping on it with herfront tarsi. She knows that the openings which she needs are there, under the paper; but she also knows how frail are her grubs, howpowerless to pierce their way through the strange obstacle which stopsher as well and interferes with the work of her ovipositor. The cowlinspires her with profound distrust. Despite the tempting bait of theveiled head, not an egg is laid on the wrapper, slight though it maybe. 

Weary of vain attempts to compass this obstacle, the Fly at lastdecides in favour of other points, but not on the breast, belly, orback, where the hide would seem too tough and the light too intrusive. She needs dark hiding-places, corners where the skin is very delicate. The spots chosen are the cavity of the axilla, corresponding with ourarm-pit, and the crease where the thigh joins the belly. Eggs are laidin both places, but not many, showing that the groin and the axilla areadopted only reluctantly and for lack of a better spot. 

With an unplucked bird, also hooded, the same experiment failed: thefeathers prevent the Fly from slipping into those deep places. Let usadd, in conclusion, that, on a skinned bird, or simply on a piece ofbutcher's meat, the laying is effected on any part whatever, providedthat it be dark. The gloomiest corners are the favourite ones. 

It follows from all this that, to lay her eggs, the Bluebottle picksout either naked wounds or else the mucous membranes of the mouth oreyes, which are not protected by a skin of any thickness. She alsoneeds darkness. 

The perfect efficiency of the paper bag, which prevents the inroads ofthe worms through the eye-sockets or the beak, suggests a similarexperiment with the whole bird. It is a matter of wrapping the body ina sort of artificial skin which will be as discouraging to the Fly asthe natural skin. Linnets, some with deep wounds, others almost intact, are placed one by one in paper envelopes similar to those in which thenursery-gardener keeps his seeds, envelopes just folded, without beingstuck. The paper is quite ordinary and of middling thickness. Tornpieces of newspaper serve the purpose. 

These sheaths with the corpses inside them are freely exposed to theair, on the table in my study, where they are visited, according to thetime of day, in dense shade and in bright sunlight. Attracted by theeffluvia from the dead meat, the Bluebottles haunt my laboratory, thewindows of which are always open. I see them daily alighting on theenvelopes and very busily exploring them, apprised of the contents bythe gamy smell. Their incessant coming and going is a sign of intensecupidity; and yet none of them decides to lay on the bags. They do noteven attempt to slide their ovipositor through the slits of the folds. The favourable season passes and not an egg is laid on the temptingwrappers. All the mothers abstain, judging the slender obstacle of thepaper to be more than the vermin will be able to overcome. 

This caution on the Fly's part does not at all surprise me: motherhoodeverywhere has great gleams of perspicacity. What does astonish me isthe following result. The parcels containing the Linnets are left for awhole year uncovered on the table; they remain there for a second yearand a third. I inspect the contents from time to time. The little birdsare intact, with unrumpled feathers, free from smell, dry and light, like mummies. They have become not decomposed, but mummified. 

I expected to see them putrefying, running into sanies, like corpsesleft to rot in the open air. On the contrary, the birds have dried andhardened, without undergoing any change. What did they want for theirputrefaction? simply the intervention of the Fly. The maggot, therefore, is the primary cause of dissolution after death; it is, above all, the putrefactive chemist. 

A conclusion not devoid of value may be drawn from my paper game-bags. In our markets, especially in those of the South, the game is hungunprotected from the hooks on the stalls. Larks strung up by the dozenwith a wire through their nostrils, Thrushes, Plovers, Teal, Partridges, Snipe, in short, all the glories of the spit which theautumn migration brings us, remain for days and weeks at the mercy ofthe Flies. The buyer allows himself to be tempted by a goodly exterior;he makes his purchase and, back at home, just when the bird is beingprepared for roasting, he discovers that the promised dainty is alivewith worms. O horror! There is nothing for it but to throw theloathsome, verminous thing away. 

The Bluebottle is the culprit here. Everybody knows it, and nobodythinks seriously of shaking off her tyranny: not the retailer, nor thewholesale dealer, nor the killer of the game. What is wanted to keepthe maggots out? Hardly anything: to slip each bird into a papersheath. If this precaution were taken at the start, before the Fliesarrive, any game would be safe and could be left indefinitely to attainthe degree of ripeness required by the epicure's palate. 

Stuffed with olives and myrtleberries, the Corsican Blackbirds areexquisite eating. We sometimes receive them at Orange, layers of them, packed in baskets through which the air circulates freely and eachcontained in a paper wrapper. They are in a state of perfectpreservation, complying with the most exacting demands of the kitchen. I congratulate the nameless shipper who conceived the bright idea ofclothing his Blackbirds in paper. Will his example find imitators? Idoubt it. 

There is, of course, a serious objection to this method ofpreservation. In its paper shroud, the article is invisible; it is notenticing; it does not inform the passer-by of its nature and qualities. There is one resource left which would leave the bird uncovered: simplyto case the head in a paper cap. The head being the part most menaced, because of the mucous membrane of the throat and eyes, it would beenough, as a rule, to protect the head, in order to keep off the Fliesand thwart their attempts. 

Let us continue to study the Bluebottle, while varying our means ofinformation. A tin, about four inches deep, contains a piece ofbutcher's meat. The lid is not put in quite straight and leaves anarrow slit at one point of its circumference, allowing, at most, ofthe passage of a fine needle. When the bait begins to give off a gamyscent, the mothers come, singly or in numbers. They are attracted bythe odour which, transmitted through a thin crevice, hardly reaches mynostrils. 

They explore the metal receptacle for some time, seeking an entrance. Finding naught that enables them to reach the coveted morsel, theydecide to lay their eggs on the tin, just beside the aperture. Sometimes, when the width of the passage allows of it, they insert theovipositor into the tin and lay the eggs inside, on the very edge ofthe slit. Whether outside or in, the eggs are dabbed down in a fairlyregular and absolutely white layer. 

We have seen the Bluebottle refusing to lay her eggs on the paper bag, notwithstanding the carrion fumes of the Linnet enclosed; yet now, without hesitation, she lays them on a sheet of metal. Can the natureof the floor make any difference to her? I replace the tin lid by apaper cover stretched and pasted over the orifice. With the point of myknife I make a narrow slit in this new lid. That is quite enough: theparent accepts the paper. 

What determined her, therefore, is not simply the smell, which caneasily be perceived even through the uncut paper, but, above all, thecrevice, which will provide an entrance for the vermin, hatchedoutside, near the narrow passage. The maggots' mother has her ownlogic, her prudent foresight. She knows how feeble her wee grubs willbe, how powerless to cut their way through an obstacle of anyresistance; and so, despite the temptation of the smell, she refrainsfrom laying, so long as she finds no entrance through which thenew-born worms can slip unaided. 

I wanted to know whether the colour, the shininess, the degree ofhardness and other qualities of the obstacle would influence thedecision of a mother obliged to lay her eggs under exceptionalconditions. With this object in view, I employed small jars, eachbaited with a bit of butcher's meat. The respective lids were made ofdifferent-coloured paper, of oil-skin, or of some of that tin-foil, with its gold or coppery sheen, which is used for sealingliqueur-bottles. On not one of these covers did the mothers stop, withany desire to deposit their eggs; but, from the moment that the knifehad made the narrow slit, all the lids were, sooner or later, visitedand all, sooner or later, received the white shower somewhere near thegash. The look of the obstacle, therefore, does not count; dull orbrilliant, drab or coloured: these are details of no importance; thething that matters is that there should be a passage to allow the grubsto enter. 

Though hatched outside, at a distance from the coveted morsel, thenew-born worms are well able to find their refectory. As they releasethemselves from the egg, without hesitation, so accurate is theirscent, they slip beneath the edge of the ill-joined lid, or through thepassage cut by the knife. Behold them entering upon their promisedland, their reeking paradise. 

Eager to arrive, do they drop from the top of the wall? Not they!Slowly creeping, they make their way down the side of the jar; they usetheir fore-part, ever in quest of information, as a crutch and grapnelin one. They reach the meat and at once instal themselves upon it. 

Let us continue our investigation, varying the conditions. A largetest-tube, measuring nine inches high, is baited at the bottom with alump of butcher's meat. It is closed with wire-gauze, whose meshes, twomillimetres wide (. 078 inch. --Translator's Note. ), do not permit of theFly's passage. The Bluebottle comes to my apparatus, guided by scentrather than sight. She hastens to the test-tube, whose contents areveiled under an opaque cover, with the same alacrity as to the opentube. The invisible attracts her quite as much as the visible. 

She stays awhile on the lattice of the mouth, inspects it attentively;but, whether because circumstances failed to serve me, or because thewire network inspired her with distrust, I never saw her dab her eggsupon it for certain. As her evidence was doubtful, I had recourse tothe Flesh-fly (Sarcophaga carnaria). 

This Fly is less finicking in her preparations, she has more faith inthe strength of her worms, which are born ready-formed and vigorous, and easily shows me what I wish to see. She explores the trellis-work, chooses a mesh through which she inserts the tip of her abdomen, and, undisturbed by my presence, emits, one after the other, a certainnumber of grubs, about ten or so. True, her visits will be repeated, increasing the family at a rate of which I am ignorant. 

The new-born worms, thanks to a slight viscidity, cling for a moment tothe wire-gauze; they swarm, wriggle, release themselves and leap intothe chasm. It is a nine-inch drop at least. When this is done, themother makes off, knowing for a certainty that her offspring will shiftfor themselves. If they fall on the meat, well and good; if they fallelsewhere, they can reach the morsel by crawling. 

This confidence in the unknown factor of the precipice, with noindication but that of smell, deserves fuller investigation. From whatheight will the Flesh-fly dare to let her children drop? I top thetest-tube with another tube, the width of the neck of a claret-bottle. The mouth is closed either with wire-gauze or with a paper cover with aslight cut in it. Altogether, the apparatus measures twenty-five inchesin height. No matter: the fall is not serious for the lithe backs ofthe young grubs; and, in a few days, the test-tube is filled withlarvae, in which it is easy to recognize the Flesh-fly's family by thefringed coronet that opens and shuts at the maggot's stern like thepetals of a little flower. I did not see the mother operating: I wasnot there at the time; but there is no doubt possible of her coming, nor of the great dive taken by the family: the contents of thetest-tube furnish me with a duly authenticated certificate. 

I admire the leap and, to obtain one better still, I replace the tubeby another, so that the apparatus now stands forty-six inches high. Thecolumn is erected at a spot frequented by Flies, in a dim light. Itsmouth, closed with a wire-gauze cover, reaches the level of variousother appliances, test-tubes and jars, which are already stocked orawaiting their colony of vermin. When the position is well-known to theFlies, I remove the other tubes and leave the column, lest the visitorsshould turn aside to easier ground. 

From time to time the Bluebottle and the Flesh-fly perch on thetrellis-work, make a short investigation and then decamp. Throughoutthe summer season, for three whole months, the apparatus remains whereit is, without result: never a worm. What is the reason? Does thestench of the meat not spread, coming from that depth? Certainly itspreads: it is unmistakable to my dulled nostrils and still more so tothe nostrils of my children, whom I call to bear witness. Then why doesthe Flesh-fly, who but now was dropping her grubs from a goodly height, refuse to let them fall from the top of a column twice as high? Doesshe fear lest her worms should be bruised by an excessive drop? Thereis nothing about her to point to anxiety aroused by the length of theshaft. I never see her explore the tube or take its size. She stands onthe trellised orifice; and there the matter ends. Can she be apprisedof the depth of the chasm by the comparative faintness of the offensiveodours that arise from it? Can the sense of smell measure the distanceand judge whether it be acceptable or not? Perhaps. 

The fact remains that, despite the attraction of the scent, theFlesh-fly does not expose her worms to disproportionate falls. Can sheknow beforehand that, when the chrysalids break, her winged family, knocking with a sudden flight against the sides of a tall chimney, willbe unable to get out? This foresight would be in agreement with therules which order maternal instinct according to future needs. 

But, when the fall does not exceed a certain depth, the budding wormsof the Flesh-fly are dropped without a qualm, as all our experimentsshow. This principle has a practical application which is not withoutits value in matters of domestic economy. It is as well that thewonders of entomology should sometimes give us a hint of commonplaceutility. 

The usual meat-safe is a sort of large cage with a top and bottom ofwood and four wire-gauze sides. Hooks fixed into the top are usedwhereby to hang pieces which we wish to protect from the Flies. Often, so as to employ the space to the best advantage, these pieces aresimply laid on the floor of the cage. With these arrangements, are wesure of warding off the Fly and her vermin?

Not at all. We may protect ourselves against the Bluebottle, who is notmuch inclined to lay her eggs at a distance from the meat; but there isstill the Flesh-fly, who is more venturesome and goes more briskly towork and who will slip the grubs through a hole in the meshes and dropthem inside the safe. Agile as they are and well able to crawl, theworms will easily reach anything on the floor; the only things securefrom their attacks will be the pieces hanging from the ceiling. It isnot in the nature of maggots to explore the heights, especially if thisimplies climbing down a string in addition. 

People also use wire-gauze dish-covers. The trellised dome protects thecontents even less than does the meat-safe. The Flesh-fly takes no heedof it. She can drop her worms through the meshes on the covered joint. 

Then what are we to do? Nothing could be simpler. We need only wrap thebirds which we wish to preserve--Thrushes, Partridges, Snipe and soon--in separate paper envelopes; and the same with our beef and mutton. This defensive armour alone, while leaving ample room for the air tocirculate, makes any invasion by the worms impossible; even without acover or a meat-safe: not that paper possesses any special preservativevirtues, but solely because it forms an impenetrable barrier. TheBluebottle carefully refrains from laying her eggs upon it and theFlesh-fly from bringing forth her offspring, both of them knowing thattheir new-born young are incapable of piercing the obstacle. 

Paper is equally successful in our strife against the Moths, thoseplagues of our furs and clothes. To keep away these wholesale ravagers, people generally use camphor, naphthalene, tobacco, bunches oflavender, and other strong-scented remedies. Without wishing to malignthose preservatives, we are bound to admit that the means employed arenone too effective. The smell does very little to prevent the havoc ofthe Moths. 

I would therefore advise our housewives, instead of all this chemist'sstuff, to use newspapers of a suitable shape and size. Take whateveryou wish to protect--your furs, your flannel, or your clothes--and packeach article carefully in a newspaper, joining the edges with a doublefold, well pinned. If this joining is properly done, the Moth willnever get inside. Since my advice has been taken and this methodemployed in my household, the old damage has no longer been repeated. 

To return to the Fly. A piece of meat is hidden in a jar under a layerof fine, dry sand, a finger's-breadth thick. The jar has a wide mouthand is left quite open. Let whoso come that will, attracted by thesmell. The Bluebottles are not long in inspecting what I have preparedfor them: they enter the jar, go out and come back again, inquiringinto the invisible thing revealed by its fragrance. A diligent watchenables me to see them fussing about, exploring the sandy expanse, tapping it with their feet, sounding it with their proboscis. I leavethe visitors undisturbed for a fortnight or three weeks. None of themlays any eggs. 

This is a repetition of what the paper bag, with its dead bird, showedme. The Flies refuse to lay on the sand, apparently for the samereasons. The paper was considered an obstacle which the frail verminwould not be able to overcome. With sand, the case is worse. Itsgrittiness would hurt the new-born weaklings, its dryness would absorbthe moisture indispensable to their movements. Later, when preparingfor the metamorphosis, when their strength has come to them, the grubswill dig the earth quite well and be able to descend: but, at thestart, that would be very dangerous for them. Knowing thesedifficulties, the mothers, however greatly tempted by the smell, abstain from breeding. As a matter of fact, after long waiting, fearinglest some packets of eggs may have escaped my attention, I inspect thecontents of the jar from top to bottom. Meat and sand contain neitherlarvae nor pupae: the whole is absolutely deserted. 

The layer of sand being only a finger's-breadth thick, this experimentrequires certain precautions. The meat may expand a little, in goingbad, and protrude in one or two places. However small the fleshy eyotsthat show above the surface, the Flies come to them and breed. Sometimes also the juices oozing from the putrid meat soak a smallextent of the sandy floor. That is enough for the maggot's firstestablishment. These causes of failure are avoided with a layer of sandabout an inch thick. Then the Bluebottle, the Flesh-fly, and otherFlies whose grubs batten on dead bodies are kept at a proper distance. 

In the hope of awakening us to a proper sense of our insignificance, pulpit orators sometimes make an unfair use of the grave and its worms. Let us put no faith in their doleful rhetoric. The chemistry of man'sfinal dissolution is eloquent enough of our emptiness: there is no needto add imaginary horrors. The worm of the sepulchre is an invention ofcantankerous minds, incapable of seeing things as they are. Covered bybut a few inches of earth, the dead can sleep their quiet sleep: no Flywill ever come to take advantage of them. 

At the surface of the soil, exposed to the air, the hideous invasion ispossible; aye, it is the invariable rule. For the melting down andremoulding of matter, man is no better, corpse for corpse, than thelowest of the brutes. Then the Fly exercises her rights and deals withus as she does with any ordinary animal refuse. Nature treats us withmagnificent indifference in her great regenerating factory: placed inher crucibles, animals and men, beggars and kings are 1 and all alike. There you have true equality, the only equality in this world of ours:equality in the presence of the maggot. 

CHAPTER 8. THE PINE-PROCESSIONARY. 

Drover Dingdong's Sheep followed the Ram which Panurge had maliciouslythrown overboard and leapt nimbly into the sea, one after the other, "for you know, " says Rabelais, "it is the nature of the sheep always tofollow the first, wheresoever it goes. "

The Pine caterpillar is even more sheeplike, not from foolishness, butfrom necessity: where the first goes all the others go, in a regularstring, with not an empty space between them. 

They proceed in single file, in a continuous row, each touching withits head the rear of the one in front of it. The complex twists andturns described in his vagaries by the caterpillar leading the van arescrupulously described by all the others. No Greek theoria winding itsway to the Eleusinian festivals was ever more orderly. Hence the nameof Processionary given to the gnawer of the pine. 

His character is complete when we add that he is a rope-dancer all hislife long: he walks only on the tight-rope, a silken rail placed inposition as he advances. The caterpillar who chances to be at the headof the procession dribbles his thread without ceasing and fixes it onthe path which his fickle preferences cause him to take. The thread isso tiny that the eye, though armed with a magnifying-glass, suspects itrather than sees it. 

But a second caterpillar steps on the slender foot-board and doubles itwith his thread; a third trebles it; and all the others, however manythere be, add the sticky spray from their spinnerets, so much so that, when the procession has marched by, there remains, as a record of itspassing, a narrow white ribbon whose dazzling whiteness shimmers in thesun. Very much more sumptuous than ours, their system of road-makingconsists in upholstering with silk instead of macadamizing. We sprinkleour roads with broken stones and level them by the pressure of a heavysteam-roller; they lay over their paths a soft satin rail, a work ofgeneral interest to which each contributes his thread. 

What is the use of all this luxury? Could they not, like othercaterpillars, walk about without these costly preparations? I see tworeasons for their mode of progression. It is night when theProcessionaries sally forth to browse upon the pine-leaves. They leavetheir nest, situated at the top of a bough, in profound darkness; theygo down the denuded pole till they come to the nearest branch that hasnot yet been gnawed, a branch which becomes lower and lower by degreesas the consumers finish stripping the upper storeys; they climb up thisuntouched branch and spread over the green needles. 

When they have had their suppers and begin to feel the keen night air, the next thing is to return to the shelter of the house. Measured in astraight line, the distance is not great, hardly an arm's length; butit cannot be covered in this way on foot. The caterpillars have toclimb down from one crossing to the next, from the needle to the twig, from the twig to the branch, from the branch to the bough and from thebough, by a no less angular path, to go back home. It is useless torely upon sight as a guide on this long and erratic journey. TheProcessionary, it is true, has five ocular specks on either side of hishead, but they are so infinitesimal, so difficult to make out throughthe magnifying-glass, that we cannot attribute to them any great powerof vision. Besides, what good would those short-sighted lenses be inthe absence of light, in black darkness?

It is equally useless to think of the sense of smell. Has theProcessional any olfactory powers or has he not? I do not know. Withoutgiving a positive answer to the question, I can at least declare thathis sense of smell is exceedingly dull and in no way suited to help himfind his way. This is proved, in my experiments, by a number of hungrycaterpillars that, after a long fast, pass close beside a pine-branchwithout betraying any eagerness of showing a sign of stopping. It isthe sense of touch that tells them where they are. So long as theirlips do not chance to light upon the pasture-land, not one of themsettles there, though he be ravenous. They do not hasten to food whichthey have scented from afar; they stop at a branch which they encounteron their way. 

Apart from sight and smell, what remains to guide them in returning tothe nest? The ribbon spun on the road. In the Cretan labyrinth, Theseuswould have been lost but for the clue of thread with which Ariadnesupplied him. The spreading maze of the pine-needles is, especially atnight, as inextricable a labyrinth as that constructed for Minos. TheProcessionary finds his way through it, without the possibility of amistake, by the aid of his bit of silk. At the time for going home, each easily recovers either his own thread or one or other of theneighbouring threads, spread fanwise by the diverging herd; one by onethe scattered tribe line up on the common ribbon, which started fromthe nest; and the sated caravan finds its way back to the manor withabsolute certainty. 

Longer expeditions are made in the daytime, even in winter, if theweather be fine. Our caterpillars then come down from the tree, ventureon the ground, march in procession for a distance of thirty yards orso. The object of these sallies is not to look for food, for the nativepine-tree is far from being exhausted: the shorn branches hardly countamid the vast leafage. Moreover, the caterpillars observe completeabstinence till nightfall. The trippers have no other object than aconstitutional, a pilgrimage to the outskirts to see what these arelike, possibly an inspection of the locality where, later on, they meanto bury themselves in the sand for their metamorphosis. 

It goes without saying that, in these greater evolutions, the guidingcord is not neglected. It is now more necessary than ever. Allcontribute to it from the produce of their spinnerets, as is theinvariable rule whenever there is a progression. Not one takes a stepforward without fixing to the path the thread from his lips. 

If the series forming the procession be at all long, the ribbon isdilated sufficiently to make it easy to find; nevertheless, on thehomeward journey, it is not picked up without some hesitation. Forobserve that the caterpillars when on the march never turn completely;to wheel round on their tight-rope is a method utterly unknown to them. In order therefore to regain the road already covered, they have todescribe a zigzag whose windings and extent are determined by theleader's fancy. Hence come gropings and roamings which are sometimesprolonged to the point of causing the herd to spend the night out ofdoors. It is not a serious matter. They collect into a motionlesscluster. To-morrow the search will start afresh and will sooner orlater be successful. Oftener still the winding curve meets theguide-thread at the first attempt. As soon as the first caterpillar hasthe rail between his legs, all hesitation ceases; and the band makesfor the nest with hurried steps. 

The use of this silk-tapestried roadway is evident from a second pointof view. To protect himself against the severity of the winter which hehas to face when working, the Pine Caterpillar weaves himself a shelterin which he spends his bad hours, his days of enforced idleness. Alone, with none but the meagre resources of his silk-glands, he would finddifficulty in protecting himself on the top of a branch buffeted by thewinds. A substantial dwelling, proof against snow, gales and icy fogs, requires the cooperation of a large number. Out of the individual'spiled-up atoms, the community obtains a spacious and durableestablishment. 

The enterprise takes a long time to complete. Every evening, when theweather permits, the building has to be strengthened and enlarged. Itis indispensable, therefore, that the corporation of workers should notbe dissolved while the stormy season continues and the insects arestill in the caterpillar stage. But, without special arrangements, eachnocturnal expedition at grazing-time would be a cause of separation. Atthat moment of appetite for food there is a return to individualism. The caterpillars become more or less scattered, settling singly on thebranches around; each browses his pine-needle separately. How are theyto find one another afterwards and become a community again?

The several threads left on the road make this easy. With that guide, every caterpillar, however far he may be, comes back to his companionswithout ever missing the way. They come hurrying from a host of twigs, from here, from there, from above, from below; and soon the scatteredlegion reforms into a group. The silk thread is something more than aroad-making expedient: it is the social bond, the system that keeps themembers of the brotherhood indissolubly united. 

At the head of every procession, long or short, goes a firstcaterpillar whom I will call the leader of the march or file, thoughthe word leader, which I use for the want of a better, is a little outof place here. Nothing, in fact, distinguishes this caterpillar fromthe others: it just depends upon the order in which they happen to lineup; and mere chance brings him to the front. Among the Processionaries, every captain is an officer of fortune. The actual leader leads;presently he will be a subaltern, if the line should break up inconsequence of some accident and be formed anew in a different order. 

His temporary functions give him an attitude of his own. While theothers follow passively in a close file, he, the captain, tosseshimself about and with an abrupt movement flings the front of his bodyhither and thither. As he marches ahead he seems to be seeking his way. Does he in point of fact explore the country? Does he choose the mostpracticable places? Or are his hesitations merely the result of theabsence of a guiding thread on ground that has not yet been covered?His subordinates follow very placidly, reassured by the cord which theyhold between their legs; he, deprived of that support, is uneasy. 

Why cannot I read what passes under his black, shiny skull, so like adrop of tar to look at? To judge by actions, there is here a modicum ofdiscernment which is able, after experimenting, to recognize excessiveroughnesses, over-slippery surfaces, dusty places that offer noresistance and, above all, the threads left by other excursionists. This is all or nearly all that my long acquaintance with theProcessionaries has taught me as to their mentality. Poor brains, indeed; poor creatures, whose commonwealth has its safety hanging upona thread!

The processions vary greatly in length. The finest that I have seenmanoeuvring on the ground measured twelve or thirteen yards andnumbered about three hundred caterpillars, drawn up with absoluteprecision in a wavy line. But, if there were only two in a row theorder would still be perfect: the second touches and follows the first. 

By February I have processions of all lengths in the greenhouse. Whattricks can I play upon them? I see only two: to do away with theleader; and to cut the thread. 

The suppression of the leader of the file produces nothing striking. Ifthe thing is done without creating a disturbance, the procession doesnot alter its ways at all. The second caterpillar, promoted to captain, knows the duties of his rank off-hand: he selects and leads, or ratherhe hesitates and gropes. 

The breaking of the silk ribbon is not very important either. I removea caterpillar from the middle of the file. With my scissors, so as notto cause a commotion in the ranks, I cut the piece of ribbon on whichhe stood and clear away every thread of it. As a result of this breach, the procession acquires two marching leaders, each independent of theother. It may be that the one in the rear joins the file ahead of him, from which he is separated by but a slender interval; in that case, things return to their original condition. More frequently, the twoparts do not become reunited. In that case, we have two distinctprocessions, each of which wanders where it pleases and diverges fromthe other. Nevertheless, both will be able to return to the nest bydiscovering sooner or later, in the course of their peregrinations, theribbon on the other side of the break. 

These two experiments are only moderately interesting. I have thoughtout another, one more fertile in possibilities. I propose to make thecaterpillars describe a close circuit, after the ribbons running fromit and liable to bring about a change of direction have been destroyed. The locomotive engine pursues its invariable course so long as it isnot shunted on to a branch-line. If the Processionaries find the silkenrail always clear in front of them, with no switches anywhere, willthey continue on the same track, will they persist in following a roadthat never comes to an end? What we have to do is to produce thiscircuit, which is unknown under ordinary conditions, by artificialmeans. 

The first idea that suggests itself is to seize with the forceps thesilk ribbon at the back of the train, to bend it without shaking it andto bring the end of it ahead of the file. If the caterpillar marchingin the van steps upon it, the thing is done: the others will follow himfaithfully. The operation is very simple in theory but most difficultin practice and produces no useful results. The ribbon, which isextremely slight, breaks under the weight of the grains of sand thatstick to it and are lifted with it. If it does not break, thecaterpillars at the back, however delicately we may go to work, feel adisturbance which makes them curl up or even let go. 

There is a yet greater difficulty: the leader refuses the ribbon laidbefore him; the cut end makes him distrustful. Failing to see theregular, uninterrupted road, he slants off to the right or left, heescapes at a tangent. If I try to interfere and to bring him back tothe path of my choosing, he persists in his refusal, shrivels up, doesnot budge, and soon the whole procession is in confusion. We will notinsist: the method is a poor one, very wasteful of effort for at best aproblematical success. 

We ought to interfere as little as possible and obtain a natural closedcircuit. Can it be done? Yes. It lies in our power, without the leastmeddling, to see a procession march along a perfect circular track. Iowe this result, which is eminently deserving of our attention, to purechance. 

On the shelf with the layer of sand in which the nests are plantedstand some big palm-vases measuring nearly a yard and a half incircumference at the top. The caterpillars often scale the sides andclimb up to the moulding which forms a cornice around the opening. Thisplace suits them for their processions, perhaps because of the absolutefirmness of the surface, where there is no fear of landslides, as onthe loose, sandy soil below; and also, perhaps, because of thehorizontal position, which is favourable to repose after the fatigue ofthe ascent. It provides me with a circular track all ready-made. I havenothing to do but wait for an occasion propitious to my plans. Thisoccasion is not long in coming. 

On the 30th of January, 1896, a little before twelve o'clock in theday, I discover a numerous troop making their way up and graduallyreaching the popular cornice. Slowly, in single file, the caterpillarsclimb the great vase, mount the ledge and advance in regularprocession, while others are constantly arriving and continuing theseries. I wait for the string to close up, that is to say, for theleader, who keeps following the circular moulding, to return to thepoint from which he started. My object is achieved in a quarter of anhour. The closed circuit is realized magnificently, in something verynearly approaching a circle. 

The next thing is to get rid of the rest of the ascending column, whichwould disturb the fine order of the procession by an excess ofnewcomers; it is also important that we should do away with all thesilken paths, both new and old, that can put the cornice intocommunication with the ground. With a thick hair-pencil I sweep awaythe surplus climbers; with a big brush, one that leaves no smell behindit--for this might afterwards prove confusing--I carefully rub down thevase and get rid of every thread which the caterpillars have laid onthe march. When these preparations are finished, a curious sight awaitsus. 

In the interrupted circular procession there is no longer a leader. Each caterpillar is preceded by another on whose heels he followsguided by the silk track, the work of the whole party; he again has acompanion close behind him, following him in the same orderly way. Andthis is repeated without variation throughout the length of the chain. None commands, or rather none modifies the trail according to hisfancy; all obey, trusting in the guide who ought normally to lead themarch and who in reality has been abolished by my trickery. 

From the first circuit of the edge of the tub the rail of silk has beenlaid in position and is soon turned into a narrow ribbon by theprocession, which never ceases dribbling its thread as it goes. Therail is simply doubled and has no branches anywhere, for my brush hasdestroyed them all. What will the caterpillars do on this deceptive, closed path? Will they walk endlessly round and round until theirstrength gives out entirely?

The old schoolmen were fond of quoting Buridan's Ass, that famousDonkey who, when placed between two bundles of hay, starved to deathbecause he was unable to decide in favour of either by breaking theequilibrium between two equal but opposite attractions. They slanderedthe worthy animal. The Ass, who is no more foolish than any one else, would reply to the logical snare by feasting off both bundles. Will mycaterpillars show a little of his mother wit? Will they, after manyattempts, be able to break the equilibrium of their closed circuit, which keeps them on a road without a turning? Will they make up theirminds to swerve to this side or that, which is the only method ofreaching their bundle of hay, the green branch yonder, quite near, nottwo feet off?

I thought that they would and I was wrong. I said to myself:

"The procession will go on turning for some time, for an hour, twohours, perhaps; then the caterpillars will perceive their mistake. Theywill abandon the deceptive road and make their descent somewhere orother. "

That they should remain up there, hard pressed by hunger and the lackof cover, when nothing prevented them from going away, seemed to meinconceivable imbecility. Facts, however, forced me to accept theincredible. Let us describe them in detail. 

The circular procession begins, as I have said, on the 30th of January, about midday, in splendid weather. The caterpillars march at an evenpace, each touching the stern of the one in front of him. The unbrokenchain eliminates the leader with his changes of direction; and allfollow mechanically, as faithful to their circle as are the hands of awatch. The headless file has no liberty left, no will; it has becomemere clockwork. And this continues for hours and hours. My success goesfar beyond my wildest suspicions. I stand amazed at it, or rather I amstupefied. 

Meanwhile, the multiplied circuits change the original rail into asuperb ribbon a twelfth of an inch broad. I can easily see itglittering on the red ground of the pot. The day is drawing to a closeand no alteration has yet taken place in the position of the trail. Astriking proof confirms this. 

The trajectory is not a plane curve, but one which, at a certain point, deviates and goes down a little way to the lower surface of thecornice, returning to the top some eight inches farther. I marked thesetwo points of deviation in pencil on the vase at the outset. Well, allthat afternoon and, more conclusive still, on the following days, rightto the end of this mad dance, I see the string of caterpillars dipunder the ledge at the first point and come to the top again at thesecond. Once the first thread is laid, the road to be pursued ispermanently established. 

If the road does not vary, the speed does. I measure nine centimetres(3 1/2 inches. --Translator's Note. ) a minute as the average distancecovered. But there are more or less lengthy halts; the pace slackens attimes, especially when the temperature falls. At ten o'clock in theevening the walk is little more than a lazy swaying of the body. Iforesee an early halt, in consequence of the cold, of fatigue anddoubtless also of hunger. 

Grazing-time has arrived. The caterpillars have come crowding from allthe nests in the greenhouse to browse upon the pine-branches planted bymyself beside the silken purses. Those in the garden do the same, forthe temperature is mild. The others, lined up along the earthenwarecornice, would gladly take part in the feast; they are bound to have anappetite after a ten hours' walk. The branch stands green and temptingnot a hand's-breadth away. To reach it they need but go down; and thepoor wretches, foolish slaves of their ribbon that they are, cannotmake up their minds to do so. I leave the famished ones at half-pastten, persuaded that they will take counsel with their pillow and thaton the morrow things will have resumed their ordinary course. 

I was wrong. I was expecting too much of them when I accorded them thatfaint gleam of intelligence which the tribulations of a distressfulstomach ought, one would think, to have aroused. I visit them at dawn. They are lined up as on the day before, but motionless. When the airgrows a little warmer, they shake off their torpor, revive and startwalking again. The circular procession begins anew, like that which Ihave already seen. There is nothing more and nothing less to be notedin their machine-like obstinacy. 

This time it is a bitter night. A cold snap has supervened, was indeedforetold in the evening by the garden caterpillars, who refused to comeout despite appearances which to my duller senses seemed to promise acontinuation of the fine weather. At daybreak the rosemary-walks areall asparkle with rime and for the second time this year there is asharp frost. The large pond in the garden is frozen over. What can thecaterpillars in the conservatory be doing? Let us go and see. 

All are ensconced in their nests, except the stubborn processionists onthe edge of the vase, who, deprived of shelter as they are, seem tohave spent a very bad night. I find them clustered in two heaps, without any attempt at order. They have suffered less from the cold, thus huddled together. 

'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The severity of the nighthas caused the ring to break into two segments which will, perhaps, afford a chance of safety. Each group, as it survives and resumes itswalk, will presently be headed by a leader who, not being obliged tofollow a caterpillar in front of him, will possess some liberty ofmovement and perhaps be able to make the procession swerve to one side. Remember that, in the ordinary processions, the caterpillar walkingahead acts as a scout. While the others, if nothing occurs to createexcitement, keep to their ranks, he attends to his duties as a leaderand is continually turning his head to this side and that, investigating, seeking, groping, making his choice. And things happenas he decides: the band follows him faithfully. Remember also that, even on a road which has already been travelled and beribboned, theguiding caterpillar continues to explore. 

There is reason to believe that the Processionaries who have lost theirway on the ledge will find a chance of safety here. Let us watch them. On recovering from their torpor, the two groups line up by degrees intotwo distinct files. There are therefore two leaders, free to go wherethey please, independent of each other. Will they succeed in leavingthe enchanted circle? At the sight of their large black heads swayinganxiously from side to side, I am inclined to think so for a moment. But I am soon undeceived. As the ranks fill out, the two sections ofthe chain meet and the circle is reconstituted. The momentary leadersonce more become simple subordinates; and again the caterpillars marchround and round all day. 

For the second time in succession, the night, which is very calm andmagnificently starry, brings a hard frost. In the morning theProcessionaries on the tub, the only ones who have camped unsheltered, are gathered into a heap which largely overflows both sides of thefatal ribbon. I am present at the awakening of the numbed ones. Thefirst to take the road is, as luck will have it, outside the track. Hesitatingly he ventures into unknown ground. He reaches the top of therim and descends upon the other side on the earth in the vase. He isfollowed by six others, no more. Perhaps the rest of the troop, whohave not fully recovered from their nocturnal torpor, are too lazy tobestir themselves. 

The result of this brief delay is a return to the old track. Thecaterpillars embark on the silken trail and the circular march isresumed, this time in the form of a ring with a gap in it. There is noattempt, however, to strike a new course on the part of the guide whomthis gap has placed at the head. A chance of stepping outside the magiccircle has presented itself at last; and he does not know how to availhimself of it. 

As for the caterpillars who have made their way to the inside of thevase, their lot is hardly improved. They climb to the top of the palm, starving and seeking for food. Finding nothing to eat that suits them, they retrace their steps by following the thread which they have lefton the way, climb the ledge of the pot, strike the procession againand, without further anxiety, slip back into the ranks. Once more thering is complete, once more the circle turns and turns. 

Then when will the deliverance come? There is a legend that tells ofpoor souls dragged along in an endless round until the hellish charm isbroken by a drop of holy water. What drop will good fortune sprinkle onmy Processionaries to dissolve their circle and bring them back to thenest? I see only two means of conjuring the spell and obtaining arelease from the circuit. These two means are two painful ordeals. Astrange linking of cause and effect: from sorrow and wretchedness goodis to come. 

And, first, shriveling as the result of cold, the caterpillars gathertogether without any order, heap themselves some on the path, some, more numerous these, outside it. Among the latter there may be, sooneror later, some revolutionary who, scorning the beaten track, will traceout a new road and lead the troop back home. We have just seen aninstance of it. Seven penetrated to the interior of the vase andclimbed the palm. True, it was an attempt with no result but still anattempt. For complete success, all that need be done would have been totake the opposite slope. An even chance is a great thing. Another timewe shall be more successful. 

In the second place, the exhaustion due to fatigue and hunger. A lameone stops, unable to go farther. In front of the defaulter theprocession still continues to wend its way for a short time. The ranksclose up and an empty space appears. On coming to himself and resumingthe march, the caterpillar who has caused the breach becomes a leader, having nothing before him. The least desire for emancipation is allthat he wants to make him launch the band into a new path which perhapswill be the saving path. 

In short, when the Processionaries' train is in difficulties, what itneeds, unlike ours, is to run off the rails. The side-tracking is leftto the caprice of a leader who alone is capable of turning to the rightor left; and this leader is absolutely non-existent so long as the ringremains unbroken. Lastly, the breaking of the circle, the one stroke ofluck, is the result of a chaotic halt, caused principally by excess offatigue or cold. 

The liberating accident, especially that of fatigue, occurs fairlyoften. In the course of the same day, the moving circumference is cutup several times into two or three sections; but continuity soonreturns and no change takes place. Things go on just the same. The boldinnovator who is to save the situation has not yet had his inspiration. 

There is nothing new on the fourth day, after an icy night like theprevious one; nothing to tell except the following detail. Yesterday Idid not remove the trace left by the few caterpillars who made theirway to the inside of the vase. This trace, together with a junctionconnecting it with the circular road, is discovered in the course ofthe morning. Half the troop takes advantage of it to visit the earth inthe pot and climb the palm; the other half remains on the ledge andcontinues to walk along the old rail. In the afternoon the band ofemigrants rejoins the others, the circuit is completed and thingsreturn to their original condition. 

We come to the fifth day. The night frost becomes more intense, withouthowever as yet reaching the greenhouse. It is followed by brightsunshine in a calm and limpid sky. As soon as the sun's rays havewarmed the panes a little, the caterpillars, lying in heaps, wake upand resume their evolutions on the ledge of the vase. This time thefine order of the beginning is disturbed and a certain disorder becomesmanifest, apparently an omen of deliverance near at hand. Thescouting-path inside the vase, which was upholstered in silk yesterdayand the day before, is to-day followed to its origin on the rim by apart of the band and is then deserted after a short loop. The othercaterpillars follow the usual ribbon. The result of this bifurcation istwo almost equal files, walking along the ledge in the same direction, at a short distance from each other, sometimes meeting, separatingfarther on, in every case with some lack of order. 

Weariness increases the confusion. The crippled, who refuse to go on, are many. Breaches increase; files are split up into sections each ofwhich has its leader, who pokes the front of his body this way and thatto explore the ground. Everything seems to point to the disintegrationwhich will bring safety. My hopes are once more disappointed. Beforethe night the single file is reconstituted and the invincible gyrationresumed. 

Heat comes, just as suddenly as the cold did. To-day, the 4th ofFebruary, is a beautiful, mild day. The greenhouse is full of life. Numerous festoons of caterpillars, issuing from the nests, meanderalong the sand on the shelf. Above them, at every moment, the ring onthe ledge of the vase breaks up and comes together again. For the firsttime I see daring leaders who, drunk with heat, standing only on theirhinder prolegs at the extreme edge of the earthenware rim, flingthemselves forward into space, twisting about, sounding the depths. Theendeavour is frequently repeated, while the whole troop stops. Thecaterpillars' heads give sudden jerks, their bodies wriggle. 

One of the pioneers decides to take the plunge. He slips under theledge. Four follow him. The others, still confiding in the perfidioussilken path, dare not copy him and continue to go along the old road. 

The short string detached from the general chain gropes about a greatdeal, hesitates long on the side of the vase; it goes half-way down, then climbs up again slantwise, rejoins and takes its place in theprocession. This time the attempt has failed, though at the foot of thevase, not nine inches away, there lay a bunch of pine-needles which Ihad placed there with the object of enticing the hungry ones. Smell andsight told them nothing. Near as they were to the goal, they went upagain. 

No matter, the endeavour has its uses. Threads were laid on the way andwill serve as a lure to further enterprise. The road of deliverance hasits first landmarks. And, two days later, on the eighth day of theexperiment, the caterpillars--now singly, anon in small groups, thenagain in strings of some length--come down from the ledge by followingthe staked-out path. At sunset the last of the laggards is back in thenest. 

Now for a little arithmetic. For seven times twenty-four hours thecaterpillars have remained on the ledge of the vase. To make an ampleallowance for stops due to the weariness of this one or that and aboveall for the rest taken during the colder hours of the night, we willdeduct one-half of the time. This leaves eighty-four hours' walking. The average pace is nine centimetres a minute. (3 1/2inches. --Translator's Note. ) The aggregate distance covered, therefore, is 453 metres, a good deal more than a quarter of a mile, which is agreat walk for these little crawlers. The circumference of the vase, the perimeter of the track, is exactly 1 metre 35. (4 feet 5inches. --Translator's Note. ) Therefore the circle covered, always inthe same direction and always without result, was described threehundred and thirty-five times. 

These figures surprise me, though I am already familiar with theabysmal stupidity of insects as a class whenever the least accidentoccurs. I feel inclined to ask myself whether the Processionaries werenot kept up there so long by the difficulties and dangers of thedescent rather than by the lack of any gleam of intelligence in theirbenighted minds. The facts, however, reply that the descent is as easyas the ascent. 

The caterpillar has a very supple back, well adapted for twisting roundprojections or slipping underneath. He can walk with the same easevertically or horizontally, with his back down or up. Besides, he nevermoves forward until he has fixed his thread to the ground. With thissupport to his feet, he has no falls to fear, no matter what hisposition. 

I had a proof of this before my eyes during a whole week. As I havealready said, the track, instead of keeping on one level, bends twice, dips at a certain point under the ledge of the vase and reappears atthe top a little farther on. At one part of the circuit, therefore, theprocession walks on the lower surface of the rim; and this invertedposition implies so little discomfort or danger that it is renewed ateach turn for all the caterpillars from first to last. 

It is out of the question then to suggest the dread of a false step onthe edge of the rim which is so nimbly turned at each point ofinflexion. The caterpillars in distress, starved, shelterless, chilledwith cold at night, cling obstinately to the silk ribbon coveredhundreds of times, because they lack the rudimentary glimmers of reasonwhich would advise them to abandon it. 

Experience and reflection are not in their province. The ordeal of afive hundred yards' march and three to four hundred turns teach themnothing; and it takes casual circumstances to bring them back to thenest. They would perish on their insidious ribbon if the disorder ofthe nocturnal encampments and the halts due to fatigue did not cast afew threads outside the circular path. Some three or four move alongthese trails, laid without an object, stray a little way and, thanks totheir wanderings, prepare the descent, which is at last accomplished inshort strings favoured by chance. 

The school most highly honoured to-day is very anxious to find theorigin of reason in the dregs of the animal kingdom. Let me call itsattention to the Pine Processionary. 

CHAPTER 9. THE SPIDERS. 

THE NARBONNE LYCOSA, OR BLACK-BELLIED TARANTULA. 

THE BURROW. 

Michelet has told us how, as a printer's apprentice in a cellar, heestablished amicable relations with a Spider. (Jules Michelet(1798-1874), author of "L'Oiseau" and "L'Insecte, " in addition to thehistorical works for which he is chiefly known. As a lad, he helped hisfather, a printer by trade, in setting type. --Translator's Note. ) At acertain hour of the day, a ray of sunlight would glint through thewindow of the gloomy workshop and light up the little compositor'scase. Then his eight-legged neighbour would come down from her web andon the edge of the case take her share of the sunshine. The boy did notinterfere with her; he welcomed the trusting visitor as a friend and asa pleasant diversion from the long monotony. When we lack the societyof our fellow-men, we take refuge in that of animals, without alwayslosing by the change. 

I do not, thank God, suffer from the melancholy of a cellar: mysolitude is gay with light and verdure; I attend, whenever I please, the fields' high festival, the Thrushes' concert, the Crickets'symphony; and yet my friendly commerce with the Spider is marked by aneven greater devotion than the young type-setter's. I admit her to theintimacy of my study, I make room for her among my books, I set her inthe sun on my window-ledge, I visit her assiduously at her home, in thecountry. The object of our relations is not to create a means of escapefrom the petty worries of life, pin-pricks whereof I have my share likeother men, a very large share, indeed; I propose to submit to theSpider a host of questions whereto, at times, she condescends to reply. 

To what fair problems does not the habit of frequenting her give rise!To set them forth worthily, the marvellous art which the little printerwas to acquire were not too much. One needs the pen of a Michelet; andI have but a rough, blunt pencil. Let us try, nevertheless: even whenpoorly clad, truth is still beautiful. 

The most robust Spider in my district is the Narbonne Lycosa, orBlack-bellied Tarantula, clad in black velvet on the lower surface, especially under the belly, with brown chevrons on the abdomen and greyand white rings around the legs. Her favourite home is the dry, pebblyground, covered with sun-scorched thyme. In my harmas laboratory thereare quite twenty of this Spider's burrows. Rarely do I pass by one ofthese haunts without giving a glance down the pit where gleam, likediamonds, the four great eyes, the four telescopes, of the hermit. Thefour others, which are much smaller, are not visible at that depth. 

Would I have greater riches, I have but to walk a hundred yards from myhouse, on the neighbouring plateau, once a shady forest, to-day adreary solitude where the Cricket browses and the Wheat-ear flits fromstone to stone. The love of lucre has laid waste the land. Because winepaid handsomely, they pulled up the forest to plant the vine. Then camethe Phylloxera, the vine-stocks perished and the once green table-landis now no more than a desolate stretch where a few tufts of hardygrasses sprout among the pebbles. This waste-land is the Lycosa'sparadise: in an hour's time, if need were, I should discover a hundredburrows within a limited range. 

These dwellings are pits about a foot deep, perpendicular at first andthen bent elbow-wise. The average diameter is an inch. On the edge ofthe hole stands a kerb, formed of straw, bits and scraps of all sortsand even small pebbles, the size of a hazel-nut. The whole is kept inplace and cemented with silk. Often, the Spider confines herself todrawing together the dry blades of the nearest grass, which she tiesdown with the straps from her spinnerets, without removing the bladesfrom the stems; often, also, she rejects this scaffolding in favour ofa masonry constructed of small stones. The nature of the kerb isdecided by the nature of the materials within the Lycosa's reach, inthe close neighbourhood of the building-yard. There is no selection:everything meets with approval, provided that it be near at hand. 

The direction is perpendicular, in so far as obstacles, frequent in asoil of this kind, permit. A bit of gravel can be extracted and hoistedoutside; but a flint is an immovable boulder which the Spider avoids bygiving a bend to her gallery. If more such are met with, the residencebecomes a winding cave, with stone vaults, with lobbies communicatingby means of sharp passages. 

This lack of plan has no attendant drawbacks, so well does the owner, from long habit, know every corner and storey of her mansion. If anyinteresting buzz occur overhead, the Lycosa climbs up from her ruggedmanor with the same speed as from a vertical shaft. Perhaps she evenfinds the windings and turnings an advantage, when she has to drag intoher den a prey that happens to defend itself. 

As a rule, the end of the burrow widens into a side-chamber, a loungeor resting-place where the Spider meditates at length and is content tolead a life of quiet when her belly is full. 

When she reaches maturity and is once settled, the Lycosa becomeseminently domesticated. I have been living in close communion with herfor the last three years. I have installed her in large earthen pans onthe window-sills of my study and I have her daily under my eyes. Well, it is very rarely that I happen on her outside, a few inches from herhole, back to which she bolts at the least alarm. 

We may take it then that, when not in captivity, the Lycosa does not gofar afield to gather the wherewithal to build her parapet and that shemakes shift with what she finds upon her threshold. In theseconditions, the building-stones are soon exhausted and the masonryceases for lack of materials. 

The wish came over me to see what dimensions the circular edifice wouldassume, if the Spider were given an unlimited supply. With captives towhom I myself act as purveyor the thing is easy enough. Were it onlywith a view to helping whoso may one day care to continue theserelations with the big Spider of the waste-lands, let me describe howmy subjects are housed. 

A good-sized earthenware pan, some nine inches deep, is filled with ared, clayey earth, rich in pebbles, similar, in short, to that of theplaces haunted by the Lycosa. Properly moistened into a paste, theartificial soil is heaped, layer by layer, around a central reed, of abore equal to that of the animal's natural burrow. When the receptacleis filled to the top, I withdraw the reed, which leaves a yawning, perpendicular shaft. I thus obtain the abode which shall replace thatof the fields. 

To find the hermit to inhabit it is merely the matter of a walk in theneighbourhood. When removed from her own dwelling, which is turnedtopsy-turvy by my trowel, and placed in possession of the den producedby my art, the Lycosa at once disappears into that den. She does notcome out again, seeks nothing better elsewhere. A large wire-gauzecover rests on the soil in the pan and prevents escape. 

In any case, the watch, in this respect, makes no demand upon mydiligence. The prisoner is satisfied with her new abode and manifestsno regret for her natural burrow. There is no attempt at flight on herpart. Let me not omit to add that each pan must receive not more thanone inhabitant. The Lycosa is very intolerant. To her a neighbour isfair game, to be eaten without scruple when one has might on one'sside. Time was when, unaware of this fierce intolerance, which is moresavage still at breeding time, I saw hideous orgies perpetrated in myoverstocked cages. I shall have occasion to describe those tragedieslater. 

Let us meanwhile consider the isolated Lycosae. They do not touch upthe dwelling which I have moulded for them with a bit of reed; at most, now and again, perhaps with the object of forming a lounge or bedroomat the bottom, they fling out a few loads of rubbish. But all, littleby little, build the kerb that is to edge the mouth. 

I have given them plenty of first-rate materials, far superior to thosewhich they use when left to their own resources. These consist, first, for the foundations, of little smooth stones, some of which are aslarge as an almond. With this road-metal are mingled short strips ofraphia, or palm-fibre, flexible ribbons, easily bent. These stand forthe Spider's usual basket-work, consisting of slender stalks and dryblades of grass. Lastly, by way of an unprecedented treasure, never yetemployed by a Lycosa, I place at my captives' disposal some thickthreads of wool, cut into inch lengths. 

As I wish, at the same time, to find out whether my animals, with themagnificent lenses of their eyes, are able to distinguish colours andprefer one colour to another, I mix up bits of wool of different hues:there are red, green, white, and yellow pieces. If the Spider have anypreference, she can choose where she pleases. 

The Lycosa always works at night, a regrettable circumstance, whichdoes not allow me to follow the worker's methods. I see the result; andthat is all. Were I to visit the building-yard by the light of alantern, I should be no wiser. The Spider, who is very shy, would atonce dive into her lair; and I should have lost my sleep for nothing. Furthermore, she is not a very diligent labourer; she likes to take hertime. Two or three bits of wool or raphia placed in position representa whole night's work. And to this slowness we must add long spells ofutter idleness. 

Two months pass; and the result of my liberality surpasses myexpectations. Possessing more windfalls than they know what to do with, all picked up in their immediate neighbourhood, my Lycosae have builtthemselves donjon-keeps the like of which their race has not yet known. Around the orifice, on a slightly sloping bank, small, flat, smoothstones have been laid to form a broken, flagged pavement. The largerstones, which are Cyclopean blocks compared with the size of the animalthat has shifted them, are employed as abundantly as the others. 

On this rockwork stands the donjon. It is an interlacing of raphia andbits of wool, picked up at random, without distinction of shade. Redand white, green and yellow are mixed without any attempt at order. TheLycosa is indifferent to the joys of colour. 

The ultimate result is a sort of muff, a couple of inches high. Bandsof silk, supplied by the spinnerets, unite the pieces, so that thewhole resembles a coarse fabric. Without being absolutely faultless, for there are always awkward pieces on the outside, which the workercould not handle, the gaudy building is not devoid of merit. The birdlining its nest would do no better. Whoso sees the curious, many-coloured productions in my pans takes them for an outcome of myindustry, contrived with a view to some experimental mischief; and hissurprise is great when I confess who the real author is. No one wouldever believe the Spider capable of constructing such a monument. 

It goes without saying that, in a state of liberty, on our barrenwaste-lands, the Lycosa does not indulge in such sumptuousarchitecture. I have given the reason: she is too great a stay-at-hometo go in search of materials and she makes use of the limited resourceswhich she finds around her. Bits of earth, small chips of stone, a fewtwigs, a few withered grasses: that is all, or nearly all. Whereforethe work is generally quite modest and reduced to a parapet that hardlyattracts attention. 

My captives teach us that, when materials are plentiful, especiallytextile materials that remove all fears of landslip, the Lycosadelights in tall turrets. She understands the art of donjon-buildingand puts it into practice as often as she possesses the means. 

What is the purpose of this turret? My pans will tell us that. Anenthusiastic votary of the chase, so long as she is not permanentlyfixed, the Lycosa, once she has set up house, prefers to lie in ambushand wait for the quarry. Every day, when the heat is greatest, I see mycaptives come up slowly from under ground and lean upon the battlementsof their woolly castle-keep. They are then really magnificent in theirstately gravity. With their swelling belly contained within theaperture, their head outside, their glassy eyes staring, their legsgathered for a spring, for hours and hours they wait, motionless, bathing voluptuously in the sun. 

Should a tit-bit to her liking happen to pass, forthwith the watcherdarts from her tall tower, swift as an arrow from the bow. With adagger-thrust in the neck, she stabs the jugular of the Locust, Dragon-fly or other prey whereof I am the purveyor; and she as quicklyscales the donjon and retires with her capture. The performance is awonderful exhibition of skill and speed. 

Very seldom is a quarry missed, provided that it pass at a convenientdistance, within the range of the huntress' bound. But, if the prey beat some distance, for instance on the wire of the cage, the Lycosatakes no notice of it. Scorning to go in pursuit, she allows it to roamat will. She never strikes except when sure of her stroke. She achievesthis by means of her tower. Hiding behind the wall, she sees thestranger advancing, keeps her eyes on him and suddenly pounces when hecomes within reach. These abrupt tactics make the thing a certainty. Though he were winged and swift of flight, the unwary one whoapproaches the ambush is lost. 

This presumes, it is true, an exemplary patience on the Lycosa's part;for the burrow has naught that can serve to entice victims. At best, the ledge provided by the turret may, at rare intervals, tempt someweary wayfarer to use it as a resting-place. But, if the quarry do notcome to-day, it is sure to come to-morrow, the next day, or later, forthe Locusts hop innumerable in the waste-land, nor are they always ableto regulate their leaps. Some day or other, chance is bound to bringone of them within the purlieus of the burrow. This is the moment tospring upon the pilgrim from the ramparts. Until then, we maintain astoical vigilance. We shall dine when we can; but we shall end bydining. 

The Lycosa, therefore, well aware of these lingering eventualities, waits and is not unduly distressed by a prolonged abstinence. She hasan accommodating stomach, which is satisfied to be gorged to-day and toremain empty afterwards for goodness knows how long. I have sometimesneglected my catering duties for weeks at a time; and my boarders havebeen none the worse for it. After a more or less protracted fast, theydo not pine away, but are smitten with a wolf-like hunger. All theseravenous eaters are alike: they guzzle to excess to-day, inanticipation of to-morrow's dearth. 

THE LAYING. 

Chance, a poor stand-by, sometimes contrives very well. At thebeginning of the month of August, the children call me to the far sideof the enclosure, rejoicing in a find which they have made under therosemary-bushes. It is a magnificent Lycosa, with an enormous belly, the sign of an impending delivery. 

Early one morning, ten days later, I find her preparing for herconfinement. A silk network is first spun on the ground, covering anextent about equal to the palm of one's hand. It is coarse andshapeless, but firmly fixed. This is the floor on which the Spidermeans to operate. 

On this foundation, which acts as a protection from the sand, theLycosa fashions a round mat, the size of a two-franc piece and made ofsuperb white silk. With a gentle, uniform movement, which might beregulated by the wheels of a delicate piece of clockwork, the tip ofthe abdomen rises and falls, each time touching the supporting base alittle farther away, until the extreme scope of the mechanism isattained. 

Then, without the Spider's moving her position, the oscillation isresumed in the opposite direction. By means of this alternate motion, interspersed with numerous contacts, a segment of the sheet isobtained, of a very accurate texture. When this is done, the Spidermoves a little along a circular line and the loom works in the samemanner on another segment. 

The silk disk, a sort of hardy concave paten, now no longer receivesanything from the spinnerets in its centre; the marginal belt aloneincreases in thickness. The piece thus becomes a bowl-shaped porringer, surrounded by a wide, flat edge. 

The time for the laying has come. With one quick emission, the viscous, pale-yellow eggs are laid in the basin, where they heap together in theshape of a globe which projects largely outside the cavity. Thespinnerets are once more set going. With short movements, as the tip ofthe abdomen rises and falls to weave the round mat, they cover up theexposed hemisphere. The result is a pill set in the middle of acircular carpet. 

The legs, hitherto idle, are now working. They take up and break offone by one the threads that keep the round mat stretched on the coarsesupporting network. At the same time the fangs grip this sheet, lift itby degrees, tear it from its base and fold it over upon the globe ofeggs. It is a laborious operation. The whole edifice totters, the floorcollapses, fouled with sand. By a movement of the legs, those soiledshreds are cast aside. Briefly, by means of violent tugs of the fangs, which pull, and broom-like efforts of the legs, which clear away, theLycosa extricates the bag of eggs and removes it as a clear-cut mass, free from any adhesion. 

It is a white-silk pill, soft to the touch and glutinous. Its size isthat of an average cherry. An observant eye will notice, runninghorizontally around the middle, a fold which a needle is able to raisewithout breaking it. This hem, generally undistinguishable from therest of the surface, is none other than the edge of the circular mat, drawn over the lower hemisphere. The other hemisphere, through whichthe youngsters will go out, is less well fortified: its only wrapper isthe texture spun over the eggs immediately after they were laid. 

The work of spinning, followed by that of tearing, is continued for awhole morning, from five to nine o'clock. Worn out with fatigue, themother embraces her dear pill and remains motionless. I shall see nomore to-day. Next morning, I find the Spider carrying the bag of eggsslung from her stern. 

Henceforth, until the hatching, she does not leave go of the preciousburden, which, fastened to the spinnerets by a short ligament, dragsand bumps along the ground. With this load banging against her heels, she goes about her business; she walks or rests, she seeks her prey, attacks it and devours it. Should some accident cause the wallet todrop off, it is soon replaced. The spinnerets touch it somewhere, anywhere, and that is enough: adhesion is at once restored. 

When the work is done, some of them emancipate themselves, think theywill have a look at the country before retiring for good and all. It isthese whom we meet at times, wandering aimlessly and dragging their bagbehind them. Sooner or later, however, the vagrants return home; andthe month of August is not over before a straw rustled in any burrowwill bring the mother up, with her wallet slung behind her. I am ableto procure as many as I want and, with them, to indulge in certainexperiments of the highest interest. 

It is a sight worth seeing, that of the Lycosa dragging her treasureafter her, never leaving it, day or night, sleeping or waking, anddefending it with a courage that strikes the beholder with awe. If Itry to take the bag from her, she presses it to her breast in despair, hangs on to my pincers, bites them with her poison-fangs. I can hearthe daggers grating on the steel. No, she would not allow herself to berobbed of the wallet with impunity, if my fingers were not suppliedwith an implement. 

By dint of pulling and shaking the pill with the forceps, I take itfrom the Lycosa, who protests furiously. I fling her in exchange a pilltaken from another Lycosa. It is at once seized in the fangs, embracedby the legs and hung on to the spinneret. Her own or another's: it isall one to the Spider, who walks away proudly with the alien wallet. This was to be expected, in view of the similarity of the pillsexchanged. 

A test of another kind, with a second subject, renders the mistake morestriking. I substitute, in the place of the lawful bag which I haveremoved, the work of the Silky Epeira. The colour and softness of thematerial are the same in both cases; but the shape is quite different. The stolen object is a globe; the object presented in exchange is anelliptical conoid studded with angular projections along the edge ofthe base. The Spider takes no account of this dissimilarity. Shepromptly glues the queer bag to her spinnerets and is as pleased asthough she were in possession of her real pill. My experimentalvillainies have no other consequence beyond an ephemeral carting. Whenhatching-time arrives, early in the case of Lycosa, late in that of theEpeira, the gulled Spider abandons the strange bag and pays it nofurther attention. 

Let us penetrate yet deeper into the wallet-bearer's stupidity. Afterdepriving the Lycosa of her eggs, I throw her a ball of cork, roughlypolished with a file and of the same size as the stolen pill. Sheaccepts the corky substance, so different from the silk purse, withoutthe least demur. One would have thought that she would recognize hermistake with those eight eyes of hers, which gleam like preciousstones. The silly creature pays no attention. Lovingly she embraces thecork ball, fondles it with her palpi, fastens it to her spinnerets andthenceforth drags it after her as though she were dragging her own bag. 

Let us give another the choice between the imitation and the real. Therightful pill and the cork ball are placed together on the floor of thejar. Will the Spider be able to know the one that belongs to her? Thefool is incapable of doing so. She makes a wild rush and seizeshaphazard at one time her property, at another my sham product. Whatever is first touched becomes a good capture and is forthwith hungup. 

If I increase the number of cork balls, if I put in four or five ofthem, with the real pill among them, it is seldom that the Lycosarecovers her own property. Attempts at inquiry, attempts at selectionthere are none. Whatever she snaps up at random she sticks to, be itgood or bad. As there are more of the sham pills of cork, these are themost often seized by the Spider. 

This obtuseness baffles me. Can the animal be deceived by the softcontact of the cork? I replace the cork balls by pellets of cotton orpaper, kept in their round shape with a few bands of thread. Both arevery readily accepted instead of the real bag that has been removed. 

Can the illusion be due to the colouring, which is light in the corkand not unlike the tint of the silk globe when soiled with a littleearth, while it is white in the paper and the cotton, when it isidentical with that of the original pill? I give the Lycosa, inexchange for her work, a pellet of silk thread, chosen of a fine red, the brightest of all colours. The uncommon pill is as readily acceptedand as jealously guarded as the others. 

THE FAMILY. 

For three weeks and more the Lycosa trails the bag of eggs hanging toher spinnerets. The reader will remember the experiments described inthe preceding section, particularly those with the cork ball and thethread pellet which the Spider so foolishly accepts in exchange for thereal pill. Well, this exceedingly dull-witted mother, satisfied withaught that knocks against her heels, is about to make us wonder at herdevotion. 

Whether she come up from her shaft to lean upon the kerb and bask inthe sun, whether she suddenly retire underground in the face of danger, or whether she be roaming the country before settling down, never doesshe let go her precious bag, that very cumbrous burden in walking, climbing or leaping. If, by some accident, it become detached from thefastening to which it is hung, she flings herself madly on her treasureand lovingly embraces it, ready to bite whoso would take it from her. Imyself am sometimes the thief. I then hear the points of thepoison-fangs grinding against the steel of my pincers, which tug in onedirection while the Lycosa tugs in the other. But let us leave theanimal alone: with a quick touch of the spinnerets, the pill isrestored to its place; and the Spider strides off, still menacing. 

Towards the end of summer, all the householders, old or young, whetherin captivity on the window-sill or at liberty in the paths of theenclosure, supply me daily with the following improving sight. In themorning, as soon as the sun is hot and beats upon their burrow, theanchorites come up from the bottom with their bag and stationthemselves at the opening. Long siestas on the threshold in the sun arethe order of the day throughout the fine season; but, at the presenttime, the position adopted is a different one. Formerly, the Lycosacame out into the sun for her own sake. Leaning on the parapet, she hadthe front half of her body outside the pit and the hinder half inside. The eyes took their fill of light; the belly remained in the dark. Whencarrying her egg-bag, the Spider reverses the posture: the front is inthe pit, the rear outside. With her hind-legs she holds the white pillbulging with germs lifted above the entrance; gently she turns andturns it, so as to present every side to the life-giving rays. And thisgoes on for half the day, so long as the temperature is high; and it isrepeated daily, with exquisite patience, during three or four weeks. Tohatch its eggs, the bird covers them with the quilt of its breast; itstrains them to the furnace of its heart. The Lycosa turns hers infront of the hearth of hearths: she gives them the sun as an incubator. 

In the early days of September the young ones, who have been some timehatched, are ready to come out. 

The whole family emerges from the bag straightway. Then and there, theyoungsters climb to the mother's back. As for the empty bag, now aworthless shred, it is flung out of the burrow; the Lycosa does notgive it a further thought. Huddled together, sometimes in two or threelayers, according to their number, the little ones cover the whole backof the mother, who, for seven or eight months to come, will carry herfamily night and day. Nowhere can we hope to see a more edifyingdomestic picture than that of the Lycosa clothed in her young. 

From time to time I meet a little band of gipsies passing along thehigh-road on their way to some neighbouring fair. The new-born babemewls on the mother's breast, in a hammock formed out of a kerchief. The last-weaned is carried pick-a-back; a third toddles clinging to itsmother's skirts; others follow closely, the biggest in the rear, ferreting in the blackberry-laden hedgerows. It is a magnificentspectacle of happy-go-lucky fruitfulness. They go their way, pennilessand rejoicing. The sun is hot and the earth is fertile. 

But how this picture pales before that of the Lycosa, that incomparablegipsy whose brats are numbered by the hundred! And one and all of them, from September to April, without a moment's respite, find room upon thepatient creature's back, where they are content to lead a tranquil lifeand to be carted about. 

The little ones are very good; none moves, none seeks a quarrel withhis neighbours. Clinging together, they form a continuous drapery, ashaggy ulster under which the mother becomes unrecognizable. Is it ananimal, a fluff of wool, a cluster of small seeds fastened to oneanother? 'Tis impossible to tell at the first glance. 

The equilibrium of this living blanket is not so firm but that fallsoften occur, especially when the mother climbs from indoors and comesto the threshold to let the little ones take the sun. The least brushagainst the gallery unseats a part of the family. The mishap is notserious. The Hen, fidgeting about her Chicks, looks for the strays, calls them, gathers them together. The Lycosa knows not these maternalalarms. Impassively, she leaves those who drop off to manage their owndifficulty, which they do with wonderful quickness. Commend me to thoseyoungsters for getting up without whining, dusting themselves andresuming their seat in the saddle! The unhorsed ones promptly find aleg of the mother, the usual climbing-pole; they swarm up it as fast asthey can and recover their places on the bearer's back. The living barkof animals is reconstructed in the twinkling of an eye. 

To speak here of mother-love were, I think, extravagant. The Lycosa'saffection for her offspring hardly surpasses that of the plant, whichis unacquainted with any tender feeling and nevertheless bestows thenicest and most delicate care upon its seeds. The animal, in manycases, knows no other sense of motherhood. What cares the Lycosa forher brood! She accepts another's as readily as her own; she issatisfied so long as her back is burdened with a swarming crowd, whether it issue from her ovaries or elsewhere. There is no questionhere of real maternal affection. 

I have described elsewhere the prowess of the Copris watching overcells that are not her handiwork and do not contain her offspring. Witha zeal which even the additional labour laid upon her does not easilyweary, she removes the mildew from the alien dung-balls, which farexceed the regular nests in number; she gently scrapes and polishes andrepairs them; she listens attentively and enquires by ear into eachnurseling's progress. Her real collection could not receive greatercare. Her own family or another's: it is all one to her. 

The Lycosa is equally indifferent. I take a hair-pencil and sweep theliving burden from one of my Spiders, making it fall close to anothercovered with her little ones. The evicted youngsters scamper about, find the new mother's legs outspread, nimbly clamber up these and mounton the back of the obliging creature, who quietly lets them have theirway. They slip in among the others, or, when the layer is too thick, push to the front and pass from the abdomen to the thorax and even tothe head, though leaving the region of the eyes uncovered. It does notdo to blind the bearer: the common safety demands that. They know thisand respect the lenses of the eyes, however populous the assembly be. The whole animal is now covered with a swarming carpet of young, allexcept the legs, which must preserve their freedom of action, and theunder part of the body, where contact with the ground is to be feared. 

My pencil forces a third family upon the already over-burdened Spider;and this too is peacefully accepted. The youngsters huddle up closer, lie one on top of the other in layers and room is found for all. TheLycosa has lost the last semblance of an animal, has become a namelessbristling thing that walks about. Falls are frequent and are followedby continual climbings. 

I perceive that I have reached the limits, not of the bearer'sgood-will, but of equilibrium. The Spider would adopt an indefinitefurther number of foundlings, if the dimensions of her back affordedthem a firm hold. Let us be content with this. Let us restore eachfamily to its mother, drawing at random from the lot. There mustnecessarily be interchanges, but that is of no importance: realchildren and adopted children are the same thing in the Lycosa's eyes. 

One would like to know if, apart from my artifices, in circumstanceswhere I do not interfere, the good-natured dry-nurse sometimes burdensherself with a supplementary family; it would also be interesting tolearn what comes of this association of lawful offspring and strangers. I have ample materials wherewith to obtain an answer to both questions. I have housed in the same cage two elderly matrons laden withyoungsters. Each has her home as far removed from the other's as thesize of the common pan permits. The distance is nine inches or more. Itis not enough. Proximity soon kindles fierce jealousies between thoseintolerant creatures, who are obliged to live far apart so as to secureadequate hunting-grounds. 

One morning I catch the two harridans fighting out their quarrel on thefloor. The loser is laid flat upon her back; the victress, belly tobelly with her adversary, clutches her with her legs and prevents herfrom moving a limb. Both have their poison-fangs wide open, ready tobite without yet daring, so mutually formidable are they. After acertain period of waiting, during which the pair merely exchangethreats, the stronger of the two, the one on top, closes her lethalengine and grinds the head of the prostrate foe. Then she calmlydevours the deceased by small mouthfuls. 

Now what do the youngsters do, while their mother is being eaten?Easily consoled, heedless of the atrocious scene, they climb on theconqueror's back and quietly take their places among the lawful family. The ogress raises no objection, accepts them as her own. She makes ameal off the mother and adopts the orphans. 

Let us add that, for many months yet, until the final emancipationcomes, she will carry them without drawing any distinction between themand her own young. Henceforth the two families, united in so tragic afashion, will form but one. We see how greatly out of place it would beto speak, in this connection, of mother-love and its fondmanifestations. 

Does the Lycosa at least feed the younglings who, for seven months, swarm upon her back? Does she invite them to the banquet when she hassecured a prize? I thought so at first; and, anxious to assist at thefamily repast, I devoted special attention to watching the mothers eat. As a rule, the prey is consumed out of sight, in the burrow; butsometimes also a meal is taken on the threshold, in the open air. Besides, it is easy to rear the Lycosa and her family in a wire-gauzecage, with a layer of earth wherein the captive will never dream ofsinking a well, such work being out of season. Everything then happensin the open. 

Well, while the mother munches, chews, expresses the juices andswallows, the youngsters do not budge from their camping-ground on herback. Not one quits its place nor gives a sign of wishing to slip downand join in the meal. Nor does the mother extend an invitation to themto come and recruit themselves, nor put any broken victuals aside forthem. She feeds and the others look on, or rather remain indifferent towhat is happening. Their perfect quiet during the Lycosa's feast pointsto the possession of a stomach that knows no cravings. 

Then with what are they sustained, during their seven months'upbringing on the mother's back? One conceives a notion of exudationssupplied by the bearer's body, in which case the young would feed ontheir mother, after the manner of parasitic vermin, and gradually drainher strength. 

We must abandon this notion. Never are they seen to put their mouths tothe skin that should be a sort of teat to them. On the other hand, theLycosa, far from being exhausted and shrivelling, keeps perfectly welland plump. She has the same pot-belly when she finishes rearing heryoung as when she began. She has not lost weight: far from it; on thecontrary, she has put on flesh: she has gained the wherewithal to begeta new family next summer, one as numerous as to-day's. 

Once more, with what do the little ones keep up their strength? We donot like to suggest reserves supplied by the egg as rectifying theanimal's expenditure of vital force, especially when we consider thatthose reserves, themselves so close to nothing, must be economized inview of the silk, a material of the highest importance, of which aplentiful use will be made presently. There must be other powers atplay in the tiny animal's machinery. 

Total abstinence from food could be understood, if it were accompaniedby inertia: immobility is not life. But the young Lycosae, thoughusually quiet on their mother's back, are at all times ready forexercise and for agile swarming. When they fall from the maternalperambulator, they briskly pick themselves up, briskly scramble up aleg and make their way to the top. It is a splendidly nimble andspirited performance. Besides, once seated, they have to keep a firmbalance in the mass; they have to stretch and stiffen their littlelimbs in order to hang on to their neighbours. As a matter of fact, there is no absolute rest for them. Now physiology teaches us that nota fibre works without some expenditure of energy. The animal, which canbe likened, in no small measure, to our industrial machines, demands, on the one hand, the renovation of its organism, which wears out withmovement, and, on the other, the maintenance of the heat transformedinto action. We can compare it with the locomotive-engine. As the ironhorse performs its work, it gradually wears out its pistons, its rods, its wheels, its boiler-tubes, all of which have to be made good fromtime to time. The founder and the smith repair it, supply it, so tospeak, with 'plastic food, ' the food that becomes embodied with thewhole and forms part of it. But, though it have just come from theengine-shop, it is still inert. To acquire the power of movement itmust receive from the stoker a supply of 'energy-producing food'; inother words, he lights a few shovelfuls of coal in its inside. Thisheat will produce mechanical work. 

Even so with the beast. As nothing is made from nothing, the eggsupplies first the materials of the new-born animal; then the plasticfood, the smith of living creatures, increases the body, up to acertain limit, and renews it as it wears away. The stoker works at thesame time, without stopping. Fuel, the source of energy, makes but ashort stay in the system, where it is consumed and furnishes heat, whence movement is derived. Life is a fire-box. Warmed by its food, theanimal machine moves, walks, runs, jumps, swims, flies, sets itslocomotory apparatus going in a thousand manners. 

To return to the young Lycosae, they grow no larger until the period oftheir emancipation. I find them at the age of seven months the same aswhen I saw them at their birth. The egg supplied the materialsnecessary for their tiny frames; and, as the loss of waste substanceis, for the moment, excessively small, or even nil, additional plasticfood is not needed so long as the wee creature does not grow. In thisrespect, the prolonged abstinence presents no difficulty. But thereremains the question of energy-producing food, which is indispensable, for the little Lycosa moves, when necessary, and very actively at that. To what shall we attribute the heat expended upon action, when theanimal takes absolutely no nourishment?

An idea suggests itself. We say to ourselves that, without being life, a machine is something more than matter, for man has added a little ofhis mind to it. Now the iron beast, consuming its ration of coal, isreally browsing the ancient foliage of arborescent ferns in which solarenergy has accumulated. 

Beasts of flesh and blood act no otherwise. Whether they mutuallydevour one another or levy tribute on the plant, they invariablyquicken themselves with the stimulant of the sun's heat, a heat storedin grass, fruit, seed and those which feed on such. The sun, the soulof the universe, is the supreme dispenser of energy. 

Instead of being served up through the intermediary of food and passingthrough the ignominious circuit of gastric chemistry, could not thissolar energy penetrate the animal directly and charge it with activity, even as the battery charges an accumulator with power? Why not live onsun, seeing that, after all, we find naught but sun in the fruits whichwe consume?

Chemical science, that bold revolutionary, promises to provide us withsynthetic foodstuffs. The laboratory and the factory will take theplace of the farm. Why should not physical science step in as well? Itwould leave the preparation of plastic food to the chemist's retorts;it would reserve for itself that of energy-producing food which, reduced to its exact terms, ceases to be matter. With the aid of someingenious apparatus, it would pump into us our daily ration of solarenergy, to be later expended in movement, whereby the machine would bekept going without the often painful assistance of the stomach and itsadjuncts. What a delightful world, where one could lunch off a ray ofsunshine!

Is it a dream, or the anticipation of a remote reality? The problem isone of the most important that science can set us. Let us first hearthe evidence of the young Lycosae regarding its possibilities. 

For seven months, without any material nourishment, they expendstrength in moving. To wind up the mechanism of their muscles, theyrecruit themselves direct with heat and light. During the time when shewas dragging the bag of eggs behind her, the mother, at the bestmoments of the day, came and held up her pill to the sun. With her twohind-legs she lifted it out of the ground into the full light; slowlyshe turned it and turned it, so that every side might receive its shareof the vivifying rays. Well, this bath of life, which awakened thegerms, is now prolonged to keep the tender babes active. 

Daily, if the sky be clear, the Lycosa, carrying her young, comes upfrom the burrow, leans on the kerb and spends long hours basking in thesun. Here, on their mother's back, the youngsters stretch their limbsdelightedly, saturate themselves with heat, take in reserves ofmotor-power, absorb energy. 

They are motionless; but, if I only blow upon them, they stampede asnimbly as though a hurricane were passing. Hurriedly, they disperse;hurriedly, they reassemble: a proof that, without material nourishment, the little animal machine is always at full pressure, ready to work. When the shade comes, mother and sons go down again, surfeited withsolar emanations. The feast of energy at the Sun Tavern is finished forthe day. 

CHAPTER 10. THE BANDED EPEIRA. 

BUILDING THE WEB. 

The fowling-snare is one of man's ingenious villainies. With lines, pegs and poles, two large, earth-coloured nets are stretched upon theground, one to the right, the other to the left of a bare surface. Along cord, pulled at the right moment by the fowler, who hides in abrushwood hut, works them and brings them together suddenly, like apair of shutters. 

Divided between the two nets are the cages of the decoy-birds--Linnetsand Chaffinches, Greenfinches and Yellowhammers, Buntings andOrtolans--sharp-eared creatures which, on perceiving the distantpassage of a flock of their own kind, forthwith utter a short callingnote. One of them, the Sambé, an irresistible tempter, hops about andflaps his wings in apparent freedom. A bit of twine fastens him to hisconvict's stake. When, worn with fatigue and driven desperate by hisvain attempts to get away, the sufferer lies down flat and refuses todo his duty, the fowler is able to stimulate him without stirring fromhis hut. A long string sets in motion a little lever working on apivot. Raised from the ground by this diabolical contrivance, the birdflies, falls down and flies up again at each jerk of the cord. 

The fowler waits, in the mild sunlight of the autumn morning. Suddenly, great excitement in the cages. The Chaffinches chirp their rallyingcry:

"Pinck! Pinck!"

There is something happening in the sky. The Sambé, quick! They arecoming, the simpletons; they swoop down upon the treacherous floor. With a rapid movement, the man in ambush pulls his string. The netsclose and the whole flock is caught. 

Man has wild beast's blood in his veins. The fowler hastens to theslaughter. With his thumb he stifles the beating of the captives'hearts, staves in their skulls. The little birds, so many piteous headsof game, will go to market, strung in dozens on a wire passed throughtheir nostrils. 

For scoundrelly ingenuity, the Epeira's net can bear comparison withthe fowler's; it even surpasses it when, on patient study, the mainfeatures of its supreme perfection stand revealed. What refinement ofart for a mess of Flies! Nowhere, in the whole animal kingdom, has theneed to eat inspired a more cunning industry. If the reader willmeditate upon the description that follows, he will certainly share myadmiration. 

In bearing and colouring, Epeira fasciata is the handsomest of theSpiders of the South. On her fat belly, a mighty silk-warehouse nearlyas large as a hazel-nut, are alternate yellow, black and silver sashes, to which she owes her epithet of Banded. Around that portly abdomen theeight long legs, with their dark- and pale-brown rings, radiate likespokes. 

Any small prey suits her; and, as long as she can find supports for herweb, she settles wherever the Locust hops, wherever the Fly hovers, wherever the Dragon-fly dances or the Butterfly flits. As a rule, because of the greater abundance of game, she spreads her toils acrosssome brooklet, from bank to bank among the rushes. She also stretchesthem, but not so assiduously, in the thickets of evergreen oak, on theslopes with the scrubby greenswards, dear to the Grasshoppers. 

Her hunting-weapon is a large upright web, whose outer boundary, whichvaries according to the disposition of the ground, is fastened to theneighbouring branches by a number of moorings. Let us see, first ofall, how the ropes which form the framework of the building areobtained. 

All day invisible, crouching amid the cypress-leaves, the Spider, atabout eight o'clock in the evening, solemnly emerges from her retreatand makes for the top of a branch. In this exalted position she sitsfor sometime laying her plans with due regard to the locality; sheconsults the weather, ascertains if the night will be fine. Then, suddenly, with her eight legs widespread, she lets herself dropstraight down, hanging to the line that issues from her spinnerets. Just as the rope-maker obtains the even output of his hemp by walkingbackwards, so does the Epeira obtain the discharge of hers by falling. It is extracted by the weight of her body. 

The descent, however, has not the brute speed which the force ofgravity would give it, if uncontrolled. It is governed by the action ofthe spinnerets, which contract or expand their pores, or close thementirely, at the faller's pleasure. And so, with gentle moderation, shepays out this living plumb-line, of which my lantern clearly shows methe plumb, but not always the line. The great squab seems at such timesto be sprawling in space, without the least support. 

She comes to an abrupt stop two inches from the ground; the silk-reelceases working. The Spider turns round, clutches the line which she hasjust obtained and climbs up by this road, still spinning. But, thistime, as she is no longer assisted by the force of gravity, the threadis extracted in another manner. The two hind-legs, with a quickalternate action, draw it from the wallet and let it go. 

On returning to her starting-point, at a height of six feet or more, the Spider is now in possession of a double line, bent into a loop andfloating loosely in a current of air. She fixes her end where it suitsher and waits until the other end, wafted by the wind, has fastened itsloop to the adjacent twigs. 

Feeling her thread fixed, the Epeira runs along it repeatedly, from endto end, adding a fibre to it on each journey. Whether I help or not, this forms the "suspension cable, " the main piece of the framework. Icall it a cable, in spite of its extreme thinness, because of itsstructure. It looks as though it were single, but, at the two ends, itis seen to divide and spread, tuft-wise, into numerous constituentparts, which are the product of as many crossings. These divergingfibres, with their several contact-points, increase the steadiness ofthe two extremities. 

The suspension-cable is incomparably stronger than the rest of the workand lasts for an indefinite time. The web is generally shattered afterthe night's hunting and is nearly always rewoven on the followingevening. After the removal of the wreckage, it is made all over again, on the same site, cleared of everything except the cable from which thenew network is to hang. 

Once the cable is laid, in this way or in that, the Spider is inpossession of a base that allows her to approach or withdraw from theleafy piers at will. From the height of the cable she lets herself slipto a slight depth, varying the points of her fall. In this way sheobtains, to right and left, a few slanting cross-bars, connecting thecable with the branches. 

These cross-bars, in their turn, support others in ever changingdirections. When there are enough of them, the Epeira need no longerresort to falls in order to extract her threads; she goes from one cordto the next, always wire-drawing with her hind-legs. This results in acombination of straight lines owning no order, save that they are keptin one nearly perpendicular plane. Thus is marked out a very irregularpolygonal area, wherein the web, itself a work of magnificentregularity, shall presently be woven. 

In the lower part of the web, starting from the centre, a wide opaqueribbon descends zigzag-wise across the radii. This is the Epeira'strade-mark, the flourish of an artist initialling his creation. "FecitSo-and-so, " she seems to say, when giving the last throw of the shuttleto her handiwork. 

That the Spider feels satisfied when, after passing and repassing fromspoke to spoke, she finishes her spiral, is beyond a doubt: the workachieved ensures her food for a few days to come. But, in thisparticular case, the vanity of the spinstress has naught to say to thematter: the strong silk zigzag is added to impart greater firmness tothe web. 

THE LIME-SNARE. 

The spiral network of the Epeirae possesses contrivances of fearsomecunning. The thread that forms it is seen with the naked eye to differfrom that of the framework and the spokes. It glitters in the sun, looks as though it were knotted and gives the impression of a chapletof atoms. To examine it through the lens on the web itself is scarcelyfeasible, because of the shaking of the fabric, which trembles at theleast breath. By passing a sheet of glass under the web and lifting it, I take away a few pieces of thread to study, pieces that remain fixedto the glass in parallel lines. Lens and microscope can now play theirpart. 

The sight is perfectly astounding. Those threads, on the borderlandbetween the visible and the invisible, are very closely twisted twine, similar to the gold cord of our officers' sword-knots. Moreover, theyare hollow. The infinitely slender is a tube, a channel full of aviscous moisture resembling a strong solution of gum arabic. I can seea diaphanous trail of this moisture trickling through the broken ends. Under the pressure of the thin glass slide that covers them on thestage of the microscope, the twists lengthen out, become crinkledribbons, traversed from end to end, through the middle, by a darkstreak, which is the empty container. 

The fluid contents must ooze slowly through the side of those tubularthreads, rolled into twisted strings, and thus render the networksticky. It is sticky, in fact, and in such a way as to provokesurprise. I bring a fine straw flat down upon three or four rungs of asector. However gentle the contact, adhesion is at once established. When I lift the straw, the threads come with it and stretch to twice orthree times their length, like a thread of india-rubber. At last, whenover-taut, they loosen without breaking and resume their original form. They lengthen by unrolling their twist, they shorten by rolling itagain; lastly, they become adhesive by taking the glaze of the gummymoisture wherewith they are filled. 

In short, the spiral thread is a capillary tube finer than any that ourphysics will ever know. It is rolled into a twist so as to possess anelasticity that allows it, without breaking, to yield to the tugs ofthe captured prey; it holds a supply of sticky matter in reserve in itstube, so as to renew the adhesive properties of the surface byincessant exudation, as they become impaired by exposure to the air. Itis simply marvellous. 

The Epeira hunts not with springs, but with lime-snares. And suchlime-snares! Everything is caught in them, down to the dandelion-plumethat barely brushes against them. Nevertheless, the Epeira, who is inconstant touch with her web, is not caught in them. Why? Because theSpider has contrived for herself, in the middle of her trap, a floor inwhose construction the sticky spiral thread plays no part. There ishere, covering a space which, in the larger webs, is about equal to thepalm of one's hand, a neutral fabric in which the exploring straw findsno adhesiveness anywhere. 

Here, on this central resting-floor, and here only, the Epeira takesher stand, waiting whole days for the arrival of the game. Howeverclose, however prolonged her contact with this portion of the web, sheruns no risk of sticking to it, because the gummy coating is lacking, as is the twisted and tubular structure, throughout the length of thespokes and throughout the extent of the auxiliary spiral. These pieces, together with the rest of the framework, are made of plain, straight, solid thread. 

But when a victim is caught, sometimes right at the edge of the web, the Spider has to rush up quickly, to bind it and overcome its attemptsto free itself. She is walking then upon her network; and I do not findthat she suffers the least inconvenience. The lime-threads are not evenlifted by the movements of her legs. 

In my boyhood, when a troop of us would go, on Thursdays (The weeklyhalf-day in French schools. --Translator's Note. ), to try and catch aGoldfinch in the hemp-fields, we used, before covering the twigs withglue, to grease our fingers with a few drops of oil, lest we should getthem caught in the sticky matter. Does the Epeira know the secret offatty substances? Let us try. 

I rub my exploring straw with slightly oiled paper. When applied to thespiral thread of the web, it now no longer sticks to it. The principleis discovered. I pull out the leg of a live Epeira. Brought just as itis into contact with the lime-threads, it does not stick to them anymore than to the neutral cords, whether spokes or part of theframework. We were entitled to expect this, judging by the Spider'sgeneral immunity. 

But here is something that wholly alters the result. I put the leg tosoak for a quarter of an hour in disulphide of carbon, the best solventof fatty matters. I wash it carefully with a brush dipped in the samefluid. When this washing is finished, the leg sticks to thesnaring-thread quite easily and adheres to it just as well as anythingelse would, the unoiled straw, for instance. 

Did I guess aright when I judged that it was a fatty substance thatpreserved the Epeira from the snares of her sticky Catherine-wheel? Theaction of the carbon-disulphide seems to say yes. Besides, there is noreason why a substance of this kind, which plays so frequent a part inanimal economy, should not coat the Spider very slightly by the mereact of perspiration. We used to rub our fingers with a little oilbefore handling the twigs in which the Goldfinch was to be caught; evenso the Epeira varnishes herself with a special sweat, to operate on anypart of her web without fear of the lime-threads. 

However, an unduly protracted stay on the sticky threads would have itsdrawbacks. In the long run, continual contact with those threads mightproduce a certain adhesion and inconvenience to the Spider, who mustpreserve all her agility in order to rush upon the prey before it canrelease itself. For this reason, gummy threads are never used inbuilding the post of interminable waiting. 

It is only on her resting-floor that the Epeira sits, motionless andwith her eight legs outspread, ready to mark the least quiver in thenet. It is here, again, that she takes her meals, often long-drawn out, when the joint is a substantial one; it is hither that, after trussingand nibbling it, she drags her prey at the end of a thread, to consumeit at her ease on a non-viscous mat. As a hunting-post and refectory, the Epeira has contrived a central space, free from glue. 

As for the glue itself, it is hardly possible to study its chemicalproperties, because the quantity is so slight. The microscope shows ittrickling from the broken threads in the form of a transparent and moreor less granular streak. The following experiment will tell us moreabout it. 

With a sheet of glass passed across the web, I gather a series oflime-threads which remain fixed in parallel lines. I cover this sheetwith a bell-jar standing in a depth of water. Soon, in this atmospheresaturated with humidity, the threads become enveloped in a waterysheath, which gradually increases and begins to flow. The twisted shapehas by this time disappeared; and the channel of the thread reveals achaplet of translucent orbs, that is to say, a series of extremely finedrops. 

In twenty-four hours the threads have lost their contents and arereduced to almost invisible streaks. If I then lay a drop of water onthe glass, I get a sticky solution similar to that which a particle ofgum arabic might yield. The conclusion is evident: the Epeira's glue isa substance that absorbs moisture freely. In an atmosphere with a highdegree of humidity, it becomes saturated and percolates by sweatingthrough the side of the tubular threads. 

These data explain certain facts relating to the work of the net. TheEpeirae weave at very early hours, long before dawn. Should the airturn misty, they sometimes leave that part of the task unfinished: theybuild the general framework, they lay the spokes, they even draw theauxiliary spiral, for all these parts are unaffected by excess ofmoisture; but they are very careful not to work at the lime-threads, which, if soaked by the fog, would dissolve into sticky shreds and losetheir efficacy by being wetted. The net that was started will befinished to-morrow, if the atmosphere be favourable. 

While the highly-absorbent character of the snaring-thread has itsdrawbacks, it also has compensating advantages. The Epeirae, whenhunting by day, affect those hot places, exposed to the fierce rays ofthe sun, wherein the Crickets delight. In the torrid heats of thedog-days, therefore, the lime-threads, but for special provisions, would be liable to dry up, to shrivel into stiff and lifelessfilaments. But the very opposite happens. At the most scorching timesof the day they continue supple, elastic and more and more adhesive. 

How is this brought about? By their very powers of absorption. Themoisture of which the air is never deprived penetrates them slowly; itdilutes the thick contents of their tubes to the requisite degree andcauses it to ooze through, as and when the earlier stickinessdecreases. What bird-catcher could vie with the Garden Spider in theart of laying lime-snares? And all this industry and cunning for thecapture of a Moth!

I should like an anatomist endowed with better implements than mine andwith less tired eyesight to explain to us the work of the marvellousrope-yard. How is the silken matter moulded into a capillary tube? Howis this tube filled with glue and tightly twisted? And how does thissame mill also turn out plain threads, wrought first into a frameworkand then into muslin and satin? What a number of products to come fromthat curious factory, a Spider's belly! I behold the results, but failto understand the working of the machine. I leave the problem to themasters of the microtome and the scalpel. 

THE HUNT. 

The Epeirae are monuments of patience in their lime-snare. With herhead down and her eight legs widespread, the Spider occupies the centreof the web, the receiving-point of the information sent along thespokes. If anywhere, behind or before, a vibration occur, the sign of acapture, the Epeira knows about it, even without the aid of sight. Shehastens up at once. 

Until then, not a movement: one would think that the animal washypnotized by her watching. At most, on the appearance of anythingsuspicious, she begins shaking her nest. This is her way of inspiringthe intruder with awe. If I myself wish to provoke the singular alarm, I have but to tease the Epeira with a bit of straw. You cannot have aswing without an impulse of some sort. The terror-stricken Spider, whowishes to strike terror into others, has hit upon something muchbetter. With nothing to push her, she swings with the floor of ropes. There is no effort, no visible exertion. Not a single part of theanimal moves; and yet everything trembles. Violent shaking proceedsfrom apparent inertia. Rest causes commotion. 

When calm is restored, she resumes her attitude, ceaselessly ponderingthe harsh problem of life:

"Shall I dine to-day, or not?"

Certain privileged beings, exempt from those anxieties, have food inabundance and need not struggle to obtain it. Such is the Gentle, whoswims blissfully in the broth of the putrefying Adder. Others--and, bya strange irony of fate, these are generally the most gifted--onlymanage to eat by dint of craft and patience. 

You are of their company, O my industrious Epeirae! So that you maydine, you spend your treasures of patience nightly; and often withoutresult. I sympathize with your woes, for I, who am as concerned as youabout my daily bread, I also doggedly spread my net, the net forcatching ideas, a more elusive and less substantial prize than theMoth. Let us not lose heart. The best part of life is not in thepresent, still less in the past; it lies in the future, the domain ofhope. Let us wait. 

All day long, the sky, of a uniform grey, has appeared to be brewing astorm. In spite of the threatened downpour, my neighbour, who is ashrewd weather-prophet, has come out of the cypress-tree and begun torenew her web at the regular hour. Her forecast is correct: it will bea fine night. See, the steaming-pan of the clouds splits open; and, through the apertures, the moon peeps, inquisitively. I too, lantern inhand, am peeping. A gust of wind from the north clears the realms onhigh; the sky becomes magnificent; perfect calm reigns below. The Mothsbegin their nightly rounds. Good! One is caught, a mighty fine one. TheSpider will dine to-day. 

What happens next, in an uncertain light, does not lend itself toaccurate observation. It is better to turn to those Garden Spiders whonever leave their web and who hunt mainly in the daytime. The Bandedand the Silky Epeira, both of whom live on the rosemaries in theenclosure, shall show us in broad daylight the innermost details of thetragedy. 

I myself place on the lime-snare a victim of my selecting. Its six legsare caught without more ado. If the insect raises one of its tarsi andpulls towards itself, the treacherous thread follows, unwinds slightlyand, without letting go or breaking, yields to the captive's desperatejerks. Any limb released only tangles the others still more and isspeedily recaptured by the sticky matter. There is no means of escape, except by smashing the trap with a sudden effort whereof even powerfulinsects are not always capable. 

Warned by the shaking of the net, the Epeira hastens up; she turnsround about the quarry; she inspects it at a distance, so as toascertain the extent of the danger before attacking. The strength ofthe snareling will decide the plan of campaign. Let us first supposethe usual case, that of an average head of game, a Moth or Fly of somesort. Facing her prisoner, the Spider contracts her abdomen slightlyand touches the insect for a moment with the end of her spinnerets;then, with her front tarsi, she sets her victim spinning. The Squirrel, in the moving cylinder of his cage, does not display a more graceful ornimbler dexterity. A cross-bar of the sticky spiral serves as an axisfor the tiny machine, which turns, turns swiftly, like a spit. It is atreat to the eyes to see it revolve. 

What is the object of this circular motion? It is this: the briefcontact of the spinnerets has given a starting-point for a thread, which the Spider must now draw from her silk warehouse and graduallyroll around the captive, so as to swathe him in a winding-sheet whichwill overpower any effort made. It is the exact process employed in ourwire-mills: a motor-driven spool revolves and, by its action, draws thewire through the narrow eyelet of a steel plate, making it of thefineness required, and, with the same movement, winds it round andround its collar. 

Even so with the Epeira's work. The Spider's front tarsi are the motor;the revolving spool is the captured insect; the steel eyelet is theaperture of the spinnerets. To bind the subject with precision anddispatch nothing could be better than this inexpensive and highlyeffective method. 

Less frequently, a second process is employed. With a quick movement, the Spider herself turns round about the motionless insect, crossingthe web first at the top and then at the bottom and gradually placingthe fastenings of her line. The great elasticity of the lime-threadsallows the Epeira to fling herself time after time right into the weband to pass through it without damaging the net. 

Let us now suppose the case of some dangerous game: a Praying Mantis, for instance, brandishing her lethal limbs, each hooked and fitted witha double saw; an angry Hornet, darting her awful sting; a sturdyBeetle, invincible under his horny armour. These are exceptionalmorsels, hardly ever known to the Epeirae. Will they be accepted, ifsupplied by my stratagems?

They are, but not without caution. The game is seen to be perilous ofapproach and the Spider turns her back upon it instead of facing it;she trains her rope-cannon upon it. Quickly the hind-legs draw from thespinnerets something much better than single cords. The wholesilk-battery works at one and the same time, firing a regular volley ofribbons and sheets, which a wide movement of the legs spreads fan-wiseand flings over the entangled prisoner. Guarding against sudden starts, the Epeira casts her armfuls of bands on the front- and hind-parts, over the legs and over the wings, here, there and everywhere, extravagantly. The most fiery prey is promptly mastered under thisavalanche. In vain the Mantis tries to open her saw-toothed arm-guards;in vain the Hornet makes play with her dagger; in vain the Beetlestiffens his legs and arches his back: a fresh wave of threads swoopsdown and paralyses every effort. 

The ancient retiarius, when pitted against a powerful wild beast, appeared in the arena with a rope-net folded over his left shoulder. The animal made its spring. The man, with a sudden movement of hisright arm, cast the net after the manner of the fisherman; he coveredthe beast and tangled it in the meshes. A thrust of the trident gavethe quietus to the vanquished foe. 

The Epeira acts in like fashion, with this advantage, that she is ableto renew her armful of fetters. Should the first not suffice, a secondinstantly follows and another and yet another, until the reserves ofsilk become exhausted. 

When all movement ceases under the snowy winding-sheet, the Spider goesup to her bound prisoner. She has a better weapon than the bestiarius'trident: she has her poison-fangs. She gnaws at the Locust, withoutundue persistence, and then withdraws, leaving the torpid patient topine away. 

These lavished, far-flung ribbons threaten to exhaust the factory; itwould be much more economical to resort to the method of the spool;but, to turn the machine, the Spider would have to go up to it and workit with her leg. This is too risky; and hence the continuous spray ofsilk, at a safe distance. When all is used up, there is more to come. 

Still, the Epeira seems concerned at this excessive outlay. Whencircumstances permit, she gladly returns to the mechanism of therevolving spool. I saw her practice this abrupt change of tactics on abig Beetle, with a smooth, plump body, which lent itself admirably tothe rotary process. After depriving the beast of all power of movement, she went up to it and turned her corpulent victim as she would havedone with a medium-sized Moth. 

But with the Praying Mantis, sticking out her long legs and herspreading wings, rotation is no longer feasible. Then, until the quarryis thoroughly subdued, the spray of bandages goes on continuously, evento the point of drying up the silk glands. A capture of this kind isruinous. It is true that, except when I interfered, I have never seenthe Spider tackle that formidable provender. 

Be it feeble or strong, the game is now neatly trussed, by one of thetwo methods. The next move never varies. The bound insect is bitten, without persistency and without any wound that shows. The Spider nextretires and allows the bite to act, which it soon does. She thenreturns. 

If the victim be small, a Clothes-moth, for instance, it is consumed onthe spot, at the place where it was captured. But, for a prize of someimportance, on which she hopes to feast for many an hour, sometimes formany a day, the Spider needs a sequestered dining-room, where there isnaught to fear from the stickiness of the network. Before going to it, she first makes her prey turn in the converse direction to that of theoriginal rotation. Her object is to free the nearest spokes, whichsupplied pivots for the machinery. They are essential factors which itbehoves her to keep intact, if need be by sacrificing a few cross-bars. 

It is done; the twisted ends are put back into position. Thewell-trussed game is at last removed from the web and fastened onbehind with a thread. The Spider then marches in front and the load istrundled across the web and hoisted to the resting-floor, which is bothan inspection-post and a dining-hall. When the Spider is of a speciesthat shuns the light and possesses a telegraph-line, she mounts to herdaytime hiding-place along this line, with the game bumping against herheels. 

While she is refreshing herself, let us enquire into the effects of thelittle bite previously administered to the silk-swathed captive. Doesthe Spider kill the patient with a view to avoiding unseasonable jerks, protests so disagreeable at dinner-time? Several reasons make me doubtit. In the first place, the attack is so much veiled as to have all theappearance of a mere kiss. Besides, it is made anywhere, at the firstspot that offers. The expert slayers employ methods of the highestprecision: they give a stab in the neck, or under the throat; theywound the cervical nerve-centres, the seat of energy. The paralysers, those accomplished anatomists, poison the motor nerve-centres, of whichthey know the number and position. The Epeira possesses none of thisfearsome knowledge. She inserts her fangs at random, as the Bee doesher sting. She does not select one spot rather than another; she bitesindifferently at whatever comes within reach. This being so, her poisonwould have to possess unparalleled virulence to produce a corpse-likeinertia no matter which the point attacked. I can scarcely believe ininstantaneous death resulting from the bite, especially in the case ofinsects, with their highly-resistant organisms. 

Besides, is it really a corpse that the Epeira wants, she who feeds onblood much more than on flesh? It were to her advantage to suck a livebody, wherein the flow of the liquids, set in movement by the pulsationof the dorsal vessel, that rudimentary heart of insects, must act morefreely than in a lifeless body, with its stagnant fluids. The gamewhich the Spider means to suck dry might very well not be dead. This iseasily ascertained. 

I place some Locusts of different species on the webs in my menagerie, one on this, another on that. The Spider comes rushing up, binds theprey, nibbles at it gently and withdraws, waiting for the bite to takeeffect. I then take the insect and carefully strip it of its silkenshroud. The Locust is not dead; far from it; one would even think thathe had suffered no harm. I examine the released prisoner through thelens in vain; I can see no trace of a wound. 

Can he be unscathed, in spite of the sort of kiss which I saw given tohim just now? You would be ready to say so, judging by the furious wayin which he kicks in my fingers. Nevertheless, when put on the ground, he walks awkwardly, he seems reluctant to hop. Perhaps it is atemporary trouble, caused by his terrible excitement in the web. Itlooks as though it would soon pass. 

I lodge my Locusts in cages, with a lettuce-leaf to console them fortheir trials; but they will not be comforted. A day elapses, followedby a second. Not one of them touches the leaf of salad; their appetitehas disappeared. Their movements become more uncertain, as thoughhampered by irresistible torpor. On the second day they are dead, everyone irrecoverably dead. 

The Epeira, therefore, does not incontinently kill her prey with herdelicate bite; she poisons it so as to produce a gradual weakness, which gives the blood-sucker ample time to drain her victim, withoutthe least risk, before the rigor mortis stops the flow of moisture. 

The meal lasts quite twenty-four hours, if the joint be large; and tothe very end the butchered insect retains a remnant of life, afavourable condition for the exhausting of the juices. Once again, wesee a skilful method of slaughter, very different from the tactics inuse among the expert paralysers or slayers. Here there is no display ofanatomical science. Unacquainted with the patient's structure, theSpider stabs at random. The virulence of the poison does the rest. 

There are, however, some very few cases in which the bite is speedilymortal. My notes speak of an Angular Epeira grappling with the largestDragon-fly in my district (Aeshna grandis, Lin. ) I myself had entangledin the web this head of big game, which is not often captured by theEpeirae. The net shakes violently, seems bound to break its moorings. The Spider rushes from her leafy villa, runs boldly up to the giantess, flings a single bundle of ropes at her and, without furtherprecautions, grips her with her legs, tries to subdue her and then digsher fangs into the Dragon-fly's back. The bite is prolonged in such away as to astonish me. This is not the perfunctory kiss with which I amalready familiar; it is a deep, determined wound. After striking herblow, the Spider retires to a certain distance and waits for her poisonto take effect. 

I at once remove the Dragon-fly. She is dead, really and truly dead. Laid upon my table and left alone for twenty-four hours, she makes notthe slightest movement. A prick of which my lens cannot see the marks, so sharp-pointed are the Epeira's weapons, was enough, with a littleinsistence, to kill the powerful animal. Proportionately, theRattlesnake, the Horned Viper, the Trigonocephalus and other ill-famedserpents produce less paralysing effects upon their victims. 

And these Epeirae, so terrible to insects, I am able to handle withoutany fear. My skin does not suit them. If I persuaded them to bite me, what would happen to me? Hardly anything. We have more cause to dreadthe sting of a nettle than the dagger which is fatal to Dragon-flies. The same virus acts differently upon this organism and that, isformidable here and quite mild there. What kills the insect may easilybe harmless to us. Let us not, however, generalize too far. TheNarbonne Lycosa, that other enthusiastic insect-huntress, would make uspay dearly if we attempted to take liberties with her. 

It is not uninteresting to watch the Epeira at dinner. I light uponone, the Banded Epeira, at the moment, about three o'clock in theafternoon, when she has captured a Locust. Planted in the centre of theweb, on her resting-floor, she attacks the venison at the joint of ahaunch. There is no movement, not even of the mouth-parts, so far as Iam able to discover. The mouth lingers, close-applied, at the pointoriginally bitten. There are no intermittent mouthfuls, with themandibles moving backwards and forwards. It is a sort of continuouskiss. 

I visit my Epeira at intervals. The mouth does not change its place. Ivisit her for the last time at nine o'clock in the evening. Mattersstand exactly as they did: after six hours' consumption, the mouth isstill sucking at the lower end of the right haunch. The fluid contentsof the victim are transferred to the ogress's belly, I know not how. 

Next morning, the Spider is still at table. I take away her dish. Naught remains of the Locust but his skin, hardly altered in shape, bututterly drained and perforated in several places. The method, therefore, was changed during the night. To extract the non-fluentresidue, the viscera and muscles, the stiff cuticle had to be tappedhere, there and elsewhere, after which the tattered husk, placed bodilyin the press of the mandibles, would have been chewed, re-chewed andfinally reduced to a pill, which the sated Spider throws up. This wouldhave been the end of the victim, had I not taken it away before thetime. 

Whether she wound or kill, the Epeira bites her captive somewhere orother, no matter where. This is an excellent method on her part, because of the variety of the game that comes her way. I see heraccepting with equal readiness whatever chance may send her:Butterflies and Dragon-flies, Flies and Wasps, small Dung-beetles andLocusts. If I offer her a Mantis, a Bumble-bee, an Anoxia--theequivalent of the common Cockchafer--and other dishes probably unknownto her race, she accepts all and any, large and small, thin-skinned andhorny-skinned, that which goes afoot and that which takes wingedflight. She is omnivorous, she preys on everything, down to her ownkind, should the occasion offer. 

Had she to operate according to individual structure, she would need ananatomical dictionary; and instinct is essentially unfamiliar withgeneralities: its knowledge is always confined to limited points. TheCerceres know their Weevils and their Buprestis-beetles absolutely; theSphex their Grasshoppers, their Crickets and their Locusts; the Scoliaetheir Cetonia- and Oryctes-grubs. (The Scolia is a Digger-wasp, likethe Cerceris and the Sphex, and feeds her larvae on the grubs of theCetonia, or Rose-chafer, and the Oryctes, orRhinoceros-beetle. --Translator's Note. ) Even so the other paralysers. Each has her own victim and knows nothing of any of the others. 

The same exclusive tastes prevail among the slayers. Let us remember, in this connection, Philanthus apivorus and, especially, the Thomisus, the comely Spider who cuts Bees' throats. They understand the fatalblow, either in the neck or under the chin, a thing which the Epeiradoes not understand; but, just because of this talent, they arespecialists. Their province is the Domestic Bee. 

Animals are a little like ourselves: they excel in an art only oncondition of specializing in it. The Epeira, who, being omnivorous, isobliged to generalize, abandons scientific methods and makes up forthis by distilling a poison capable of producing torpor and even death, no matter what the point attacked. 

Recognizing the large variety of game, we wonder how the Epeira managesnot to hesitate amid those many diverse forms, how, for instance, shepasses from the Locust to the Butterfly, so different in appearance. Toattribute to her as a guide an extensive zoological knowledge werewildly in excess of what we may reasonably expect of her poorintelligence. The thing moves, therefore it is worth catching: thisformula seems to sum up the Spider's wisdom. 

THE TELEGRAPH-WIRE. 

Of the six Garden Spiders that form the object of my observations, twoonly, the Banded and the Silky Epeira, remain constantly in their webs, even under the blinding rays of a fierce sun. The others, as a rule, donot show themselves until nightfall. At some distance from the net theyhave a rough-and-ready retreat in the brambles, an ambush made of a fewleaves held together by stretched threads. It is here that, for themost part, they remain in the daytime, motionless and sunk inmeditation. 

But the shrill light that vexes them is the joy of the fields. At suchtimes the Locust hops more nimbly than ever, more gaily skims theDragon-fly. Besides, the limy web, despite the rents suffered duringthe night, is still in serviceable condition. If some giddy-pate allowhimself to be caught, will the Spider, at the distance whereto she hasretired, be unable to take advantage of the windfall? Never fear. Shearrives in a flash. How is she apprised? Let us explain the matter. 

The alarm is given by the vibration of the web, much more than by thesight of the captured object. A very simple experiment will prove this. I lay upon a Banded Epeira's lime-threads a Locust that secondasphyxiated with carbon disulphide. The carcass is placed in front, orbehind, or at either side of the Spider, who sits moveless in thecentre of the net. If the test is to be applied to a species with adaytime hiding-place amid the foliage, the dead Locust is laid on theweb, more or less near the centre, no matter how. 

In both cases, nothing happens at first. The Epeira remains in hermotionless attitude, even when the morsel is at a short distance infront of her. She is indifferent to the presence of the game, does notseem to perceive it, so much so that she ends by wearing out mypatience. Then, with a long straw, which enables me to conceal myselfslightly, I set the dead insect trembling. 

That is quite enough. The Banded Epeira and the Silky Epeira hasten tothe central floor; the others come down from the branch; all go to theLocust, swathe him with tape, treat him, in short, as they would treata live prey captured under normal conditions. It took the shaking ofthe web to decide them to attack. 

Perhaps the grey colour of the Locust is not sufficiently conspicuousto attract attention by itself. Then let us try red, the brightestcolour to our retina and probably also to the Spiders'. None of thegame hunted by the Epeirae being clad in scarlet, I make a small bundleout of red wool, a bait of the size of a Locust. I glue it to the web. 

My stratagem succeeds. As long as the parcel is stationary, the Spideris not roused; but, the moment it trembles, stirred by my straw, sheruns up eagerly. 

There are silly ones who just touch the thing with their legs and, without further enquiries, swathe it in silk after the manner of theusual game. They even go so far as to dig their fangs into the bait, following the rule of the preliminary poisoning. Then and then only themistake is recognized and the tricked Spider retires and does not comeback, unless it be long afterwards, when she flings the lumbersomeobject out of the web. 

There are also clever ones. Like the others, these hasten to thered-woollen lure, which my straw insidiously keeps moving; they comefrom their tent among the leaves as readily as from the centre of theweb; they explore it with their palpi and their legs; but, soonperceiving that the thing is valueless, they are careful not to spendtheir silk on useless bonds. My quivering bait does not deceive them. It is flung out after a brief inspection. 

Still, the clever ones, like the silly ones, run even from a distance, from their leafy ambush. How do they know? Certainly not by sight. Before recognizing their mistake, they have to hold the object betweentheir legs and even to nibble at it a little. They are extremelyshort-sighted. At a hand's-breadth's distance, the lifeless prey, unable to shake the web, remains unperceived. Besides, in many cases, the hunting takes place in the dense darkness of the night, when sight, even if it were good, would not avail. 

If the eyes are insufficient guides, even close at hand, how will it bewhen the prey has to be spied from afar? In that case, an intelligenceapparatus for long-distance work becomes indispensable. We have nodifficulty in detecting the apparatus. 

Let us look attentively behind the web of any Epeira with a daytimehiding-place: we shall see a thread that starts from the centre of thenetwork, ascends in a slanting line outside the plane of the web andends at the ambush where the Spider lurks all day. Except at thecentral point, there is no connection between this thread and the restof the work, no interweaving with the scaffolding-threads. Free ofimpediment, the line runs straight from the centre of the net to theambush-tent. Its length averages twenty-two inches. The Angular Epeira, settled high up in the trees, has shown me some as long as eight ornine feet. 

There is no doubt that this slanting line is a foot-bridge which allowsthe Spider to repair hurriedly to the web, when summoned by urgentbusiness, and then, when her round is finished, to return to her hut. In fact, it is the road which I see her follow, in going and coming. But is that all? No; for, if the Epeira had no aim in view but a meansof rapid transit between her tent and the net, the foot-bridge would befastened to the upper edge of the web. The journey would be shorter andthe slope less steep. 

Why, moreover, does this line always start in the centre of the stickynetwork and nowhere else? Because that is the point where the spokesmeet and, therefore, the common centre of vibration. Anything thatmoves upon the web sets it shaking. All then that is needed is a threadissuing from this central point to convey to a distance the news of aprey struggling in some part or other of the net. The slanting cord, extending outside the plane of the web, is more than a foot-bridge: itis, above all, a signalling-apparatus, a telegraph-wire. 

Let us try experiment. I place a Locust on the network. Caught in thesticky toils, he plunges about. Forthwith, the Spider issuesimpetuously from her hut, comes down the foot-bridge, makes a rush forthe Locust, wraps him up and operates on him according to rule. Soonafter, she hoists him, fastened by a line to her spinneret, and dragshim to her hiding-place, where a long banquet will be held. So far, nothing new: things happen as usual. 

I leave the Spider to mind her own affairs for some days before Iinterfere with her. I again propose to give her a Locust; but this timeI first cut the signalling-thread with a touch of the scissors, withoutshaking any part of the edifice. The game is then laid on the web. Complete success: the entangled insect struggles, sets the netquivering; the Spider, on her side, does not stir, as though heedlessof events. 

The idea might occur to one that, in this business, the Epeira staysmotionless in her cabin since she is prevented from hurrying down, because the foot-bridge is broken. Let us undeceive ourselves: for oneroad open to her there are a hundred, all ready to bring her to theplace where her presence is now required. The network is fastened tothe branches by a host of lines, all of them very easy to cross. Well, the Epeira embarks upon none of them, but remains moveless andself-absorbed. 

Why? Because her telegraph, being out of order, no longer tells her ofthe shaking of the web. The captured prey is too far off for her to seeit; she is all unwitting. A good hour passes, with the Locust stillkicking, the Spider impassive, myself watching. Nevertheless, in theend, the Epeira wakes up: no longer feeling the signalling-thread, broken by my scissors, as taut as usual under her legs, she comes tolook into the state of things. The web is reached, without the leastdifficulty, by one of the lines of the framework, the first thatoffers. The Locust is then perceived and forthwith enswathed, afterwhich the signalling-thread is remade, taking the place of the onewhich I have broken. Along this road the Spider goes home, dragging herprey behind her. 

My neighbour, the mighty Angular Epeira, with her telegraph-wire ninefeet long, has even better things in store for me. One morning I findher web, which is now deserted, almost intact, a proof that the night'shunting has not been good. The animal must be hungry. With a piece ofgame for a bait, I hope to bring her down from her lofty retreat. 

I entangle in the web a rare morsel, a Dragon-fly, who strugglesdesperately and sets the whole net a-shaking. The other, up above, leaves her lurking-place amid the cypress-foliage, strides swiftly downalong her telegraph-wire, comes to the Dragon-fly, trusses her and atonce climbs home again by the same road, with her prize dangling at herheels by a thread. The final sacrifice will take place in the quiet ofthe leafy sanctuary. 

A few days later I renew my experiment under the same conditions, but, this time, I first cut the signalling-thread. In vain I select a largeDragon-fly, a very restless prisoner; in vain I exert my patience: theSpider does not come down all day. Her telegraph being broken, shereceives no notice of what is happening nine feet below. The entangledmorsel remains where it lies, not despised, but unknown. At nightfallthe Epeira leaves her cabin, passes over the ruins of her web, findsthe Dragon-fly and eats him on the spot, after which the net isrenewed. 

The Epeirae, who occupy a distant retreat by day, cannot do without aprivate wire that keeps them in permanent communication with thedeserted web. All of them have one, in point of fact, but only when agecomes, age prone to rest and to long slumbers. In their youth, theEpeirae, who are then very wide awake, know nothing of the art oftelegraphy. Besides, their web, a short-lived work whereof hardly atrace remains on the morrow, does not allow of this kind of industry. It is no use going to the expense of a signalling-apparatus for aruined snare wherein nothing can now be caught. Only the old Spiders, meditating or dozing in their green tent, are warned from afar, bytelegraph, of what takes place on the web. 

To save herself from keeping a close watch that would degenerate intodrudgery and to remain alive to events even when resting, with her backturned on the net, the ambushed Spider always has her foot upon thetelegraph-wire. Of my observations on this subject, let me relate thefollowing, which will be sufficient for our purpose. 

An Angular Epeira, with a remarkably fine belly, has spun her webbetween two laurustine-shrubs, covering a width of nearly a yard. Thesun beats upon the snare, which is abandoned long before dawn. TheSpider is in her day manor, a resort easily discovered by following thetelegraph-wire. It is a vaulted chamber of dead leaves, joined togetherwith a few bits of silk. The refuge is deep: the Spider disappears init entirely, all but her rounded hind-quarters, which bar the entranceto her donjon. 

With her front half plunged into the back of her hut, the Epeiracertainly cannot see her web. Even if she had good sight, instead ofbeing purblind, her position could not possibly allow her to keep theprey in view. Does she give up hunting during this period of brightsunlight? Not at all. Look again. 

Wonderful! One of her hind-legs is stretched outside the leafy cabin;and the signalling-thread ends just at the tip of that leg. Whoso hasnot seen the Epeira in this attitude, with her hand, so to speak, onthe telegraph-receiver, knows nothing of one of the most curiousinstances of animal cleverness. Let any game appear upon the scene; andthe slumberer, forthwith aroused by means of the leg receiving thevibrations, hastens up. A Locust whom I myself lay on the web procuresher this agreeable shock and what follows. If she is satisfied with herbag, I am still more satisfied with what I have learnt. 

One word more. The web is often shaken by the wind. The different partsof the framework, tossed and teased by the eddying air-currents, cannotfail to transmit their vibration to the signalling-thread. Nevertheless, the Spider does not quit her hut and remains indifferentto the commotion prevailing in the net. Her line, therefore, issomething better than a bell-rope that pulls and communicates theimpulse given: it is a telephone capable, like our own, of transmittinginfinitesimal waves of sound. Clutching her telephone-wire with a toe, the Spider listens with her leg; she perceives the innermostvibrations; she distinguishes between the vibration proceeding from aprisoner and the mere shaking caused by the wind. 

CHAPTER 11. THE EUMENES. 

A wasp-like garb of motley black and yellow; a slender and gracefulfigure; wings not spread out flat, when resting, but folded lengthwisein two; the abdomen a sort of chemist's retort, which swells into agourd and is fastened to the thorax by a long neck, first distendinginto a pear, then shrinking to a thread; a leisurely and silent flight;lonely habits. There we have a summary sketch of the Eumenes. My partof the country possesses two species: the larger, Eumenes Amedei, Lep. , measures nearly an inch in length; the other, Eumenes pomiformis, Fabr. , is a reduction of the first to the scale of one-half. (I includethree species promiscuously under this one name, that is to say, Eumenes pomiformis, Fabr. , E. Bipunctis, Sauss. , and E. Dubius, Sauss. As I did not distinguish between them in my first investigations, whichdate a very long time back, it is not possible for me to ascribe toeach of them its respective nest. But their habits are the same, forwhich reason this confusion does not injuriously affect the order ofideas in the present chapter. --Author's Note. )

Similar in form and colouring, both possess a like talent forarchitecture; and this talent is expressed in a work of the highestperfection which charms the most untutored eye. Their dwelling is amasterpiece. The Eumenes follow the profession of arms, which isunfavourable to artistic effort; they stab a prey with their sting;they pillage and plunder. They are predatory Hymenoptera, victuallingtheir grubs with caterpillars. It will be interesting to compare theirhabits with those of the operator on the Grey Worm. (Ammophila hirsuta, who hunts the Grey Worm, the caterpillar of Noctua segetum, the Dart orTurnip Moth. --Translator's Note. ) Though the quarry--caterpillars ineither case--remain the same, perhaps instinct, which is liable to varywith the species, has fresh glimpses in store for us. Besides, theedifice built by the Eumenes in itself deserves inspection. 

The Hunting Wasps whose story we have described in former volumes arewonderfully well versed in the art of wielding the lancet; they astoundus with their surgical methods, which they seem to have learnt fromsome physiologist who allows nothing to escape him; but those skilfulslayers have no merit as builders of dwelling-houses. What is theirhome, in point of fact? An underground passage, with a cell at the endof it; a gallery, an excavation, a shapeless cave. It is miner's work, navvy's work: vigorous sometimes, artistic never. They use the pick-axefor loosening, the crowbar for shifting, the rake for extracting thematerials, but never the trowel for laying. Now in the Eumenes we seereal masons, who build their houses bit by bit with stone and mortarand run them up in the open, either on the firm rock or on the shakysupport of a bough. Hunting alternates with architecture; the insect isa Nimrod or a Vitruvius by turns. (Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, the Romanarchitect and engineer. --Translator's Note. )

And, first of all, what sites do these builders select for their homes?Should you pass some little garden-wall, facing south, in asun-scorched corner, look at the stones that are not covered withplaster, look at them one by one, especially the largest; examine themasses of boulders, at no great height from the ground, where thefierce rays have heated them to the temperature of a Turkish bath; and, perhaps, if you seek long enough, you will light upon the structure ofEumenes Amedei. The insect is scarce and lives apart; a meeting is anevent upon which we must not count with too great confidence. It is anAfrican species and loves the heat that ripens the carob and the date. It haunts the sunniest spots and selects rocks or firm stones as afoundation for its nest. Sometimes also, but seldom, it copies theChalicodoma of the Walls and builds upon an ordinary pebble. (OrMason-bee. --Translator's Note. )

Eumenes pomiformis is much more common and is comparatively indifferentto the nature of the foundation whereon she erects her cells. Shebuilds on walls, on isolated stones, on the wood of the inner surfaceof half-closed shutters; or else she adopts an aerial base, the slendertwig of a shrub, the withered sprig of a plant of some sort. Any formof support serves her purpose. Nor does she trouble about shelter. Lesschilly than her African cousin, she does not shun the unprotectedspaces exposed to every wind that blows. 

When erected on a horizontal surface, where nothing interferes with it, the structure of Eumenes Amedei is a symmetrical cupola, a sphericalskull-cap, with, at the top, a narrow passage just wide enough for theinsect, and surmounted by a neatly funnelled neck. It suggests theround hut of the Eskimo or of the ancient Gael, with its centralchimney. Two centimetres and a half (. 97 inch. --Translator's Note. ), more or less, represent the diameter, and two centimetres the height. (. 78 inch. --Translator's Note. ) When the support is a perpendicularplane, the building still retains the domed shape, but the entrance-and exit-funnel opens at the side, upwards. The floor of this apartmentcalls for no labour: it is supplied direct by the bare stone. 

Having chosen the site, the builder erects a circular fence about threemillimetres thick. (. 118 inch. --Translator's Note. ) The materialsconsist of mortar and small stones. The insect selects its stone-quarryin some well-trodden path, on some neighbouring road, at the driest, hardest spots. With its mandibles, it scrapes together a small quantityof dust and saturates it with saliva until the whole becomes a regularhydraulic mortar which soon sets and is no longer susceptible to water. The Mason-bees have shown us a similar exploitation of the beaten pathsand of the road-mender's macadam. All these open-air builders, allthese erectors of monuments exposed to wind and weather require anexceedingly dry stone-dust; otherwise the material, already moistenedwith water, would not properly absorb the liquid that is to give itcohesion; and the edifice would soon be wrecked by the rains. Theypossess the sense of discrimination of the plasterer, who rejectsplaster injured by damp. We shall see presently how the insects thatbuild under shelter avoid this laborious macadam-scraping and give thepreference to fresh earth already reduced to a paste by its owndampness. When common lime answers our purpose, we do not trouble aboutRoman cement. Now Eumenes Amedei requires a first-class cement, evenbetter than that of the Chalicodoma of the Walls, for the work, whenfinished, does not receive the thick covering wherewith the Mason-beeprotects her cluster of cells. And therefore the cupola-builder, asoften as she can, uses the highway as her stone-pit. 

With the mortar, flints are needed. These are bits of gravel of analmost unvarying size--that of a peppercorn--but of a shape and kinddiffering greatly, according to the places worked. Some aresharp-cornered, with facets determined by chance fractures; some areround, polished by friction under water. Some are of limestone, othersof silicic matter. The favourite stones, when the neighbourhood of thenest permits, are little nodules of quartz, smooth and semitransparent. These are selected with minute care. The insect weighs them, so to say, measures them with the compass of its mandibles and does not acceptthem until after recognizing in them the requisite qualities of sizeand hardness. 

A circular fence, we were saying, is begun on the bare rock. Before themortar sets, which does not take long, the mason sticks a few stonesinto the soft mass, as the work advances. She dabs them half-way intothe cement, so as to leave them jutting out to a large extent, withoutpenetrating to the inside, where the wall must remain smooth for thesake of the larva's comfort. If necessary, a little plaster is added, to tone down the inner protuberances. The solidly embedded stoneworkalternates with the pure mortarwork, of which each fresh coursereceives its facing of tiny encrusted pebbles. As the edifice israised, the builder slopes the construction a little towards the centreand fashions the curve which will give the spherical shape. We employarched centrings to support the masonry of a dome while building: theEumenes, more daring than we, erects her cupola without anyscaffolding. 

A round orifice is contrived at the summit; and, on this orifice, risesa funnelled mouthpiece built of pure cement. It might be the gracefulneck of some Etruscan vase. When the cell is victualled and the egglaid, this mouthpiece is closed with a cement plug; and in this plug isset a little pebble, one alone, no more: the ritual never varies. Thiswork of rustic architecture has naught to fear from the inclemency ofthe weather; it does not yield to the pressure of the fingers; itresists the knife that attempts to remove it without breaking it. Itsnipple shape and the bits of gravel wherewith it bristles all over theoutside remind one of certain cromlechs of olden time, of certaintumuli whose domes are strewn with Cyclopean stones. 

Such is the appearance of the edifice when the cell stands alone; butthe Hymenopteron nearly always fixes other domes against her first, tothe number of five, six, or more. This shortens the labour by allowingher to use the same partition for two adjoining rooms. The originalelegant symmetry is lost and the whole now forms a cluster which, atfirst sight, appears to be merely a clod of dry mud, sprinkled withtiny pebbles. But let us examine the shapeless mass more closely and weshall perceive the number of chambers composing the habitation with thefunnelled mouths, each quite distinct and each furnished with itsgravel stopper set in the cement. 

The Chalicodoma of the Walls employs the same building methods asEumenes Amedei: in the courses of cement she fixes, on the outside, small stones of minor bulk. Her work begins by being a turret of rusticart, not without a certain prettiness; then, when the cells are placedside by side, the whole construction degenerates into a lump governedapparently by no architectural rule. Moreover, the Mason-bee covers hermass of cells with a thick layer of cement, which conceals the originalrockwork edifice. The Eumenes does not resort to this general coating:her building is too strong to need it; she leaves the pebbly facingsuncovered, as well as the entrances to the cells. The two sorts ofnests, although constructed of similar materials, are therefore easilydistinguished. 

The Eumenes' cupola is the work of an artist; and the artist would besorry to cover his masterpiece with whitewash. I crave forgiveness fora suggestion which I advance with all the reserve befitting so delicatea subject. Would it not be possible for the cromlech-builder to take apride in her work, to look upon it with some affection and to feelgratified by this evidence of her cleverness? Might there not be aninsect science of aesthetics? I seem at least to catch a glimpse, inthe Eumenes, of a propensity to beautify her work. The nest must be, before all, a solid habitation, an inviolable stronghold; but, shouldornament intervene without jeopardizing the power of resistance, willthe worker remain indifferent to it? Who would say?

Let us set forth the facts. The orifice at the top, if left as a merehole, would suit the purpose quite as well as an elaborate door: theinsect would lose nothing in regard to facilities for coming and goingand would gain by shortening the labour. Yet we find, on the contrary, the mouth of an amphora, gracefully curved, worthy of a potter's wheel. A choice cement and careful work are necessary for the confection ofits slender, funnelled shaft. Why this nice finish, if the builder bewholly absorbed in the solidity of her work?

Here is another detail: among the bits of gravel employed for the outercovering of the cupola, grains of quartz predominate. They are polishedand translucent; they glitter slightly and please the eye. Why arethese little pebbles preferred to chips of lime-stone, when bothmaterials are found in equal abundance around the nest?

A yet more remarkable feature: we find pretty often, encrusted on thedome, a few tiny, empty snail-shells, bleached by the sun. The speciesusually selected by the Eumenes is one of the smaller Helices--Helixstrigata--frequent on our parched slopes. I have seen nests where thisHelix took the place of pebbles almost entirely. They were like boxesmade of shells, the work of a patient hand. 

A comparison offers here. Certain Australian birds, notably theBower-birds, build themselves covered walks, or playhouses, withinterwoven twigs, and decorate the two entrances to the portico bystrewing the threshold with anything that they can find in the shape ofglittering, polished, or bright-coloured objects. Every door-sill is acabinet of curiosities where the collector gathers smooth pebbles, variegated shells, empty snail-shells, parrot's feathers, bones thathave come to look like sticks of ivory. The odds and ends mislaid byman find a home in the bird's museum, where we see pipe-stems, metalbuttons, strips of cotton stuff and stone axe-heads. 

The collection at either entrance to the bower is large enough to fillhalf a bushel. As these objects are of no use to the bird, its onlymotive for accumulating them must be an art-lover's hobby. Our commonMagpie has similar tastes: any shiny thing that he comes upon he picksup, hides and hoards. 

Well, the Eumenes, who shares this passion for bright pebbles and emptysnail-shells, is the Bower-bird of the insect world; but she is a morepractical collector, knows how to combine the useful and the ornamentaland employs her finds in the construction of her nest, which is both afortress and a museum. When she finds nodules of translucent quartz, she rejects everything else: the building will be all the prettier forthem. When she comes across a little white shell, she hastens tobeautify her dome with it; should fortune smile and empty snail-shellsabound, she encrusts the whole fabric with them, until it becomes thesupreme expression of her artistic taste. Is this so? Or is it not so?Who shall decide?

The nest of Eumenes pomiformis is the size of an average cherry andconstructed of pure mortar, without the least outward pebblework. Itsshape is exactly similar to that which we have just described. Whenbuilt upon a horizontal base of sufficient extent, it is a dome with acentral neck, funnelled like the mouth of an urn. But when thefoundation is reduced to a mere point, as on the twig of a shrub, thenest becomes a spherical capsule, always, of course, surmounted by aneck. It is then a miniature specimen of exotic pottery, a paunchyalcarraza. Its thickens is very slight, less than that of a sheet ofpaper; it crushes under the least effort of the fingers. The outside isnot quite even. It displays wrinkles and seams, due to the differentcourses of mortar, or else knotty protuberances distributed almostconcentrically. 

Both Hymenoptera accumulate caterpillars in their coffers, whetherdomes or jars. Let us give an abstract of the bill of fare. Thesedocuments, for all their dryness, possess a value; they will enablewhoso cares to interest himself in the Eumenes to perceive to whatextent instinct varies the diet, according to the place and season. Thefood is plentiful, but lacks variety. It consists of tiny caterpillars, by which I mean the grubs of small Butterflies. We learn this from thestructure, for we observe in the prey selected by either Hymenopteranthe usual caterpillar organism. The body is composed of twelvesegments, not including the head. The first three have true legs, thenext two are legless, then come two segments with prolegs, two leglesssegments and, lastly, a terminal segment with prolegs. It is exactlythe same structure which we saw in the Ammophila's Grey Worm. 

My old notes give the following description of the caterpillars foundin the nest of Eumenes Amedei: "a pale green or, less often, ayellowish body, covered with short white hairs; head wider than thefront segment, dead-black and also bristling with hairs. Length: 16 to18 millimetres (. 63 to . 7 inch. --Translator's Note. ); width: about 3millimetres. " (. 12 inch. --Translator's Note. ) A quarter of a centuryand more has elapsed since I jotted down this descriptive sketch; andto-day, at Sérignan, I find in the Eumenes' larder the same game whichI noticed long ago at Carpentras. Time and distance have not alteredthe nature of the provisions. 

The number of morsels served for the meal of each larva interests usmore than the quality. In the cells of Eumenes Amedei, I find sometimesfive caterpillars and sometimes ten, which means a difference of ahundred per cent in the quantity of the food, for the morsels are ofexactly the same size in both cases. Why this unequal supply, whichgives a double portion to one larva and a single portion to another?The diners have the same appetite: what one nurseling demands a secondmust demand, unless we have here a different menu, according to thesexes. In the perfect stage the males are smaller than the females, arehardly half as much in weight or volume. The amount of victuals, therefore, required to bring them to their final development may bereduced by one-half. In that case, the well-stocked cells belong tofemales; the others, more meagrely supplied, belong to males. 

But the egg is laid when the provisions are stored; and this egg has adetermined sex, though the most minute examination is not able todiscover the differences which will decide the hatching of a female ora male. We are therefore needs driven to this strange conclusion: themother knows beforehand the sex of the egg which she is about to lay;and this knowledge allows her to fill the larder according to theappetite of the future grub. What a strange world, so wholly differentfrom ours! We fall back upon a special sense to explain the Ammophila'shunting; what can we fall back upon to account for this intuition ofthe future? Can the theory of chances play a part in the hazy problem?If nothing is logically arranged with a foreseen object, how is thisclear vision of the invisible acquired?

The capsules of Eumenes pomiformis are literally crammed with game. Itis true that the morsels are very small. My notes speak of fourteengreen caterpillars in one cell and sixteen in a second cell. I have noother information about the integral diet of this Wasp, whom I haveneglected somewhat, preferring to study her cousin, the builder ofrockwork domes. As the two sexes differ in size, although to a lesserdegree than in the case of Eumenes Amedei, I am inclined to think thatthose two well-filled cells belonged to females and that the males'cells must have a less sumptuous table. Not having seen for myself, Iam content to set down this mere suspicion. 

What I have seen and often seen is the pebbly nest, with the larvainside and the provisions partly consumed. To continue the rearing athome and follow my charge's progress from day to day was a businesswhich I could not resist; besides, as far as I was able to see, it waseasily managed. I had had some practice in this foster-father's trade;my association with the Bembex, the Ammophila, the Sphex (three speciesof Digger-wasps. --Translator's Note. ) and many others had turned meinto a passable insect-rearer. I was no novice in the art of dividingan old pen-box into compartments in which I laid a bed of sand and, onthis bed, the larva and her provisions delicately removed from thematernal cell. Success was almost certain at each attempt: I used towatch the larvae at their meals, I saw my nurselings grow up and spintheir cocoons. Relying upon the experience thus gained, I reckoned uponsuccess in raising my Eumenes. 

The results, however, in no way answered to my expectations. All myendeavours failed; and the larva allowed itself to die a piteous deathwithout touching its provisions. 

I ascribed my reverse to this, that and the other cause: perhaps I hadinjured the frail grub when demolishing the fortress; a splinter ofmasonry had bruised it when I forced open the hard dome with my knife;a too sudden exposure to the sun had surprised it when I withdrew itfrom the darkness of its cell; the open air might have dried up itsmoisture. I did the best I could to remedy all these probable reasonsof failure. I went to work with every possible caution in breaking openthe home; I cast the shadow of my body over the nest, to save the grubfrom sunstroke; I at once transferred larva and provisions into a glasstube and placed this tube in a box which I carried in my hand, tominimize the jolting on the journey. Nothing was of avail: the larva, when taken from its dwelling, always allowed itself to pine away. 

For a long time I persisted in explaining my want of success by thedifficulties attending the removal. Eumenes Amedei's cell is a strongcasket which cannot be forced without sustaining a shock; and thedemolition of a work of this kind entails such varied accidents that weare always liable to think that the worm has been bruised by thewreckage. As for carrying home the nest intact on its support, with aview to opening it with greater care than is permitted by arough-and-ready operation in the fields, that is out of the question:the nest nearly always stands on an immovable rock or on some big stoneforming part of a wall. If I failed in my attempts at rearing, it wasbecause the larva had suffered when I was breaking up her house. Thereason seemed a good one; and I let it go at that. 

In the end, another idea occurred to me and made me doubt whether myrebuffs were always due to clumsy accidents. The Eumenes' cells arecrammed with game: there are ten caterpillars in the cell of EumenesAmedei and fifteen in that of Eumenes pomiformis. These caterpillars, stabbed no doubt, but in a manner unknown to me, are not entirelymotionless. The mandibles seize upon what is presented to them, thebody buckles and unbuckles, the hinder half lashes out briskly whenstirred with the point of a needle. At what spot is the egg laid amidthat swarming mass, where thirty mandibles can make a hole in it, wherea hundred and twenty pairs of legs can tear it? When the victualsconsist of a single head of game, these perils do not exist; and theegg is laid on the victim not at hazard, but upon a judiciously chosenspot. Thus, for instance, Ammophila hirsuta fixes hers, by one end, cross-wise, on the Grey Worm, on the side of the first proleggedsegment. The eggs hang over the caterpillar's back, away from the legs, whose proximity might be dangerous. The worm, moreover, stung in thegreater number of its nerve-centres, lies on one side, motionless andincapable of bodily contortions or said an jerks of its hindersegments. If the mandibles try to snap, if the legs give a kick or two, they find nothing in front of them: the Ammophila's egg is at theopposite side. The tiny grub is thus able, as soon as it hatches, todig into the giant's belly in full security. 

How different are the conditions in the Eumenes' cell. The caterpillarsare imperfectly paralysed, perhaps because they have received but asingle stab; they toss about when touched with a pin; they are bound towriggle when bitten by the larva. If the egg is laid on one of them, the first morsel will, I admit, be consumed without danger, oncondition that the point of attack be wisely chosen; but there remainothers which are not deprived of every means of defence. Let a movementtake place in the mass; and the egg, shifted from the upper layer, willtumble into a pitfall of legs and mandibles. The least thing is enoughto jeopardize its existence; and this least thing has every chance ofbeing brought about in the disordered heap of caterpillars. The egg, atiny cylinder, transparent as crystal, is extremely delicate: a touchwithers it, the least pressure crushes it. 

No, its place is not in the mass of provisions, for the caterpillars, Irepeat, are not sufficiently harmless. Their paralysis is incomplete, as is proved by their contortions when I irritate them and shown, onthe other hand, by a very important fact. I have sometimes taken fromEumenes Amedei's cell a few heads of game half transformed intochrysalids. It is evident that the transformation was effected in thecell itself and, therefore, after the operation which the Wasp hadperformed upon them. Whereof does this operation consist? I cannot sayprecisely, never having seen the huntress at work. The sting mostcertainly has played its part; but where? And how often? This is whatwe do not know. What we are able to declare is that the torpor is notvery deep, inasmuch as the patient sometimes retains enough vitality toshed its skin and become a chrysalid. Everything thus tends to make usask by what stratagem the egg is shielded from danger. 

This stratagem I longed to discover; I would not be put off by thescarcity of nests, by the irksomeness of the searches, by the risk ofsunstroke, by the time taken up, by the vain breaking open ofunsuitable cells; I meant to see and I saw. Here is my method: with thepoint of a knife and a pair of nippers, I make a side opening, awindow, beneath the dome of Eumenes Amedei and Eumenes pomiformis. Iwork with the greatest care, so as not to injure the recluse. FormerlyI attacked the cupola from the top, now I attack it from the side. Istop when the breach is large enough to allow me to see the state ofthings within. 

What is this state of things? I pause to give the reader time toreflect and to think out for himself a means of safety that willprotect the egg and afterwards the grub in the perilous conditionswhich I have set forth. Seek, think and contrive, such of you as haveinventive minds. Have you guessed it? Do you give it up? I may as welltell you. 

The egg is not laid upon the provisions; it is hung from the top of thecupola by a thread which vies with that of a Spider's web forslenderness. The dainty cylinder quivers and swings to and fro at theleast breath; it reminds me of the famous pendulum suspended from thedome of the Pantheon to prove the rotation of the earth. The victualsare heaped up underneath. 

Second act of this wondrous spectacle. In order to witness it, we mustopen a window in cell upon cell until fortune deigns to smile upon us. The larva is hatched and already fairly large. Like the egg, it hangsperpendicularly, by the rear, from the ceiling; but the suspensory cordhas gained considerably in length and consists of the original threadeked out by a sort of ribbon. The grub is at dinner: head downwards, itis digging into the limp belly of one of the caterpillars. I touch upthe game that is still intact with a straw. The caterpillars growrestless. The grub forthwith retires from the fray. And how? Marvel isadded to marvels: what I took for a flat cord, for a ribbon, at thelower end of the suspensory thread, is a sheath, a scabbard, a sort ofascending gallery wherein the larva crawls backwards and makes its wayup. The cast shell of the egg, retaining its cylindrical form andperhaps lengthened by a special operation on the part of the new-borngrub, forms this safety-channel. At the least sign of danger in theheap of caterpillars, the larva retreats into its sheath and climbsback to the ceiling, where the swarming rabble cannot reach it. Whenpeace is restored, it slides down its case and returns to table, withits head over the viands and its rear upturned and ready to withdraw incase of need. 

Third and last act. Strength has come; the larva is brawny enough notto dread the movements of the caterpillars' bodies. Besides, thecaterpillars, mortified by fasting and weakened by a prolonged torpor, become more and more incapable of defence. The perils of the tenderbabe are succeeded by the security of the lusty stripling; and thegrub, henceforth scorning its sheathed lift, lets itself drop upon thegame that remains. And thus the banquet ends in normal fashion. 

That is what I saw in the nests of both species of the Eumenes and thatis what I showed to friends who were even more surprised than I bythese ingenious tactics. The egg hanging from the ceiling, at adistance from the provisions, has naught to fear from the caterpillars, which flounder about below. The new-hatched larva, whose suspensorycord is lengthened by the sheath of the egg, reaches the game and takesa first cautious bite at it. If there be danger, it climbs back to theceiling by retreating inside the scabbard. This explains the failure ofmy earlier attempts. Not knowing of the safety-thread, so slender andso easily broken, I gathered at one time the egg, at another the younglarva, after my inroads at the top had caused them to fall into themiddle of the live victuals. Neither of them was able to thrive whenbrought into direct contact with the dangerous game. 

If any one of my readers, to whom I appealed just now, has thought outsomething better than the Eumenes' invention, I beg that he will let meknow: there is a curious parallel to be drawn between the inspirationsof reason and the inspirations of instinct. 

CHAPTER 12. THE OSMIAE. 

THEIR HABITS. 

February has its sunny days, heralding spring, to which rude winterwill reluctantly yield place. In snug corners, among the rocks, thegreat spurge of our district, the characias of the Greeks, the juscloof the Provençals, begins to lift its drooping inflorescence anddiscreetly opens a few sombre flowers. Here the first midges of theyear will come to slake their thirst. By the time that the tip of thestalks reaches the perpendicular, the worst of the cold weather will beover. 

Another eager one, the almond-tree, risking the loss of its fruit, hastens to echo these preludes to the festival of the sun, preludeswhich are too often treacherous. A few days of soft skies and itbecomes a glorious dome of white flowers, each twinkling with a roseateeye. The country, which still lacks green, seems dotted everywhere withwhite-satin pavilions. 'Twould be a callous heart indeed that couldresist the magic of this awakening. 

The insect nation is represented at these rites by a few of its morezealous members. There is first of all the Honey-bee, the sworn enemyof strikes, who profits by the least lull of winter to find out if somerosemary or other is not beginning to open somewhere near the hive. Thedroning of the busy swarms fills the flowery vault, while a snow ofpetals falls softly to the foot of the tree. 

Together with the population of harvesters there mingles another, lessnumerous, of mere drinkers, whose nesting-time has not yet begun. Thisis the colony of the Osmiae, those exceedingly pretty solitary bees, with their copper-coloured skin and bright-red fleece. Two species havecome hurrying up to take part in the joys of the almond-tree: first, the Horned Osmia, clad in black velvet on the head and breast, with redvelvet on the abdomen; and, a little later, the Three-horned Osmia, whose livery must be red and red only. These are the first delegatesdespatched by the pollen-gleaners to ascertain the state of the seasonand attend the festival of the early blooms. 

'Tis but a moment since they burst their cocoon, the winter abode: theyhave left their retreats in the crevices of the old walls; should thenorth wind blow and set the almond-tree shivering, they will hasten toreturn to them. Hail to you, O my dear Osmiae, who yearly, from the farend of the harmas, opposite snow-capped Ventoux (A mountain in theProvençal Alps, near Carpentras and Sérignan 6, 271 feet. --Translator'sNote. ), bring me the first tidings of the awakening of the insectworld! I am one of your friends; let us talk about you a little. 

Most of the Osmiae of my region do not themselves prepare the dwellingdestined for the laying. They want ready-made lodgings, such as the oldcells and old galleries of Anthophorae and Chalicodomae. If thesefavourite haunts are lacking, then a hiding-place in the wall, a roundhole in some bit of wood, the tube of a reed, the spiral of a deadSnail under a heap of stones are adopted, according to the tastes ofthe several species. The retreat selected is divided into chambers bypartition-walls, after which the entrance to the dwelling receives amassive seal. That is the sum-total of the building done. 

For this plasterer's rather than mason's work, the Horned and theThree-horned Osmia employ soft earth. This material is a sort of driedmud, which turns to pap on the addition of a drop of water. The twoOsmiae limit themselves to gathering natural soaked earth, mud inshort, which they allow to dry without any special preparation on theirpart; and so they need deep and well-sheltered retreats, into which therain cannot penetrate, or the work would fall to pieces. 

Latreille's Osmia uses different materials for her partitions and herdoors. She chews the leaves of some mucilaginous plant, some mallowperhaps, and then prepares a sort of green putty with which she buildsher partitions and finally closes the entrance to the dwelling. Whenshe settles in the spacious cells of the Masked Anthophora (Anthophorapersonata, Illig. ), the entrance to the gallery, which is wide enoughto admit a man's finger, is closed with a voluminous plug of thisvegetable paste. On the earthy banks, hardened by the sun, the home isthen betrayed by the gaudy colour of the lid. It is as though theauthorities had closed the door and affixed to it their great seals ofgreen wax. 

So far then as their building-materials are concerned, the Osmiae whomI have been able to observe are divided into two classes: one buildingcompartments with mud, the other with a green-tinted vegetable putty. To the latter belongs Latreille's Osmia. The first section includes theHorned Osmia and the Three-horned Osmia, both so remarkable for thehorny tubercles on their faces. 

The great reed of the south, Arundo donax, is often used, in thecountry, for making rough garden-shelters against the mistral or justfor fences. These reeds, the ends of which are chopped off to make themall the same length, are planted perpendicularly in the earth. I haveoften explored them in the hope of finding Osmia-nests. My search hasvery seldom succeeded. The failure is easily explained. The partitionsand the closing-plug of the Horned and of the Three-horned Osmia aremade, as we have seen, of a sort of mud which water instantly reducesto pap. With the upright position of the reeds, the stopper of theopening would receive the rain and would become diluted; the ceilingsof the storeys would fall in and the family would perish by drowning. Therefore the Osmia, who knew of these drawbacks before I did, refusesthe reeds when they are placed perpendicularly. 

The same reed is used for a second purpose. We make canisses of it, that is to say, hurdles, which, in spring, serve for the rearing ofSilkworms and, in autumn, for the drying of figs. At the end of Apriland during May, which is the time when the Osmiae work, the canissesare indoors, in the Silkworm nurseries, where the Bee cannot takepossession of them; in autumn, they are outside, exposing their layersof figs and peeled peaches to the sun; but by that time the Osmiae havelong disappeared. If, however, during the spring, an old, disusedhurdle is left out of doors, in a horizontal position, the Three-hornedOsmia often takes possession of it and makes use of the two ends, wherethe reeds lie truncated and open. 

There are other quarters that suit the Three-horned Osmia, who is notparticular, it seems to me, and will make shift with any hiding-place, so long as it have the requisite conditions of diameter, solidity, sanitation and kindly darkness. The most original dwellings that I knowher to occupy are disused Snail-shells, especially the house of theCommon Snail (Helix aspersa). Let us go to the slope of the hills thickwith olive-trees and inspect the little supporting-walls which arebuilt of dry stones and face the south. In the crevices of thisinsecure masonry we shall reap a harvest of old Snail-shells, pluggedwith earth right up to the orifice. The family of the Three-hornedOsmia is settled in the spiral of those shells, which is subdividedinto chambers by mud partitions. 

The Three-pronged Osmia (O. Tridentata, Duf. And Per. ) alone creates ahome of her own, digging herself a channel with her mandibles in drybramble and sometimes in danewort. 

The Osmia loves mystery. She wants a dark retreat, hidden from the eye. I would like, nevertheless, to watch her in the privacy of her home andto witness her work with the same facility as if she were nest-buildingin the open air. Perhaps there are some interesting characteristics tobe picked up in the depths of her retreats. It remains to be seenwhether my wish can be realized. 

When studying the insect's mental capacity, especially its veryretentive memory for places, I was led to ask myself whether it wouldnot be possible to make a suitably-chosen Bee build in any place that Iwished, even in my study. And I wanted, for an experiment of this sort, not an individual but a numerous colony. My preference lent towards theThree-horned Osmia, who is very plentiful in my neighbourhood, where, together with Latreille's Osmia, she frequents in particular themonstrous nests of the Chalicodoma of the Sheds. I therefore thoughtout a scheme for making the Three-horned Osmia accept my study as hersettlement and build her nest in glass tubes, through which I couldeasily watch the progress. To these crystal galleries, which might wellinspire a certain distrust, were to be added more natural retreats:reeds of every length and thickness and disused Chalicodoma-nests takenfrom among the biggest and the smallest. A scheme like this sounds mad. I admit it, while mentioning that perhaps none ever succeeded so wellwith me. We shall see as much presently. 

My method is extremely simple. All I ask is that the birth of myinsects, that is to say, their first seeing the light, their emergingfrom the cocoon, should take place on the spot where I propose to makethem settle. Here there must be retreats of no matter what nature, butof a shape similar to that in which the Osmia delights. The firstimpressions of sight, which are the most long-lived of any, shall bringback my insects to the place of their birth. And not only will theOsmiae return, through the always open windows, but they will alsonidify on the natal spot, if they find something like the necessaryconditions. 

And so, all through the winter, I collect Osmia-cocoons picked up inthe nests of the Mason-bee of the Sheds; I go to Carpentras to glean amore plentiful supply in the nests of the Anthophora. I spread out mystock in a large open box on a table which receives a bright diffusedlight but not the direct rays of the sun. The table stands between twowindows facing south and overlooking the garden. When the moment ofhatching comes, those two windows will always remain open to give theswarm entire liberty to go in and out as it pleases. The glass tubesand reed-stumps are laid here and there, in fine disorder, close to theheaps of cocoons and all in a horizontal position, for the Osmia willhave nothing to do with upright reeds. Although such a precaution isnot indispensable, I take care to place some cocoons in each cylinder. The hatching of some of the Osmiae will therefore take place undercover of the galleries destined to be the building-yard later; and thesite will be all the more deeply impressed on their memory. When I havemade these comprehensive arrangements, there is nothing more to bedone; and I wait patiently for the building-season to open. 

My Osmiae leave their cocoons in the second half of April. Under theimmediate rays of the sun, in well-sheltered nooks, the hatching wouldoccur a month earlier, as we can see from the mixed population of thesnowy almond-tree. The constant shade in my study has delayed theawakening, without, however, making any change in the nesting-period, which synchronizes with the flowering of the thyme. We now have, aroundmy working-table, my books, my jars and my various appliances, abuzzing crowd that goes in and out of the windows at every moment. Ienjoin the household henceforth not to touch a thing in the insects'laboratory, to do no more sweeping, no more dusting. They might disturba swarm and make it think that my hospitality was not to be trusted. During four or five weeks I witness the work of a number of Osmiaewhich is much too large to allow my watching their individualoperations. I content myself with a few, whom I mark withdifferent-coloured spots to distinguish them; and I take no notice ofthe others, whose finished work will have my attention later. 

The first to appear are the males. If the sun is bright, they flutteraround the heap of tubes as if to take careful note of the locality;blows are exchanged and the rival swains indulge in mild skirmishing onthe floor, then shake the dust off their wings. They fly assiduouslyfrom tube to tube, placing their heads in the orifices to see if somefemale will at last make up her mind to emerge. 

One does, in point of fact. She is covered with dust and has thedisordered toilet that is inseparable from the hard work of thedeliverance. A lover has seen her, so has a second, likewise a third. All crowd round her. The lady responds to their advances by clashingher mandibles, which open and shut rapidly, several times insuccession. The suitors forthwith fall back; and they also, no doubt tokeep up their dignity, execute savage mandibular grimaces. Then thebeauty retires into the arbour and her wooers resume their places onthe threshold. A fresh appearance of the female, who repeats the playwith her jaws; a fresh retreat of the males, who do the best they canto flourish their own pincers. The Osmiae have a strange way ofdeclaring their passion: with that fearsome gnashing of theirmandibles, the lovers look as though they meant to devour each other. It suggests the thumps affected by our yokels in their moments ofgallantry. 

The ingenuous idyll is soon over. The females, who grow more numerousfrom day to day, inspect the premises; they buzz outside the glassgalleries and the reed dwellings; they go in, stay for a while, comeout, go in again and then fly away briskly into the garden. Theyreturn, first one, then another. They halt outside, in the sun, or onthe shutters fastened back against the wall; they hover in thewindow-recess, come inside, go to the reeds and give a glance at them, only to set off again and to return soon after. Thus do they learn toknow their home, thus do they fix their birthplace in their memory. Thevillage of our childhood is always a cherished spot, never to beeffaced from our recollection. The Osmia's life endures for a month;and she acquires a lasting remembrance of her hamlet in a couple ofdays. 'Twas there that she was born; 'twas there that she loved; 'tisthere that she will return. Dulces reminiscitur Argos. 

 (Now falling by another's wound, his eyes He casts to heaven, on Argos thinks and dies. --"Aeneid" Book 10, Dryden's translation. )

At last each has made her choice. The work of construction begins; andmy expectations are fulfilled far beyond my wishes. The Osmiae buildnests in all the retreats which I have placed at their disposal. Andnow, O my Osmiae, I leave you a free field!

The work begins with a thorough spring-cleaning of the home. Remnantsof cocoons, dirt consisting of spoilt honey, bits of plaster frombroken partitions, remains of dried Mollusc at the bottom of a shell:these and much other insanitary refuse must first of all disappear. Violently the Osmia tugs at the offending object and tears it out; andthen off she goes in a desperate hurry, to dispose of it far away fromthe study. They are all alike, these ardent sweepers: in theirexcessive zeal, they fear lest they should block up the speck of dustwhich they might drop in front of the new house. The glass tubes, whichI myself have rinsed under the tap, are not exempt from a scrupulouscleaning. The Osmia dusts them, brushes them thoroughly with her tarsiand then sweeps them out backwards. What does she pick up? Not a thing. It makes no difference: as a conscientious housewife, she gives theplace a touch of the broom nevertheless. 

Now for the provisions and the partition-walls. Here the order of thework changes according to the diameter of the cylinder. My glass tubesvary greatly in dimensions. The largest have an inner width of a dozenmillimetres (Nearly half an inch. --Translator's Note. ); the narrowestmeasure six or seven. (About a quarter of an inch. --Translator's Note. )In the latter, if the bottom suit her, the Osmia sets to work bringingpollen and honey. If the bottom do not suit her, if the sorghum-pithplug with which I have closed the rear-end of the tube be too irregularand badly-joined, the Bee coats it with a little mortar. When thissmall repair is made, the harvesting begins. 

In the wider tubes, the work proceeds quite differently. At the momentwhen the Osmia disgorges her honey and especially at the moment when, with her hind-tarsi, she rubs the pollen-dust from her ventral brush, she needs a narrow aperture, just big enough to allow of her passage. Iimagine that in a straitened gallery the rubbing of her whole bodyagainst the sides gives the harvester a support for her brushing-work. In a spacious cylinder this support fails her; and the Osmia startswith creating one for herself, which she does by narrowing the channel. Whether it be to facilitate the storing of the victuals or for anyother reason, the fact remains that the Osmia housed in a wide tubebegins with the partitioning. 

Her division is made by a dab of clay placed at right angles to theaxis of the cylinder, at a distance from the bottom determined by theordinary length of a cell. The wad is not a complete round; it is morecrescent-shaped, leaving a circular space between it and one side ofthe tube. Fresh layers are swiftly added to the dab of clay; and soonthe tube is divided by a partition which has a circular opening at theside of it, a sort of dog-hole through which the Osmia will proceed toknead the Bee-bread. When the victualling is finished and the egg laidupon the heap, the whole is closed and the filled-up partition becomesthe bottom of the next cell. Then the same method is repeated, that isto say, in front of the just completed ceiling a second partition isbuilt, again with a side-passage, which is stouter, owing to itsdistance from the centre, and better able to withstand the numerouscomings and goings of the housewife than a central orifice, deprived ofthe direct support of the wall, could hope to be. When this partitionis ready, the provisioning of the second cell is effected; and so onuntil the wide cylinder is completely stocked. 

The building of this preliminary party-wall, with a narrow, rounddog-hole, for a chamber to which the victuals will not be brought untillater is not restricted to the Three-horned Osmia; it is alsofrequently found in the case of the Horned Osmia and of Latreille'sOsmia. Nothing could be prettier than the work of the last-named, whogoes to the plants for her material and fashions a delicate sheet inwhich she cuts a graceful arch. The Chinaman partitions his house withpaper screens; Latreille's Osmia divides hers with disks of thin greencardboard perforated with a serving-hatch which remains until the roomis completely furnished. When we have no glass houses at our disposal, we can see these little architectural refinements in the reeds of thehurdles, if we open them at the right season. 

By splitting the bramble-stumps in the course of July, we perceive alsothat the Three-pronged Osmia notwithstanding her narrow gallery, follows the same practice as Latreille's Osmia, with a difference. Shedoes not build a party-wall, which the diameter of the cylinder wouldnot permit; she confines herself to putting up a frail circular pad ofgreen putty, as though to limit, before any attempt at harvesting, thespace to be occupied by the Bee-bread, whose depth could not becalculated afterwards if the insect did not first mark out itsconfines. 

If, in order to see the Osmia's nest as a whole, we split a reedlengthwise, taking care not to disturb its contents; or, better still, if we select for examination the string of cells built in a glass tube, we are forthwith struck by one detail, namely, the uneven distancesbetween the partitions, which are placed almost at right angles to theaxis of the cylinder. It is these distances which fix the size of thechambers, which, with a similar base, have different heights andconsequently unequal holding-capacities. The bottom partitions, theoldest, are farther apart; those of the front part, near the orifice, are closer together. Moreover, the provisions are plentiful in theloftier cells, whereas they are niggardly and reduced to one-half oreven one-third in the cells of lesser height. Let me say at once thatthe large cells are destined for the females and the small ones for themales. 

DISTRIBUTION OF THE SEXES. 

Does the insect which stores up provisions proportionate to the needsof the egg which it is about to lay know beforehand the sex of thategg? Or is the truth even more paradoxical? What we have to do is toturn this suspicion into a certainty demonstrated by experiment. Andfirst let us find out how the sexes are arranged. 

It is not possible to ascertain the chronological order of a laying, except by going to suitably-chosen species. Fortunately there are a fewspecies in which we do not find this difficulty: these are the Bees whokeep to one gallery and build their cells in storeys. Among the numberare the different inhabitants of the bramble-stumps, notably theThree-pronged Osmiae, who form an excellent subject for observation, partly because they are of imposing size--bigger than any otherbramble-dwellers in my neighbourhood--partly because they are soplentiful. 

Let us briefly recall the Osmia's habits. Amid the tangle of a hedge, abramble-stalk is selected, still standing, but a mere withered stump. In this the insect digs a more or less deep tunnel, an easy piece ofwork owing to the abundance of soft pith. Provisions are heaped upright at the bottom of the tunnel and an egg is laid on the surface ofthe food: that is the first-born of the family. At a height of sometwelve millimetres (About half an inch. --Translator's Note. ), apartition is fixed. This gives a second storey, which in its turnreceives provisions and an egg, the second in order of primogeniture. And so it goes on, storey by storey, until the cylinder is full. Thenthe thick plug of the same green material of which the partitions areformed closes the home and keeps out marauders. 

In this common cradle, the chronological order of births is perfectlyclear. The first-born of the family is at the bottom of the series; thelast-born is at the top, near the closed door. The others follow frombottom to top in the same order in which they followed in point oftime. The laying is numbered automatically; each cocoon tells us itsrespective age by the place which it occupies. 

A number of eggs bordering on fifteen represents the entire family ofan Osmia, and my observations enable me to state that the distributionof the sexes is not governed by any rule. All that I can say in generalis that the complete series begins with females and nearly always endswith males. The incomplete series--those which the insect has laid invarious places--can teach us nothing in this respect, for they are onlyfragments starting we know not whence; and it is impossible to tellwhether they should be ascribed to the beginning, to the end, or to anintermediate period of the laying. To sum up: in the laying of theThree-pronged Osmia, no order governs the succession of the sexes;only, the series has a marked tendency to begin with females and tofinish with males. 

The mother occupies herself at the start with the stronger sex, themore necessary, the better-gifted, the female sex, to which she devotesthe first flush of her laying and the fullness of her vigour; later, when she is perhaps already at the end of her strength, she bestowswhat remains of her maternal solicitude upon the weaker sex, theless-gifted, almost negligible male sex. There are, however, otherspecies where this law becomes absolute, constant and regular. 

In order to go more deeply into this curious question I installed somehives of a new kind on the sunniest walls of my enclosure. Theyconsisted of stumps of the great reed of the south, open at one end, closed at the other by the natural knot and gathered into a sort ofenormous pan-pipe, such as Polyphemus might have employed. Theinvitation was accepted: Osmiae came in fairly large numbers, tobenefit by the queer installation. 

Three Osmiae especially (O. Tricornis, Latr. , O. Cornuta, Latr. , O. Latreillii, Spin. ) gave me splendid results, with reed-stumps arrangedeither against the wall of my garden, as I have just said, or neartheir customary abode, the huge nests of the Mason-bee of the Sheds. One of them, the Three-horned Osmia, did better still: as I havedescribed, she built her nests in my study, as plentifully as I couldwish. 

We will consult this last, who has furnished me with documents beyondmy fondest hopes, and begin by asking her of how many eggs her averagelaying consists. Of the whole heap of colonized tubes in my study, orelse out of doors, in the hurdle-reeds and the pan-pipe appliances, thebest-filled contains fifteen cells, with a free space above the series, a space showing that the laying is ended, for, if the mother had anymore eggs available, she would have lodged them in the room which sheleaves unoccupied. This string of fifteen appears to be rare; it wasthe only one that I found. My attempts at indoor rearing, pursuedduring two years with glass tubes or reeds, taught me that theThree-horned Osmia is not much addicted to long series. As though todecrease the difficulties of the coming deliverance, she prefers shortgalleries, in which only a part of the laying is stacked. We must thenfollow the same mother in her migration from one dwelling to the nextif we would obtain a complete census of her family. A spot of colour, dropped on the Bee's thorax with a paint-brush while she is absorbed inclosing up the mouth of the tunnel, enables us to recognize the Osmiain her various homes. 

In this way, the swarm that resided in my study furnished me, in thefirst year, with an average of twelve cells. Next year, the summerappeared to be more favourable and the average became rather higher, reaching fifteen. The most numerous laying performed under my eyes, notin a tube, but in a succession of Snail-shells, reached the figure oftwenty-six. On the other hand, layings of between eight and ten are notuncommon. Lastly, taking all my records together, the result is thatthe family of the Osmia fluctuates roundabout fifteen in number. 

I have already spoken of the great differences in size apparent in thecells of one and the same series. The partitions, at first widelyspaced, draw gradually nearer to one another as they come closer to theaperture, which implies roomy cells at the back and narrow cells infront. The contents of these compartments are no less uneven betweenone portion and another of the string. Without any exception known tome, the large cells, those with which the series starts, have moreabundant provisions than the straitened cells with which the seriesends. The heap of honey and pollen in the first is twice or even thriceas large as that in the second. In the last cells, the most recent indate, the victuals are but a pinch of pollen, so niggardly in amountthat we wonder what will become of the larva with that meagre ration. 

One would think that the Osmia, when nearing the end of the laying, attaches no importance to her last-born, to whom she doles out spaceand food so sparingly. The first-born receive the benefit of her earlyenthusiasm: theirs is the well-spread table, theirs the spaciousapartments. The work has begun to pall by the time that the last eggsare laid; and the last-comers have to put up with a scurvy portion offood and a tiny corner. 

The difference shows itself in another way after the cocoons are spun. The large cells, those at the back, receive the bulky cocoons; thesmall ones, those in front, have cocoons only half or a third as big. Before opening them and ascertaining the sex of the Osmia inside, letus wait for the transformation into the perfect insect, which will takeplace towards the end of summer. If impatience get the better of us, wecan open them at the end of July or in August. The insect is then inthe nymphal stage; and it is easy, under this form, to distinguish thetwo sexes by the length of the antennae, which are larger in the males, and by the glassy protuberances on the forehead, the sign of the futurearmour of the females. Well, the small cocoons, those in the narrowfront cells, with their scanty store of provisions, all belong tomales; the big cocoons, those in the spacious and well-stocked cells atthe back, all belong to females. 

The conclusion is definite: the laying of the Three-horned Osmiaconsists of two distinct groups, first a group of females and then agroup of males. 

With my pan-pipe apparatus displayed on the walls of my enclosure andwith old hurdle-reeds left lying flat out of doors, I obtained theHorned Osmia in fair quantities. I persuaded Latreille's Osmia to buildher nest in reeds, which she did with a zeal which I was far fromexpecting. All that I had to do was to lay some reed-stumpshorizontally within her reach, in the immediate neighbourhood of herusual haunts, namely, the nests of the Mason-bee of the Sheds. Lastly, I succeeded without difficulty in making her build her nests in theprivacy of my study, with glass tubes for a house. The result surpassedmy hopes. 

With both these Osmiae, the division of the gallery is the same as withthe Three-horned Osmia. At the back are large cells with plentifulprovisions and widely-spaced partitions; in front, small cells, withscanty provisions and partitions close together. Also, the larger cellssupplied me with big cocoons and females; the smaller cells gave melittle cocoons and males. The conclusion therefore is exactly the samein the case of all three Osmiae. 

These conclusions, as my notes show, apply likewise, in every respect, to the various species of Mason-bees; and one clear and simple rulestands out from this collection of facts. Apart from the strangeexception of the Three-pronged Osmia, who mixes the sexes without anyorder, the Bees whom I studied and probably a crowd of others producefirst a continuous series of females and then a continuous series ofmales, the latter with less provisions and smaller cells. Thisdistribution of the sexes agrees with what we have long known of theHive-bee, who begins her laying with a long sequence of workers, orsterile females, and ends it with a long sequence of males. The analogycontinues down to the capacity of the cells and the quantities ofprovisions. The real females, the Queen-bees, have wax cellsincomparably more spacious than the cells of the males and receive amuch larger amount of food. Everything therefore demonstrates that weare here in the presence of a general rule. 

OPTIONAL DETERMINATION OF THE SEXES. 

But does this rule express the whole truth? Is there nothing beyond alaying in two series? Are the Osmiae, the Chalicodomae and the rest ofthem fatally bound by this distribution of the sexes into two distinctgroups, the male group following upon the female group, without anymixing of the two? Is the mother absolutely powerless to make a changein this arrangement, should circumstances require it?

The Three-pronged Osmia already shows us that the problem is far frombeing solved. In the same bramble-stump, the two sexes occur veryirregularly, as though at random. Why this mixture in the series ofcocoons of a Bee closely related to the Horned Osmia and theThree-horned Osmia, who stack theirs methodically by separate sexes inthe hollow of a reed? What the Bee of the brambles does cannot herkinswomen of the reeds do too? Nothing, so far as I know, explains thisfundamental difference in a physiological act of primary importance. The three Bees belong to the same genus; they resemble one another ingeneral outline, internal structure and habits; and, with this closesimilarity, we suddenly find a strange dissimilarity. 

There is just one thing that might possibly arouse a suspicion of thecause of this irregularity in the Three-pronged Osmia's laying. If Iopen a bramble-stump in the winter to examine the Osmia's nest, I findit impossible, in the vast majority of cases, to distinguish positivelybetween a female and a male cocoon: the difference in size is so small. The cells, moreover, have the same capacity: the diameter of thecylinder is the same throughout and the partitions are almost alwaysthe same distance apart. If I open it in July, the victualling-period, it is impossible for me to distinguish between the provisions destinedfor the males and those destined for the females. The measurement ofthe column of honey gives practically the same depth in all the cells. We find an equal quantity of space and food for both sexes. 

This result makes us foresee what a direct examination of the two sexesin the adult form tells us. The male does not differ materially fromthe female in respect of size. If he is a trifle smaller, it isscarcely noticeable, whereas, in the Horned Osmia and the Three-hornedOsmia, the male is only half or a third the size of the female, as wehave seen from the respective bulk of their cocoons. In the Mason-beeof the Walls there is also a difference in size, though lesspronounced. 

The Three-pronged Osmia has not therefore to trouble about adjustingthe dimensions of the dwelling and the quantity of the food to the sexof the egg which she is about to lay; the measure is the same from oneend of the series to the other. It does not matter if the sexesalternate without order: one and all will find what they need, whatevertheir position in the row. The two other Osmiae, with their greatdisparity in size between the two sexes, have to be careful about thetwofold consideration of board and lodging. 

The more I thought about this curious question, the more probable itappeared to me that the irregular series of the Three-pronged Osmia andthe regular series of the other Osmiae and of the Bees in general wereall traceable to a common law. It seemed to me that the arrangement ina succession first of females and then of males did not account foreverything. There must be something more. And I was right: thatarrangement in series is only a tiny fraction of the reality, which isremarkable in a very different way. This is what I am going to prove byexperiment. 

The succession first of females and then of males is not, in fact, invariable. Thus, the Chalicodoma, whose nests serve for two or threegenerations, ALWAYS lays male eggs in the old male cells, which can berecognized by their lesser capacity, and female eggs in the old femalecells of more spacious dimensions. 

This presence of both sexes at a time, even when there are but twocells free, one spacious and the other small, proves in the plainestfashion that the regular distribution observed in the complete nests ofrecent production is here replaced by an irregular distribution, harmonizing with the number and holding-capacity of the chambers to bestocked. The Mason-bee has before her, let me suppose, only five vacantcells: two larger and three smaller. The total space at her disposalwould do for about a third of the laying. Well, in the two large cells, she puts females; in the three small cells she puts males. 

As we find the same sort of thing in all the old nests, we must needsadmit that the mother knows the sex of the eggs which she is going tolay, because that egg is placed in a cell of the proper capacity. Wecan go further, and admit that the mother alters the order ofsuccession of the sexes at her pleasure, because her layings, betweenone old nest and another, are broken up into small groups of males andfemales according to the exigencies of space in the actual nest whichshe happens to be occupying. 

Here then is the Chalicodoma, when mistress of an old nest of which shehas not the power to alter the arrangement, breaking up her laying intosections comprising both sexes just as required by the conditionsimposed upon her. She therefore decides the sex of the egg at will, for, without this prerogative, she could not, in the chambers of thenest which she owes to chance, deposit unerringly the sex for whichthose chambers were originally built; and this happens however smallthe number of chambers to be filled. 

When the mother herself founds the dwelling, when she lays the firstrows of bricks, the females come first and the males at the finish. But, when she is in the presence of an old nest, of which she is quiteunable to alter the general arrangement, how is she to make use of afew vacant rooms, the large and small alike, if the sex of the egg bealready irrevocably fixed? She can only do so by abandoning thearrangement in two consecutive rows and accommodating her laying to thevaried exigencies of the home. Either she finds it impossible to makean economical use of the old nest, a theory refuted by the evidence, orelse she determines at will the sex of the egg which she is about tolay. 

The Osmiae themselves will furnish the most conclusive evidence on thelatter point. We have seen that these Bees are not generally miners, who themselves dig out the foundation of their cells. They make use ofthe old structures of others, or else of natural retreats, such ashollow stems, the spirals of empty shells and various hiding-places inwalls, clay or wood. Their work is confined to repairs to the house, such as partitions and covers. There are plenty of these retreats; andthe insects would always find first-class ones if it thought of goingany distance to look for them. But the Osmia is a stay-at-home: shereturns to her birthplace and clings to it with a patience extremelydifficult to exhaust. It is here, in this little familiar corner, thatshe prefers to settle her progeny. But then the apartments are few innumber and of all shapes and sizes. There are long and short ones, spacious ones and narrow. Short of expatriating herself, a Spartancourse, she has to use them all, from first to last, for she has nochoice. Guided by these considerations, I embarked on the experimentswhich I will now describe. 

I have said how my study became a populous hive, in which theThree-horned Osmia built her nests in the various appliances which Ihad prepared for her. Among these appliances, tubes, either of glass orreed, predominated. There were tubes of all lengths and widths. In thelong tubes, entire or almost entire layings, with a series of femalesfollowed by a series of males, were deposited. As I have alreadyreferred to this result, I will not discuss it again. The short tubeswere sufficiently varied in length to lodge one or other portion of thetotal laying. Basing my calculations on the respective lengths of thecocoons of the two sexes, on the thickness of the partitions and thefinal lid, I shortened some of these to the exact dimensions requiredfor two cocoons only, of different sexes. 

Well, these short tubes, whether of glass or reed, were seized upon aseagerly as the long tubes. Moreover, they yielded this splendid result:their contents, only a part of the total laying, always began withfemale and ended with male cocoons. This order was invariable; whatvaried was the number of cells in the long tubes and the proportionbetween the two sorts of cocoons, sometimes males predominating andsometimes females. 

When confronted with tubes too small to receive all her family, theOsmia is in the same plight as the Mason-bee in the presence of an oldnest. She thereupon acts exactly as the Chalicodoma does. She breaks upher laying, divides it into series as short as the room at her disposaldemands; and each series begins with females and ends with males. Thisbreaking up, on the one hand, into sections in all of which both sexesare represented and the division, on the other hand, of the entirelaying into just two groups, one female, the other male, when thelength of the tube permits, surely provide us with ample evidence ofthe insect's power to regulate the sex of the egg according to theexigencies of space. 

And besides the exigencies of space one might perhaps venture to addthose connected with the earlier development of the males. These bursttheir cocoons a couple of weeks or more before the females; they arethe first who hasten to the sweets of the almond-tree. In order torelease themselves and emerge into the glad sunlight without disturbingthe string of cocoons wherein their sisters are still sleeping, theymust occupy the upper end of the row; and this, no doubt, is the reasonthat makes the Osmia end each of her broken layings with males. Beingnext to the door, these impatient ones will leave the home withoutupsetting the shells that are slower in hatching. 

I had offered at the same time to the Osmiae in my study some old nestsof the Mason-bee of the Shrubs, which are clay spheroids withcylindrical cavities in them. These cavities are formed, as in the oldnests of the Mason-bee of the Pebbles, of the cell properly so-calledand of the exit-way which the perfect insect cut through the outercoating at the time of its deliverance. The diameter is about 7millimetres (. 273 inch. --Translator's Note. ); their depth at the centreof the heap is 23 millimetres (. 897 inch. --Translator's Note. ) and atthe edge averages 14 millimetres. (. 546 inch. --Translator's Note. )

The deep central cells receive only the females of the Osmia; sometimeseven the two sexes together, with a partition in the middle, the femaleoccupying the lower and the male the upper storey. Lastly, the deepercavities on the circumference are allotted to females and the shallowerto males. 

We know that the Three-horned Osmia prefers to haunt the habitations ofthe Bees who nidify in populous colonies, such as the Mason-bee of theSheds and the Hairy-footed Anthophora, in whose nests I have notedsimilar facts. 

Thus the sex of the egg is optional. The choice rests with the mother, who is guided by considerations of space and, according to theaccommodation at her disposal, which is frequently fortuitous andincapable of modification, places a female in this cell and a male inthat, so that both may have a dwelling of a size suited to theirunequal development. This is the unimpeachable evidence of the numerousand varied facts which I have set forth. People unfamiliar with insectanatomy--the public for whom I write--would probably give the followingexplanation of this marvellous prerogative of the Bee: the mother hasat her disposal a certain number of eggs, some of which are irrevocablyfemale and the others irrevocably male: she is able to pick out ofeither group the one which she wants at the actual moment; and herchoice is decided by the holding capacity of the cell that has to bestocked. Everything would then be limited to a judicious selection fromthe heap of eggs. 

Should this idea occur to him, the reader must hasten to reject it. Nothing could be more false, as the most casual reference to anatomywill show. The female reproductive apparatus of the Hymenopteraconsists generally of six ovarian tubes, something like glove-fingers, divided into bunches of three and ending in a common canal, theoviduct, which carries the eggs outside. Each of these glove-fingers isfairly wide at the base, but tapers sharply towards the tip, which isclosed. It contains, arranged in a row, one after the other, like beadson a string, a certain number of eggs, five or six for instance, ofwhich the lower ones are more or less developed, the middle oneshalfway towards maturity, and the upper ones very rudimentary. Everystage of evolution is here represented, distributed regularly frombottom to top, from the verge of maturity to the vague outlines of theembryo. The sheath clasps its string of ovules so closely that anyinversion of the order is impossible. Besides, an inversion wouldresult in a gross absurdity: the replacing of a riper egg by another inan earlier stage of development. 

Therefore, in each ovarian tube, in each glove-finger, the emergence ofthe eggs occurs according to the order governing their arrangement inthe common sheath; and any other sequence is absolutely impossible. Moreover, at the nesting-period, the six ovarian sheaths, one by oneand each in its turn, have at their base an egg which in a very shorttime swells enormously. Some hours or even a day before the laying, that egg by itself represents or even exceeds in bulk the whole of theovigerous apparatus. This is the egg which is on the point of beinglaid. It is about to descend into the oviduct, in its proper order, atits proper time; and the mother has no power to make another take itsplace. It is this egg, necessarily this egg and no other, that willpresently be laid upon the provisions, whether these be a mess of honeyor a live prey; it alone is ripe, it alone lies at the entrance to theoviduct; none of the others, since they are farther back in the row andnot at the right stage of development, can be substituted at thiscrisis. Its birth is inevitable. 

What will it yield, a male or a female? No lodging has been prepared, no food collected for it; and yet both food and lodging have to be inkeeping with the sex that will proceed from it. And here is a much morepuzzling condition: the sex of that egg, whose advent is predestined, has to correspond with the space which the mother happens to have foundfor a cell. There is therefore no room for hesitation, strange thoughthe statement may appear: the egg, as it descends from its ovariantube, has no determined sex. It is perhaps during the few hours of itsrapid development at the base of its ovarian sheath, it is perhaps onits passage through the oviduct that it receives, at the mother'spleasure, the final impress that will produce, to match the cradlewhich it has to fill, either a female or a male. 

PERMUTATIONS OF SEX. 

Thereupon the following question presents itself. Let us admit that, when the normal conditions remain, a laying would have yielded mfemales and n males. Then, if my conclusions are correct, it must be inthe mother's power, when the conditions are different, to take from them group and increase the n group to the same extent; it must bepossible for her laying to be represented as m - 1, m - 2, m - 3, etc. Females and by n + 1, n + 2, n + 3, etc. Males, the sum of m + nremaining constant, but one of the sexes being partly permuted into theother. The ultimate conclusion even cannot be disregarded: we mustadmit a set of eggs represented by m - m, or zero, females and of n + mmales, one of the sexes being completely replaced by the other. Conversely, it must be possible for the feminine series to be augmentedfrom the masculine series to the extent of absorbing it entirely. Itwas to solve this question and some others connected with it that Iundertook, for the second time, to rear the Three-horned Osmia in mystudy. 

The problem on this occasion is a more delicate one; but I am alsobetter-equipped. My apparatus consists of two small closedpacking-cases, with the front side of each pierced with forty holes, inwhich I can insert my glass tubes and keep them in a horizontalposition. I thus obtain for the Bees the darkness and mystery whichsuit their work and for myself the power of withdrawing from my hive, at any time, any tube that I wish, with the Osmia inside, so as tocarry it to the light and follow, if need be with the aid of the lens, the operations of the busy worker. My investigations, however frequentand minute, in no way hinder the peaceable Bee, who remains absorbed inher maternal duties. 

I mark a plentiful number of my guests with a variety of dots on thethorax, which enables me to follow any one Osmia from the beginning tothe end of her laying. The tubes and their respective holes arenumbered; a list, always lying open on my desk, enables me to note fromday to day, sometimes from hour to hour, what happens in each tube andparticularly the actions of the Osmiae whose backs bear distinguishingmarks. As soon as one tube is filled, I replace it by another. Moreover, I have scattered in front of either hive a few handfuls ofempty Snail-shells, specially chosen for the object which I have inview. Reasons which I will explain later led me to prefer the shells ofHelix caespitum. Each of the shells, as and when stocked, received thedate of the laying and the alphabetical sign corresponding with theOsmia to whom it belonged. In this way, I spent five or six weeks incontinual observation. To succeed in an enquiry, the first and foremostcondition is patience. This condition I fulfilled; and it was rewardedwith the success which I was justified in expecting. 

The tubes employed are of two kinds. The first, which are cylindricaland of the same width throughout, will be of use for confirming thefacts observed in the first year of my experiments in indoor rearing. The others, the majority, consist of two cylinders which are of verydifferent diameters, set end to end. The front cylinder, the one whichprojects a little way outside the hive and forms the entrance-hole, varies in width between 8 and 12 millimetres. (Between . 312 and . 468inch. --Translator's Note. ) The second, the back one, contained entirelywithin my packing-case, is closed at its far end and is 5 to 6millimetres in diameter. (. 195 to . 234 inch. --Translator's Note. ) Eachof the two parts of the double-galleried tunnel, one narrow and onewide, measures at most a decimetre in length. (3. 9inches. --Translator's Note. ) I thought it advisable to have these shorttubes, as the Osmia is thus compelled to select different lodgings, each of them being insufficient in itself to accommodate the totallaying. In this way I shall obtain a greater variety in thedistribution of the sexes. Lastly, at the mouth of each tube, whichprojects slightly outside the case, there is a little paper tongue, forming a sort of perch on which the Osmia alights on her arrival andgiving easy access to the house. With these facilities, the swarmcolonized fifty-two double-galleried tubes, thirty-seven cylindricaltubes, seventy-eight Snail-shells and a few old nests of the Mason-beeof the Shrubs. From this rich mine of material I will take what I wantto prove my case. 

Every series, even when incomplete, begins with females and ends withmales. To this rule I have not yet found an exception, at least ingalleries of normal diameter. In each new abode the mother busiesherself first of all with the more important sex. Bearing this point inmind, would it be possible for me, by manoeuvring, to obtain aninversion of this order and make the laying begin with males? I thinkso, from the results already ascertained and the irresistibleconclusions to be drawn from them. The double-galleried tubes areinstalled in order to put my conjectures to the proof. 

The back gallery, 5 or 6 millimetres wide (. 195 to . 234inch. --Translator's Note. ), is too narrow to serve as a lodging fornormally developed females. If, therefore, the Osmia, who is veryeconomical of her space, wishes to occupy them, she will be obliged toestablish males there. And her laying must necessarily begin here, because this corner is the rear-most part of the tube. The foremostgallery is wide, with an entrance-door on the front of the hive. Here, finding the conditions to which she is accustomed, the mother will goon with her laying in the order which she prefers. 

Let us now see what has happened. Of the fifty-two double-galleriedtubes, about a third did not have their narrow passage colonized. TheOsmia closed its aperture communicating with the large passage; and thelatter alone received the eggs. This waste of space was inevitable. Thefemale Osmiae, though nearly always larger than the males, presentmarked differences among one another: some are bigger, some aresmaller. I had to adjust the width of the narrow galleries to Bees ofaverage dimensions. It may happen therefore that a gallery is too smallto admit the large-sized mothers to whom chance allots it. When theOsmia is unable to enter the tube, obviously she will not colonize it. She then closes the entrance to this space which she cannot use anddoes her laying beyond it, in the wide tube. Had I tried to avoid theseuseless apparatus by choosing tubes of larger calibre, I should haveencountered another drawback: the medium-sized mothers, findingthemselves almost comfortable, would have decided to lodge femalesthere. I had to be prepared for it: as each mother selected her houseat will and as I was unable to interfere in her choice, a narrow tubewould be colonized or not, according as the Osmia who owned it was orwas not able to make her way inside. 

There remain some forty pairs of tubes with both galleries colonized. In these there are two things to take into consideration. The narrowrear tubes of 5 or 5 1/2 millimetres (. 195 to . 214 inch. --Translator'sNote. )--and these are the most numerous--contain males and males only, but in short series, between one and five. The mother is here so muchhampered in her work that they are rarely occupied from end to end; theOsmia seems in a hurry to leave them and to go and colonize the fronttube, whose ample space will leave her the liberty of movementnecessary for her operations. The other rear tubes, the minority, whosediameter is about 6 millimetres (. 234 inch. --Translator's Note. ), contain sometimes only females and sometimes females at the back andmales towards the opening. One can see that a tube a trifle wider and amother slightly smaller would account for this difference in theresults. Nevertheless, as the necessary space for a female is barelyprovided in this case, we see that the mother avoids as far as she cana two-sex arrangement beginning with males and that she adopts it onlyin the last extremity. Finally, whatever the contents of the small tubemay be, those of the large one, following upon it, never vary andconsist of females at the back and males in front. 

Though incomplete, because of circumstances very difficult to control, the result of the experiment is none the less very remarkable. Twenty-five apparatus contain only males in their narrow gallery, innumbers varying from a minimum of one to a maximum of five. After thesecomes the colony of the large gallery, beginning with females andending with males. And the layings in these apparatus do not alwaysbelong to late summer or even to the intermediate period: a few smalltubes contain the earliest eggs of the entire swarm. A couple ofOsmiae, more forward than the others, set to work on the 23rd of April. Both of them started their laying by placing males in the narrow tubes. The meagre supply of provisions was enough in itself to show the sex, which proved later to be in accordance with my anticipations. We seethen that, by my artifices, the whole swarm starts with the converse ofthe normal order. This inversion is continued, at no matter whatperiod, from the beginning to the end of the operations. The serieswhich, according to rule, would begin with females now begins withmales. Once the larger gallery is reached, the laying is pursued in theusual order. 

We have advanced one step and that no small one: we have seen that theOsmia, when circumstances require it, is capable of reversing thesequence of the sexes. Would it be possible, provided that the tubewere long enough, to obtain a complete inversion, in which the entireseries of the males should occupy the narrow gallery at the back andthe entire series of the females the roomy gallery in front? I thinknot; and I will tell you why. 

Long and narrow cylinders are by no means to the Osmia's taste, notbecause of their narrowness but because of their length. Observe thatfor each load of honey brought the worker is obliged to move backwardstwice. She enters, head first, to begin by disgorging the honey-syrupfrom her crop. Unable to turn in a passage which she blocks entirely, she goes out backwards, crawling rather than walking, a laboriousperformance on the polished surface of the glass and a performancewhich, with any other surface, would still be very awkward, as thewings are bound to rub against the wall with their free end and areliable to get rumpled or bent. She goes out backwards, reaches theoutside, turns round and goes in again, but this time the opposite way, so as to brush off the load of pollen from her abdomen on to the heap. If the gallery is at all long, this crawling backwards becomestroublesome after a time; and the Osmia soon abandons a passage that istoo small to allow of free movement. I have said that the narrow tubesof my apparatus are, for the most part, only very incompletelycolonized. The Bee, after lodging a small number of males in them, hastens to leave them. In the wide front gallery she can stay where sheis and still be able to turn round easily for her differentmanipulations; she will avoid those two long journeys backwards, whichare so exhausting and so bad for her wings. 

Another reason no doubt prompts her not to make too great a use of thenarrow passage, in which she would establish males, followed by femalesin the part where the gallery widens. The males have to leave theircells a couple of weeks or more before the females. If they occupy theback of the house they will die prisoners or else they will overturneverything on their way out. This risk is avoided by the order whichthe Osmia adopts. 

In my tubes, with their unusual arrangement, the mother might well findthe dilemma perplexing: there is the narrowness of the space at herdisposal and there is the emergence later on. In the narrow tubes, thewidth is insufficient for the females; on the other hand, if she lodgesmales there, they are liable to perish, since they will be preventedfrom issuing at the proper moment. This would perhaps explain themother's hesitation and her obstinacy in settling females in some of myapparatus which looked as if they could suit none but males. 

A suspicion occurs to me, a suspicion aroused by my attentiveexamination of the narrow tubes. All, whatever the number of theirinmates, are carefully plugged at the opening, just as separate tubeswould be. It might therefore be the case that the narrow gallery at theback was looked upon by the Osmia not as the prolongation of the largefront gallery, but as an independent tube. The facility with which theworker turns as soon as she reaches the wide tube, her liberty ofaction, which is now as great as in a doorway communicating with theouter air, might well be misleading and cause the Osmia to treat thenarrow passage at the back as though the wide passage in front did notexist. This would account for the placing of the female in the largetube above the males in the small tube, an arrangement contrary to hercustom. 

I will not undertake to decide whether the mother really appreciatesthe danger of my snares, or whether she makes a mistake in consideringonly the space at her disposal and beginning with males, who are liableto remain imprisoned. At any rate, I perceive a tendency to deviate aslittle as possible from the order which safeguards the emergence ofboth sexes. This tendency is demonstrated by her repugnance tocolonizing my narrow tubes with long series of males. However, so faras we are concerned, it does not matter much what passes at such timesin the Osmia's little brain. Enough for us to know that she dislikesnarrow and long tubes, not because they are narrow, but because theyare at the same time long. 

And, in fact, she does very well with a short tube of the samediameter. Such are the cells in the old nests of the Mason-bee of theShrubs and the empty shells of the Garden Snail. With the short tubethe two disadvantages of the long tube are avoided. She has very littleof that crawling backwards to do when she has a Snail-shell for thehome of her eggs and scarcely any when the home is the cell of theMason-bee. Moreover, as the stack of cocoons numbers two or three atmost, the deliverance will be exempt from the difficulties attached toa long series. To persuade the Osmia to nidify in a single tube longenough to receive the whole of her laying and at the same time narrowenough to leave her only just the possibility of admittance appears tome a project without the slightest chance of success: the Bee wouldstubbornly refuse such a dwelling or would content herself withentrusting only a very small portion of her eggs to it. On the otherhand, with narrow but short cavities, success, without being easy, seems to me at least quite possible. Guided by these considerations, Iembarked upon the most arduous part of my problem: to obtain thecomplete or almost complete permutation of one sex with the other; toproduce a laying consisting only of males by offering the mother aseries of lodgings suited only to males. 

Let us in the first place consult the old nests of the Mason-bee of theShrubs. I have said that these mortar spheroids, pierced all over withlittle cylindrical cavities, are a adopted pretty eagerly by theThree-horned Osmia, who colonizes them before my eyes with females inthe deep cells and males in the shallow cells. That is how things gowhen the old nest remains in its natural state. With a grater, however, I scrape the outside of another nest so as to reduce the depth of thecavities to some ten millimetres. (About two-fifths of aninch. --Translator's Note. ) This leaves in each cell just room for onecocoon, surmounted by the closing stopper. Of the fourteen cavities inthe nests, I leave two intact, measuring fifteen millimetres in depth. (. 585 inch. --Translator's Note. ) Nothing could be more striking thanthe result of this experiment, made in the first year of my homerearing. The twelve cavities whose depth had been reduced all receivedmales; the two cavities left untouched received females. 

A year passes and I repeat the experiment with a nest of fifteen cells;but this time all the cells are reduced to the minimum depth with thegrater. Well, the fifteen cells, from first to last, are occupied bymales. It must be quite understood that, in each case, all theoffspring belonged to one mother, marked with her distinguishing dotand kept in sight as long as her laying lasted. He would indeed bedifficult to please who refused to bow before the results of these twoexperiments. If, however, he is not yet convinced, here is something toremove his last doubts. 

The Three-horned Osmia often settles her family in old shells, especially those of the Common Snail (Helix aspersa), who is so commonunder the stone-heaps and in the crevices of the little unmortaredwalls that support our terraces. In this species the spiral is wideopen, so that the Osmia, penetrating as far down as the helical passagepermits, finds, immediately above the point which is too narrow topass, the space necessary for the cell of a female. This cell issucceeded by others, wider still, always for females, arranged in aline in the same way as in a straight tube. In the last whorl of thespiral, the diameter would be too great for a single row. Thenlongitudinal partitions are added to the transverse partitions, thewhole resulting in cells of unequal dimensions in which malespredominate, mixed with a few females in the lower storeys. Thesequence of the sexes is therefore what it would be in a straight tubeand especially in a tube with a wide bore, where the partitioning iscomplicated by subdivisions on the same level. A single Snail-shellcontains room for six or eight cells. A large, rough earthen stopperfinishes the nest at the entrance to the shell. 

As a dwelling of this sort could show us nothing new, I chose for myswarm the Garden Snail (Helix caespitum), whose shell, shaped like asmall swollen Ammonite, widens by slow degrees, the diameter of theusable portion, right up to the mouth, being hardly greater than thatrequired by a male Osmia-cocoon. Moreover, the widest part, in which afemale might find room, has to receive a thick stopping-plug, belowwhich there will often be a free space. Under all these conditions, thehouse will hardly suit any but males arranged one after the other. 

The collection of shells placed at the foot of each hive includesspecimens of different sizes. The smallest are 18 millimetres (. 7inch. --Translator's Note. ) in diameter and the largest 24 millimetres. (. 936 inch. --Translator's Note. ) There is room for two cocoons, orthree at most, according to their dimensions. 

Now these shells were used by my visitors without any hesitation, perhaps even with more eagerness than the glass tubes, whose slipperysides might easily be a little annoying to the Bee. Some of them wereoccupied on the first few days of the laying; and the Osmia who hadstarted with a home of this sort would pass next to a secondSnail-shell, in the immediate neighbourhood of the first, to a third, afourth and others still, always close together, until her ovaries wereemptied. The whole family of one mother would thus be lodged inSnail-shells which were duly marked with the date of the laying and adescription of the worker. The faithful adherents of the Snail-shellwere in the minority. The greater number left the tubes to come to theshells and then went back from the shells to the tubes. All, afterfilling the spiral staircase with two or three cells, closed the housewith a thick earthen stopper on a level with the opening. It was a longand troublesome task, in which the Osmia displayed all her patience asa mother and all her talents as a plasterer. 

When the pupae are sufficiently matured, I proceed to examine theseelegant abodes. The contents fill me with joy: they fulfil myanticipations to the letter. The great, the very great majority of thecocoons turn out to be males; here and there, in the bigger cells, afew rare females appear. The smallness of the space has almost doneaway with the stronger sex. This result is demonstrated by thesixty-eight Snail-shells colonized. But, of this total number, I mustuse only those series which received an entire laying and were occupiedby the same Osmia from the beginning to the end of the egg-season. Hereare a few examples, taken from among the most conclusive. 

From the 6th of May, when she started operations, to the 25th of May, the date at which her laying ceased, one Osmia occupied sevenSnail-shells in succession. Her family consists of fourteen cocoons, anumber very near the average; and, of these fourteen cocoons, twelvebelong to males and only two to females. 

Another, between the 9th and 27th of May, stocked six Snail-shells witha family of thirteen, including ten males and three females. 

A third, between the 2nd and 29th of May colonized eleven Snail-shells, a prodigious task. This industrious one was also exceedingly prolific. She supplied me with a family of twenty-six, the largest which I haveever obtained from one Osmia. Well, this abnormal progeny consisted oftwenty-five males and one female. 

There is no need to go on, after this magnificent example, especiallyas the other series would all, without exception, give us the sameresult. Two facts are immediately obvious: the Osmia is able to reversethe order of her laying and to start with a more or less long series ofmales before producing any females. There is something better still;and this is the proposition which I was particularly anxious to prove:the female sex can be permuted with the male sex and can be permuted tothe point of disappearing altogether. We see this especially in thethird case, where the presence of a solitary female in a family oftwenty-six is due to the somewhat larger diameter of the correspondingSnail-shell. 

There would still remain the inverse permutation: to obtain onlyfemales and no males, or very few. The first permutation makes thesecond seem very probable, although I cannot as yet conceive a means ofrealizing it. The only condition which I can regulate is the dimensionsof the home. When the rooms are small, the males abound and the femalestend to disappear. With generous quarters, the converse would not takeplace. I should obtain females and afterwards an equal number of males, confined in small cells which, in case of need, would be bounded bynumerous partitions. The factor of space does not enter into thequestion here. What artifice can we then employ to provoke this secondpermutation? So far, I can think of nothing that is worth attempting. 

It is time to conclude. Leading a retired life, in the solitude of avillage, having quite enough to do with patiently and obscurelyploughing my humble furrow, I know little about modern scientificviews. In my young days I had a passionate longing for books and foundit difficult to procure them; to-day, when I could almost have them ifI wanted, I am ceasing to wish for them. It is what usually happens aslife goes on. I do not therefore know what may have been done in thedirection whither this study of the sexes has led me. If I am statingpropositions that are really new or at least more comprehensive thanthe propositions already known, my words will perhaps sound heretical. No matter: as a simple translator of facts, I do not hesitate to makemy statement, being fully persuaded that time will turn my heresy intoorthodoxy. I will therefore recapitulate my conclusions. 

Bees lay their eggs in series of first females and then males, when thetwo sexes are of different sizes and demand an unequal quantity ofnourishment. When the two sexes are alike in size, as in the case ofLatreille's Osmia, the same sequence may occur, but less regularly. 

This dual arrangement disappears when the place chosen for the nest isnot large enough to contain the entire laying. We then see brokenlayings, beginning with females and ending with males. 

The egg, as it issues from the ovary, has not yet a fixed sex. Thefinal impress that produces the sex is given at the moment of laying, or a little before. 

So as to be able to give each larva the amount of space and food thatsuits it according as it is male or female, the mother can choose thesex of the egg which she is about to lay. To meet the conditions of thebuilding, which is often the work of another or else a natural retreatthat admits of little or no alteration, she lays either a male egg or afemale egg AS SHE PLEASES. The distribution of the sexes depends uponherself. Should circumstances require it, the order of the laying canbe reversed and begin with males; lastly, the entire laying can containonly one sex. 

The same privilege is possessed by the predatory Hymenoptera, theWasps, at least by those in whom the two sexes are of a different sizeand consequently require an amount of nourishment that is larger in theone case than in the other. The mother must know the sex of the eggwhich she is going to lay; she must be able to choose the sex of thategg so that each larva may obtain its proper portion of food. 

Generally speaking, when the sexes are of different sizes, every insectthat collects food and prepares or selects a dwelling for its offspringmust be able to choose the sex of the egg in order to satisfy withoutmistake the conditions imposed upon it. 

The question remains how this optional assessment of the sexes iseffected. I know absolutely nothing about it. If I should ever learnanything about this delicate point, I shall owe it to some happy chancefor which I must wait, or rather watch, patiently. 

Then what explanation shall I give of the wonderful facts which I haveset forth? Why, none, absolutely none. I do not explain facts, I relatethem. Growing daily more sceptical of the interpretations suggested tome and more hesitating as to those which I myself may have to suggest, the more I observe and experiment, the more clearly I see rising out ofthe black mists of possibility an enormous note of interrogation. 

Dear insects, my study of you has sustained me and continues to sustainme in my heaviest trials; I must take leave of you for to-day. Theranks are thinning around me and the long hopes have fled. Shall I beable to speak of you again? (This forms the closing paragraph of Volume3 of the "Souvenirs entomologiques, " of which the author lived topublish seven more volumes, containing over 2, 500 pages and nearly850, 000 words. --Translator's Note. )

CHAPTER 13. THE 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 fallen fromthe moon at its full? The Greeks of old called it lampouris, meaning, the bright-tailed. Science employs the same term: it calls it thelantern-bearer, Lampyris noctiluca, Lin. In this case the common nameis inferior to the scientific phrase, which, when translated, becomesboth 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. In theadult state the male is correctly garbed in wing-cases, like the trueBeetle that he is. The female is an ill-favoured thing who knows naughtof the delights of flying: all her life long she retains the larvalshape, which, for the rest, is similar to that of the male, who himselfis imperfect so long as he has not achieved the maturity that comeswith pairing-time. Even in this initial stage the word "worm" is out ofplace. We French have the expression "Naked as a worm" to point to thelack of any defensive covering. Now the Lampyris is clothed, that is tosay, he wears an epidermis of some consistency; moreover, he is ratherrichly coloured: his body is dark brown all over, set off with palepink on the thorax, especially on the lower surface. Finally, eachsegment is decked at the hinder edge with two spots of a fairly brightred. A costume like this was never worn by a worm. 

Let us leave this ill-chosen denomination and ask ourselves what theLampyris feeds upon. That master of the art of gastronomy, Brillat-Savarin, said: "Show me what you eat and I will tell you whatyou are. "

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 so wellknown, what is not known at all yet, to judge by what I have read, isthe curious method of attack, of which I have seen no other instanceanywhere. 

Before he begins to feast, the Glow-worm administers an anaesthetic: 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 other long, drystalks by the road-side 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 paralysed 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 the ground;and, under these conditions, it is easy for me to rear him at home andto follow the operator's performance down to the smallest detail. 

I will try to make the reader a witness of the strange sight. I place alittle grass in a wide glass jar. In this I instal a few Glow-worms anda provision of snails of a suitable size, neither too large nor toosmall, chiefly Helix variabilis. We must be patient and wait. Aboveall, we must keep an assiduous watch, for the desired events comeunexpectedly 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, exceptthe edge of the mantle, which projects slightly. Then the hunter'sweapon is drawn, a very simple weapon, but one that cannot be plainlyperceived without the aid of a lens. It consists of two mandibles bentback powerfully into a hook, very sharp and as thin as a hair. Themicroscope reveals the presence of a slender groove running throughoutthe 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, something more like atickling than a serious pinch. Let us use that word. In conversing withanimals, language loses nothing by remaining juvenile. It is the rightway 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, methods ofthe Lampyris, who, beyond a doubt, instils some poison or other bymeans of his grooved hooks. 

Here is the proof of the sudden efficacy of those twitches, so mild inappearance: I take the Snail from the Lampyris, who has operated on theedge of the mantle some four or five times. I prick him with a fineneedle in the fore-part, which the animal, shrunk into its shell, stillleaves exposed. There is no quiver of the wounded tissues, no reactionagainst the brutality of the needle. A corpse itself could not givefewer signs of life. 

Here is something even more conclusive: chance occasionally gives meSnails attacked by the Lampyris while they are creeping along, the footslowly crawling, the tentacles swollen to their full extent. A fewdisordered movements betray a brief excitement on the part of theMollusc and then everything ceases: the foot no longer slugs; the frontpart loses its graceful swan-neck curve; the tentacles become limp andgive way under their own weight, dangling feebly like a broken stick. This condition persists. 

Is the Snail really dead? Not at all, for I can resuscitate the seemingcorpse at will. After two or three days of that singular conditionwhich is no longer life and yet not death, I isolate the patient and, though this is not really essential 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: anaesthesia. The exploits of ahost of Wasps whose flesh-eating grubs are provided with meat that ismotionless though not dead have taught us the skilful art of theparalysing insect, which numbs the locomotory nerve-centres with itsvenom. We have now a humble little animal that first produces completeanaesthesia in its patient. Human science did not in reality inventthis art, which is one of the wonders of 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 from thishint? What glorious discoveries the future would have in store for us, if we understood the beastie's secrets better!

What does the Lampyris want with anaesthetical 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 witha graceful spiral shell, tightly closed with a stony lid which isattached to the animal by a powerful muscle. The lid is a movable doorwhich is quickly shut by the inmate's mere withdrawal into his houseand as easily opened when the hermit goes forth. With this system ofclosing, 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 theneed of air and food obliges the besieged non-combatant 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 Drilus isnot 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 own Snail-eater, the Algerian insect does not cut its victim into small pieces: itrenders it inert, chloroforms it by means of a few tweaks which areeasily distributed, if the lid but half-opens for a second. That willdo. The besieger thereupon enters and, in perfect quiet, consumes aprey incapable of the least muscular effort. That is how I see thingsby 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 mantle, contracted 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 fit itssupport quite closely, some point, however tiny, be left uncovered, this is enough for the subtle tools of the Lampyris, who just nibblesat the Mollusc and at once plunges him into that profound immobilitywhich 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, for theGlow-worm has no great zeal for hunting-expeditions: he profits by thediscoveries which good luck sends him, without undertaking assiduoussearches. It is essential, therefore, that the equilibrium of a prizeperched on the top of a stalk and only just held in position by a touchof glue should be disturbed as little as possible during the onslaught;it is necessary that the assailant should go to work with infinitecircumspection and without producing pain, lest any muscular reactionshould provoke a fall and endanger the prize. As we see, sudden andprofound anaesthesia is an excellent means of enabling the Lampyris toattain his object, which is to consume his prey in perfect quiet. 

What is his manner of consuming it? Does he really eat, that is to say, 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 prey bya method recalling that of the maggot. Like the flesh-eating grub ofthe Fly, he too is able to digest before consuming; he liquefies hisprey 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 withthe real 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, onlyinsignificant 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 anaesthetic poison andat the same time, no doubt, the serum capable of turning the solidflesh into fluid. Those two tiny implements, which can just be examinedthrough the lens, must, it seems, have some other object. They arehollow, and in this resemble those of the Ant-lion, who sucks anddrains her capture without having to divide it; but there is this greatdifference, that the Ant-lion leaves copious remnants, which areafterwards flung outside the funnel-shaped trap dug in the sand, whereas the Glow-worm, that expert liquifier, leaves nothing, or nextto nothing. With similar tools, the one simply sucks the blood of hisprey and the other turns every morsel of his to account, thanks to apreliminary 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 with a speck of glair. This is a meretemporary halt, in which the Mollusc is miserly with his adhesiveproduct, and the merest shake is enough to loosen the shell and send itto the bottom of the jar. 

Now it is not unusual for the Glow-worm to hoist himself up there, withthe help of a certain climbing-organ that makes up for his weak legs. He selects his quarry, makes a minute inspection of it to find anentrance-slit, nibbles at 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 which thefirst attack was delivered. These small details tell us how promptlythe anaesthetic bite takes effect; they teach us how dexterously theGlow-worm treats his Snail without causing him to fall from a veryslippery, vertical support and without even shaking him on his slightline 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, fleshyappendages, sometimes gathered into a cluster, sometimes spread into arosette. There is your organ of adhesion and locomotion. If he wouldfix himself somewhere, even on a very smooth surface, such as agrass-stalk, the Glow-worm opens his rosette and spreads it wide on thesupport, to which it adheres by its own stickiness. The same organ, rising and falling, opening and closing, does much to assist the act ofprogression. In short, the Glow-worm is a new sort of self-propelledcripple, who decks his hind-quarters with a dainty white rose, a kindof hand with twelve fingers, not jointed, but moving in everydirection: tubular fingers which do not seize, but stick. 

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 is donepoint by point, from one end of the body to the other, with ascrupulous persistency that proves the great interest which he takes inthe operation. What is his object in thus sponging himself, in dustingand polishing himself so carefully? It is a question, apparently, ofremoving a few atoms of dust or else some traces of viscidity thatremain from the evil contact with the Snail. A wash and brush-up is notsuperfluous when one leaves the tub in which the Mollusc has beentreated. 

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 himself likea beacon; he shines, which is an excellent manner of achieving fame. Let us consider more particularly the female, who, while retaining herlarval shape, becomes marriageable and glows at her best during thehottest part of summer. The lighting-apparatus occupies the last threesegments of the abdomen. On each of the first two it takes the form, onthe ventral surface, of a wide belt covering almost the whole of thearch; on the third the luminous part is much less and consists simplyof two small crescent-shaped markings, or rather two spots which shinethrough to the back and are visible both above and below the animal. Belts and spots emit a glorious white light, delicately tinged withblue. The general lighting of the Glow-worm thus comprises two groups:first, the wide belts of the two segments preceding the last; secondly, the two spots of the final segments. The two belts, the exclusiveattribute of the marriageable female, are the parts richest in light:to glorify her wedding, the future mother dons her brightest gauds; shelights her two resplendent scarves. But, before that, from the time ofthe hatching, she had only the modest rush-light of the stern. Thisefflorescence of light is the equivalent of the final metamorphosis, which is usually represented by the gift of wings and flight. Itsbrilliance heralds the pairing-time. Wings and flight there will benone: the female retains her humble larval form, but she kindles herblazing 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 the femaleshine 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 to separatepretty nearly half of one of the shining belts. I place my preparationunder the microscope. On the skin a sort of white-wash lies spread, formed of a very fine, granular substance. This is certainly thelight-producing matter. To examine this white layer more closely isbeyond the power of my weary eyes. Just beside it is a curiousair-tube, whose short and remarkably wide stem branches suddenly into asort of bushy tuft of very delicate ramifications. These creep over theluminous sheet, or even dip into it. That is all. 

The luminescence, therefore, is controlled by the respiratory organsand the work produced is an oxidation. 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 wascalcined 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 no parthere, 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-worm afree control of the light which he emits? Can he turn it on or down orput it out as he pleases? Has he an opaque screen which is drawn overthe flame at will, or is that flame always left exposed? There is noneed for any such mechanism: the insect has something better for itsrevolving light. 

The thick air-tube supplying the light-producing sheet increases theflow of air and the light is intensified; the same 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 mechanism ofa 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 young Glow-worms, measuring about 5 millimetres long (. 195 inch. --Translator's Note. ), Ican plainly see the glimmer on the blades of grass; but, should theleast false step disturb a neighbouring twig, the light goes out atonce and the coveted insect becomes invisible. Upon the full-grownfemales, lit up with their nuptial scarves, even a violent start hasbut a slight effect and often none at all. 

I fire a gun beside a wire-gauze cage in which I am rearing mymenagerie of females in the open air. The explosion produces no result. The illumination continues, as bright and placid as before. I take aspray and rain down a slight shower of cold water upon the flock. Notone of my animals puts out its light; at the very most, there is abrief pause in the radiance; and then only in some cases. I send a puffof smoke from my pipe into the cage. This time the pause is moremarked. There are even some extinctions, but these do not last long. Calm soon returns and the light is renewed as brightly as ever. I takesome of the captives in my fingers, turn and return them, tease them alittle. The illumination continues and is not much diminished, if I donot press hard with my thumb. At this period, with the pairing close athand, the insect is in all the fervour of its passionate splendour, andnothing short of very serious reasons would make it put out its signalsaltogether. 

All things considered, there is not a doubt but that the Glow-wormhimself manages his lighting apparatus, extinguishing and rekindling itat will; but there is one point at which the voluntary agency of theinsect is without effect. I detach a strip of the epidermis showing oneof the luminescent sheets and place it in a glass tube, which I closewith a plug of damp wadding, to avoid an over-rapid evaporation. Well, this scrap of carcass shines away merrily, although not quite asbrilliantly 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 be foundof what I have already propounded, namely, that the Glow-worm's lightis the effect of a slow oxidation. 

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's patience. 

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 each individualspecimen. But not at all: the luminous party is a chaos in which oureyes are unable to distinguish any definite form at a medium distance. The collective lights confuse the light-bearers into one vague 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 were 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, my cagedcaptives make for the tuft of thyme with which I have thoughtfullyfurnished the prison and climb to the top of the upper branches, thosemost in sight. Here, instead of keeping quiet, as they did at the footof the bush just now, they indulge in violent exercises, twist the tipof their very flexible abdomen, turn it to one side, turn it to theother, jerk it in every direction. In this way, the searchlight cannotfail to gleam, at one moment or another, before the eyes of every malewho goes a-wooing in the neighbourhood, whether on the ground or in theair. 

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, themale, 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 a shade, the object of which appears to beto limit the field of vision and concentrate the view upon the luminousspeck to be discerned. Under this arch are the two eyes, which arerelatively enormous, exceedingly convex, shaped like a skull-cap andcontiguous to the extent of leaving only a narrow groove for theinsertion of the antennae. This double eye, occupying almost the wholeface of the insect and contained in the cavern formed by the spreadingpeak of the corselet, is a regular Cyclops' eye. 

At the moment of the pairing the illumination becomes much fainter, isalmost extinguished; all that remains alight is the humble fairy-lampof the last segment. This discreet night-light is enough for thewedding, while, all around, the host of nocturnal insects, lingeringover their respective affairs, murmur the universal marriage-hymn. Thelaying follows very soon. The round, white eggs are laid, or ratherstrewn at random, without the least care on the mother's part, eitheron the more or less cool earth or on a blade of grass. These brilliantones 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 vessel filledwith a phosphorescent fluid. The lens shows me that I am wrong. Theluminosity comes from the cluster of eggs forced out of the ovary. Besides, as laying-time approaches, the phosphorescence of the eggs isalready made manifest through this clumsy midwifery. A soft opalescentlight shines through the integument 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 of thesevere weather they go down into the ground, but not very far. In myrearing-jars, which are supplied with fine and very loose earth, theydescend to a depth of three or four inches at most. I dig up a few inmid-winter. I always find them carrying their faint stern-light. Aboutthe month of April they come up again to the surface, there to continueand 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 lighthouses, 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 14. THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR. 

The cabbage of our modern kitchen-gardens is a semi-artificial plant, the produce of our agricultural ingenuity quite as much as of theniggardly gifts of nature. Spontaneous vegetation supplied us with thelong-stalked, scanty-leaved, ill-smelling wilding, as found, accordingto the botanists, on the ocean cliffs. He had need of a rareinspiration who first showed faith in this rustic clown and proposed toimprove it in his garden-patch. 

Progressing by infinitesimal degrees, culture wrought miracles. Itbegan by persuading the wild cabbage to discard its wretched leaves, beaten by the sea-winds, and to replace them by others, ample andfleshy and close-fitting. The gentle cabbage submitted without protest. It deprived itself of the joys of light by arranging its leaves in alarge compact head, white and tender. In our day, among the successorsof those first tiny hearts, are some that, by virtue of their massivebulk, have earned the glorious name of chou quintal, as who should saya hundredweight of cabbage. They are real monuments of green stuff. 

Later, man thought of obtaining a generous dish with a thousand littlesprays of the inflorescence. The cabbage consented. Under the cover ofthe central leaves, it gorged with food its sheaves of blossom, itsflower-stalks, its branches and worked the lot into a fleshyconglomeration. This is the cauliflower, the broccoli. 

Differently entreated, the plant, economizing in the centre of itsshoot, set a whole family of close-wrapped cabbages ladder-wise on atall stem. A multitude of dwarf leaf-buds took the place of thecolossal head. This is the Brussels sprout. 

Next comes the turn of the stump, an unprofitable, almost wooden, thing, which seemed never to have any other purpose than to act as asupport for the plant. But the tricks of gardeners are capable ofeverything, so much so that the stalk yields to the grower'ssuggestions and becomes fleshy and swells into an ellipse similar tothe turnip, of which it possesses all the merits of corpulence, flavourand delicacy; only the strange product serves as a base for a fewsparse leaves, the last protests of a real stem that refuses to loseits attributes entirely. This is the cole-rape. 

If the stem allows itself to be allured, why not the root? It does, infact, yield to the blandishments of agriculture: it dilates its pivotinto a flat turnip, which half emerges from the ground. This is therutabaga, or swede, the turnip-cabbage of our northern districts. 

Incomparably docile under our nursing, the cabbage has given its allfor our nourishment and that of our cattle: its leaves, its flowers, its buds, its stalk, its root; all that it now wants is to combine theornamental with the useful, to smarten itself, to adorn our flowerbedsand cut a good figure on a drawing-room table. It has done this toperfection, not with its flowers, which, in their modesty, continueintractable, but with its curly and variegated leaves, which have theundulating grace of Ostrich-feathers and the rich colouring of a mixedbouquet. None who beholds it in this magnificence will recognize thenear relation of the vulgar "greens" that form the basis of ourcabbage-soup. 

The cabbage, first in order of date in our kitchen-gardens, was held inhigh esteem by classic antiquity, next after the bean and, later, thepea; but it goes much farther back, so far indeed that no memories ofits acquisition remain. History pays but little attention to thesedetails: it celebrates the battle-fields whereon we meet our death, butscorns to speak of the ploughed fields whereby we thrive; it knows thenames of the kings' bastards, but cannot tell us the origin of wheat. That is the way of human folly. 

This silence respecting the precious plants that serve as food is mostregrettable. The cabbage in particular, the venerable cabbage, thatdenizen of the most ancient garden-plots, would have had extremelyinteresting things to teach us. It is a treasure in itself, but atreasure twice exploited, first by man and next by the caterpillar ofthe Pieris, the common Large White Butterfly whom we all know (Pierisbrassicae, Lin. ). This caterpillar feeds indiscriminately on the leavesof all varieties of cabbage, however dissimilar in appearance: henibbles with the same appetite red cabbage and broccoli, curly greensand savoy, swedes and turnip-tops, in short, all that our ingenuity, lavish of time and patience, has been able to obtain from the originalplant since the most distant ages. 

But what did the caterpillar eat before our cabbages supplied him withcopious provender? Obviously the Pieris did not wait for the advent ofman and his horticultural works in order to take part in the joys oflife. She lived without us and would have continued to live without us. A Butterfly's existence is not subject to ours, but rightfullyindependent of our aid. 

Before the white-heart, the cauliflower, the savoy and the others wereinvented, the Pieris' caterpillar certainly did not lack food: hebrowsed on the wild cabbage of the cliffs, the parent of all thelatter-day wealth; but, as this plant is not widely distributed and is, in any case, limited to certain maritime regions, the welfare of theButterfly, whether on plain or hill, demanded a more luxuriant and morecommon plant for pasturage. This plant was apparently one of theCruciferae, more or less seasoned with sulpheretted essence, like thecabbages. Let us experiment on these lines. 

I rear the Pieris' caterpillars from the egg upwards on the wall-rocket(Diplotaxis tenuifolia, Dec. ), which imbibes strong spices along theedge of the paths and at the foot of the walls. Penned in a largewire-gauze bell-cage, they accept this provender without demur; theynibble it with the same appetite as if it were cabbage; and they end byproducing chrysalids and Butterflies. The change of fare causes not theleast trouble. 

I am equally successful with other crucifers of a less marked flavour:white mustard (Sinapis incana, Lin. ), dyer's woad (Isatis tinctoria, Lin. ), wild radish (Raphanus raphanistrum, Lin. ), whitlow pepperwort(Lepidium draba, Lin. ), hedge-mustard (Sisymbrium officinale, Scop. ). On the other hand, the leaves of the lettuce, the bean, the pea, thecorn-salad are obstinately refused. Let us be content with what we haveseen: the fare has been sufficiently varied to show us that thecabbage-caterpillar feeds exclusively on a large number of crucifers, perhaps even on all. 

As these experiments are made in the enclosure of a bell-cage, onemight imagine that captivity impels the flock to feed, in the absenceof better things, on what it would refuse were it free to hunt foritself. Having naught else within their reach, the starvelings consumeany and all Cruciferae, without distinction of species. Can thingssometimes be the same in the open fields, where I play none of mytricks? Can the family of the White Butterfly be settled on otherCrucifers than the cabbage? I start a quest along the paths near thegardens and end by finding on wild radish and white mustard colonies ascrowded and prosperous as those established on cabbage. 

Now, except when the metamorphosis is at hand, the caterpillar of theWhite Butterfly never travels: he does all his growing on the identicalplant whereon he saw the light. The caterpillars observed on the wildradish, as well as other households, are not, therefore, emigrants whohave come as a matter of fancy from some cabbage-patch in theneighbourhood: they have hatched on the very leaves where I find them. Hence I arrive at this conclusion: the White Butterfly, who is fitfulin her flight, chooses cabbage first, to dab her eggs upon, anddifferent Cruciferae next, varying greatly in appearance. 

How does the Pieris manage to know her way about her botanical domain?We have seen the Larini (A species of Weevils found onthistle-heads. --Translator's Note. ), those explorers of fleshyreceptacles with an artichoke flavour, astonish us with their knowledgeof the flora of the thistle tribe; but their lore might, at a pinch, beexplained by the method followed at the moment of housing the egg. Withtheir rostrum, they prepare niches and dig out basins in the receptacleexploited and consequently they taste the thing a little beforeentrusting their eggs to it. On the other hand, the Butterfly, anectar-drinker, makes not the least enquiry into the savoury qualitiesof the leafage; at most dipping her proboscis into the flowers, sheabstracts a mouthful of syrup. This means of investigation, moreover, would be of no use to her, for the plant selected for the establishingof her family is, for the most part, not yet in flower. The motherflits for a moment around the plant; and that swift examination isenough: the emission of eggs takes place if the provender be foundsuitable. 

The botanist, to recognize a crucifer, requires the indication providedby the flower. Here the Pieris surpasses us. She does not consult theseed-vessel, to see if it be long or short, nor yet the petals, four innumber and arranged in a cross, because the plant, as a rule, is not inflower; and still she recognizes offhand what suits her caterpillars, in spite of profound differences that would embarrass any but abotanical expert. 

Unless the Pieris has an innate power of discrimination to guide her, it is impossible to understand the great extent of her vegetable realm. She needs for her family Cruciferae, nothing but Cruciferae; and sheknows this group of plants to perfection. I have been an enthusiasticbotanist for half a century and more. Nevertheless, to discover if thisor that plant, new to me, is or is not one of the Cruciferae, in theabsence of flowers and fruits I should have more faith in theButterfly's statements than in all the learned records of the books. Where science is apt to make mistakes instinct is infallible. 

The Pieris has two families a year: one in April and May, the other inSeptember. The cabbage-patches are renewed in those same months. TheButterfly's calendar tallies with the gardener's: the moment thatprovisions are in sight, consumers are forthcoming for the feast. 

The eggs are a bright orange-yellow and do not lack prettiness whenexamined under the lens. They are blunted cones, ranged side by side ontheir round base and adorned with finely-scored longitudinal ridges. They are collected in slabs, sometimes on the upper surface, when theleaf that serves as a support is spread wide, sometimes on the lowersurface when the leaf is pressed to the next ones. Their number variesconsiderably. Slabs of a couple of hundred are pretty frequent;isolated eggs, or eggs collected in small groups, are, on the contrary, rare. The mother's output is affected by the degree of quietness at themoment of laying. 

The outer circumference of the group is irregularly formed, but theinside presents a certain order. The eggs are here arranged in straightrows backing against one another in such a way that each egg finds adouble support in the preceding row. This alternation, without being ofan irreproachable precision, gives a fairly stable equilibrium to thewhole. 

To see the mother at her laying is no easy matter: when examined tooclosely, the Pieris decamps at once. The structure of the work, however, reveals the order of the operations pretty clearly. Theovipositor swings slowly first in this direction, then in that, byturns; and a new egg is lodged in each space between two adjoining eggsin the previous row. The extent of the oscillation determines thelength of the row, which is longer or shorter according to the layer'sfancy. 

The hatching takes place in about a week. It is almost simultaneous forthe whole mass: as soon as one caterpillar comes out of its egg, theothers come out also, as though the natal impulse were communicatedfrom one to the other. In the same way, in the nest of the PrayingMantis, a warning seems to be spread abroad, arousing every one of thepopulation. It is a wave propagated in all directions from the pointfirst struck. 

The egg does not open by means of a dehiscence similar to that of thevegetable-pods whose seeds have attained maturity; it is the new-borngrub itself that contrives an exit-way by gnawing a hole in itsenclosure. In this manner, it obtains near the top of the cone asymmetrical dormer-window, clean-edged, with no joins nor unevenness ofany kind, showing that this part of the wall has been nibbled away andswallowed. But for this breach, which is just wide enough for thedeliverance, the egg remains intact, standing firmly on its base. It isnow that the lens is best able to take in its elegant structure. Whatit sees is a bag made of ultra-fine gold-beater's skin, translucent, stiff and white, retaining the complete form of the original egg. Ascore of streaked and knotted lines run from the top to the base. It isthe wizard's pointed cap, the mitre with the grooves carved intojewelled chaplets. All said, the Cabbage-caterpillar's birth-casket isan exquisite work of art. 

The hatching of the lot is finished in a couple of hours and theswarming family musters on the layer of swaddling-clothes, still in thesame position. For a long time, before descending to the fosteringleaf, it lingers on this kind of hot-bed, is even very busy there. Busywith what? It is browsing a strange kind of grass, the handsome mitresthat remain standing on end. Slowly and methodically, from top to base, the new-born grubs nibble the wallets whence they have just emerged. Byto-morrow, nothing is left of these but a pattern of round dots, thebases of the vanished sacks. 

As his first mouthfuls, therefore, the Cabbage-caterpillar eats themembranous wrapper of his egg. This is a regulation diet, for I havenever seen one of the little grubs allow itself to be tempted by theadjacent green stuff before finishing the ritual repast whereat skinbottles furnish forth the feast. It is the first time that I have seena larva make a meal of the sack in which it was born. Of what use canthis singular fare be to the budding caterpillar? I suspect as follows:the leaves of the cabbage are waxed and slippery surfaces and nearlyalways slant considerably. To graze on them without risking a fall, which would be fatal in earliest childhood, is hardly possible unlesswith moorings that afford a steady support. What is needed is bits ofsilk stretched along the road as fast as progress is made, somethingfor the legs to grip, something to provide a good anchorage even whenthe grub is upside down. The silk-tubes, where those moorings aremanufactured, must be very scantily supplied in a tiny, new-bornanimal; and it is expedient that they be filled without delay with theaid of a special form of nourishment. Then what shall the nature of thefirst food be? Vegetable matter, slow to elaborate and niggardly in itsyield, does not fulfil the desired conditions at all well, for timepresses and we must trust ourselves safely to the slippery leaf. Ananimal diet would be preferable: it is easier to digest and undergoeschemical changes in a shorter time. The wrapper of the egg is of ahorny nature, as silk itself is. It will not take long to transform theone into the other. The grub therefore tackles the remains of its eggand turns it into silk to carry with it on its first journeys. 

If my surmise is well-founded, there is reason to believe that, with aview to speedily filling the silk-glands to which they look to supplythem with ropes, other caterpillars beginning their existence on smoothand steeply-slanting leaves also take as their first mouthful themembranous sack which is all that remains of the egg. 

The whole of the platform of birth-sacks which was the firstcamping-ground of the White Butterfly's family is razed to the ground;naught remains but the round marks of the individual pieces thatcomposed it. The structure of piles has disappeared; the prints left bythe piles remain. The little caterpillars are now on the level of theleaf which shall henceforth feed them. They are a pale orange-yellow, with a sprinkling of white bristles. The head is a shiny black andremarkably powerful; it already gives signs of the coming gluttony. Thelittle animal measures scarcely two millimetres in length. (. 078inch. --Translator's Note. )

The troop begins its steadying-work as soon as it comes into contactwith its pasturage, the green cabbage-leaf. Here, there, in itsimmediate neighbourhood, each grub emits from its spinning glands shortcables so slender that it takes an attentive lens to catch a glimpse ofthem. This is enough to ensure the equilibrium of the almostimponderable atom. 

The vegetarian meal now begins. The grub's length promptly increasesfrom two millimetres to four. Soon, a moult takes place which altersits costume: its skin becomes speckled, on a pale-yellow ground, with anumber of black dots intermingled with white bristles. Three or fourdays of rest are necessary after the fatigue of breaking cover. Whenthis is over, the hunger-fit starts that will make a ruin of thecabbage within a few weeks. 

What an appetite! What a stomach, working continuously day and night!It is a devouring laboratory, through which the foodstuffs merely pass, transformed at once. I serve up to my caged herd a bunch of leavespicked from among the biggest: two hours later, nothing remains but thethick midribs; and even these are attacked when there is any delay inrenewing the victuals. At this rate a "hundredweight-cabbage, " doledout leaf by leaf, would not last my menagerie a week. 

The gluttonous animal, therefore, when it swarms and multiplies, is ascourge. How are we to protect our gardens against it? In the days ofPliny, the great Latin naturalist, a stake was set up in the middle ofthe cabbage-bed to be preserved; and on this stake was fixed a Horse'sskull bleached in the sun: a Mare's skull was considered even better. This sort of bogey was supposed to ward off the devouring brood. 

My confidence in this preservative is but an indifferent one; my reasonfor mentioning it is that it reminds me of a custom still observed inour own days, at least in my part of the country. Nothing is solong-lived as absurdity. Tradition has retained in a simplified form, the ancient defensive apparatus of which Pliny speaks. For the Horse'sskull our people have substituted an egg-shell on the top of a switchstuck among the cabbages. It is easier to arrange; also it is quite asuseful, that is to say, it has no effect whatever. 

Everything, even the nonsensical, is capable of explanation with alittle credulity. When I question the peasants, our neighbours, theytell me that the effect of the egg-shell is as simple as can be: theButterflies, attracted by the whiteness, come and lay their eggs uponit. Broiled by the sun and lacking all nourishment on that thanklesssupport, the little caterpillars die; and that makes so many fewer. 

I insist; I ask them if they have ever seen slabs of eggs or masses ofyoung caterpillars on those white shells. 

"Never, " they reply, with one voice. 

"Well, then?"

"It was done in the old days and so we go on doing it: that's all weknow; and that's enough for us. "

I leave it at that, persuaded that the memory of the Horse's skull, used once upon a time, is ineradicable, like all the rustic absurditiesimplanted by the ages. 

We have, when all is said, but one means of protection, which is towatch and inspect the cabbage-leaves assiduously and crush the slabs ofeggs between our finger and thumb and the caterpillars with our feet. Nothing is so effective as this method, which makes great demands onone's time and vigilance. What pains to obtain an unspoilt cabbage! Andwhat a debt do we not owe to those humble scrapers of the soil, thoseragged heroes, who provide us with the wherewithal to live!

To eat and digest, to accumulate reserves whence the Butterfly willissue: that is the caterpillar's one and only business. TheCabbage-caterpillar performs it with insatiable gluttony. Incessantlyit browses, incessantly digests: the supreme felicity of an animalwhich is little more than an intestine. There is never a distraction, unless it be certain see-saw movements which are particularly curiouswhen several caterpillars are grazing side by side, abreast. Then, atintervals, all the heads in the row are briskly lifted and as brisklylowered, time after time, with an automatic precision worthy of aPrussian drill-ground. Can it be their method of intimidating an alwayspossible aggressor? Can it be a manifestation of gaiety, when thewanton sun warms their full paunches? Whether sign of fear or sign ofbliss, this is the only exercise that the gluttons allow themselvesuntil the proper degree of plumpness is attained. 

After a month's grazing, the voracious appetite of my caged herd isassuaged. The caterpillars climb the trelliswork in every direction, walk about anyhow, with their forepart raised and searching space. Hereand there, as they pass, the swaying herd put forth a thread. Theywander restlessly, anxiously to travel afar. The exodus now preventedby the trellised enclosure I once saw under excellent conditions. Atthe advent of the cold weather, I had placed a few cabbage-stalks, covered with caterpillars, in a small greenhouse. Those who saw thecommon kitchen vegetable sumptuously lodged under glass, in the companyof the pelargonium and the Chinese primrose, were astonished at mycurious fancy. I let them smile. I had my plans: I wanted to find outhow the family of the Large White Butterfly behaves when the coldweather sets in. Things happened just as I wished. At the end ofNovember, the caterpillars, having grown to the desired extent, leftthe cabbages, one by one, and began to roam about the walls. None ofthem fixed himself there or made preparations for the transformation. Isuspected that they wanted the choice of a spot in the open air, exposed to all the rigours of winter. I therefore left the door of thehothouse open. Soon the whole crowd had disappeared. 

I found them dispersed all over the neighbouring walls, some thirtyyards off. The thrust of a ledge, the eaves formed by a projecting bitof mortar served them as a shelter where the chrysalid moult took placeand where the winter was passed. The Cabbage-caterpillar possesses arobust constitution, unsusceptible to torrid heat or icy cold. All thathe needs for his metamorphosis is an airy lodging, free from permanentdamp. 

The inmates of my fold, therefore, move about for a few days on thetrelliswork, anxious to travel afar in search of a wall. Finding noneand realizing that time presses, they resign themselves. Each one, supporting himself on the trellis, first weaves around himself a thincarpet of white silk, which will form the sustaining layer at the timeof the laborious and delicate work of the nymphosis. He fixes hisrear-end to this base by a silk pad and his fore-part by a strap thatpasses under his shoulders and is fixed on either side to the carpet. Thus slung from his three fastenings, he strips himself of his larvalapparel and turns into a chrysalis in the open air, with no protectionsave that of the wall, which the caterpillar would certainly have foundhad I not interfered. 

Of a surety, he would be short-sighted indeed that pictured a world ofgood things prepared exclusively for our advantage. The earth, thegreat foster-mother, has a generous breast. At the very moment whennourishing matter is created, even though it be with our own zealousaid, she summons to the feast host upon host of consumers, who are allthe more numerous and enterprising in proportion as the table is moreamply spread. The cherry of our orchards is excellent eating: a maggotcontends with us for its possession. In vain do we weigh suns andplanets: our supremacy, which fathoms the universe, cannot prevent awretched worm from levying its toll on the delicious fruit. We makeourselves at home in a cabbage bed: the sons of the Pieris makethemselves at home there too. Preferring broccoli to wild radish, theyprofit where we have profited; and we have no remedy against theircompetition save caterpillar-raids and egg-crushing, a thankless, tedious, and none too efficacious work. 

Every creature has its claims on life. The Cabbage-caterpillar eagerlyputs forth his own, so much so that the cultivation of the preciousplant would be endangered if others concerned did not take part in itsdefence. These others are the auxiliaries (The author employs this wordto denote the insects that are helpful, while describing as "ravagers"the insects that are hurtful to the farmer's crops. --Translator'sNote. ), our helpers from necessity and not from sympathy. The wordsfriend and foe, auxiliaries and ravagers are here the mere conventionsof a language not always adapted to render the exact truth. He is ourfoe who eats or attacks our crops; our friend is he who feeds upon ourfoes. Everything is reduced to a frenzied contest of appetites. 

In the name of the might that is mine, of trickery, of highway robbery, clear out of that, you, and make room for me: give me your seat at thebanquet! That is the inexorable law in the world of animals and more orless, alas, in our own world as well!

Now, among our entomological auxiliaries, the smallest in size are thebest at their work. One of them is charged with watching over thecabbages. She is so small, she works so discreetly that the gardenerdoes not know her, has not even heard of her. Were he to see her byaccident, flitting around the plant which she protects, he would takeno notice of her, would not suspect the service rendered. I propose toset forth the tiny midget's deserts. 

Scientists call her Microgaster glomeratus. What exactly was in themind of the author of the name Microgaster, which means little belly?Did he intend to allude to the insignificance of the abdomen? Not so. However slight the belly may be, the insect nevertheless possesses one, correctly proportioned to the rest of the body, so that the classicdenomination, far from giving us any information, might mislead us, were we to trust it wholly. Nomenclature, which changes from day to dayand becomes more and more cacophonous, is an unsafe guide. Instead ofasking the animal what its name is, let us begin by asking:

"What can you do? What is your business?"

Well, the Microgaster's business is to exploit the Cabbage-caterpillar, a clearly-defined business, admitting of no possible confusion. Wouldwe behold her works? In the spring, let us inspect the neighbourhood ofthe kitchen-garden. Be our eye never so unobservant, we shall noticeagainst the walls or on the withered grasses at the foot of the hedgessome very small yellow cocoons, heaped into masses the size of ahazel-nut. 

Beside each group lies a Cabbage-caterpillar, sometimes dying, sometimes dead, and always presenting a most tattered appearance. Thesecocoons are the work of the Microgaster's family, hatched or on thepoint of hatching into the perfect stage; the caterpillar is the dishwhereon that family has fed during its larval state. The epithetglomeratus, which accompanies the name of Microgaster, suggests thisconglomeration of cocoons. Let us collect the clusters as they are, without seeking to separate them, an operation which would demand bothpatience and dexterity, for the cocoons are closely united by theinextricable tangle of their surface-threads. In May a swarm of pigmieswill sally forth, ready to get to business in the cabbages. 

Colloquial language uses the terms Midge and Gnat to describe the tinyinsects which we often see dancing in a ray of sunlight. There issomething of everything in those aerial ballets. It is possible thatthe persecutrix of the Cabbage-caterpillar is there, along with manyanother; but the name of Midge cannot properly be applied to her. Hewho says Midge says Fly, Dipteron, two-winged insect; and our friendhas four wings, one and all adapted for flying. By virtue of thischaracteristic and others no less important, she belongs to the orderof Hymenoptera. (This order includes the Ichneumon-flies, of whom theMicrogaster is one. --Translator's Note. ) No matter: as our languagepossesses no more precise term outside the scientific vocabulary, letus use the expression Midge, which pretty well conveys the generalidea. Our Midge, the Microgaster, is the size of an average Gnat. Shemeasures 3 or 4 millimetres. (. 117 to . 156 inch. --Translator's Note. )The two sexes are equally numerous and wear the same costume, a blackuniform, all but the legs, which are pale red. In spite of thislikeness, they are easily distinguished. The male has an abdomen whichis slightly flattened and, moreover, curved at the tip; the female, before the laying, has hers full and perceptibly distended by itsovular contents. This rapid sketch of the insect should be enough forour purpose. 

If we wish to know the grub and especially to inform ourselves of itsmanner of living, it is advisable to rear in a cage a numerous herd ofCabbage-caterpillars. Whereas a direct search on the cabbages in ourgarden would give us but a difficult and uncertain harvest, by thismeans we shall daily have as many as we wish before our eyes. 

In the course of June, which is the time when the caterpillars quittheir pastures and go far afield to settle on some wall or other, thosein my fold, finding nothing better, climb to the dome of the cage tomake their preparations and to spin a supporting network for thechrysalid's needs. Among these spinners we see some weaklings workinglistlessly at their carpet. Their appearance makes us deem them in thegrip of a mortal disease. I take a few of them and open their bellies, using a needle by way of a scalpel. What comes out is a bunch of greenentrails, soaked in a bright yellow fluid, which is really thecreature's blood. These tangled intestines swarm with little lazygrubs, varying greatly in number, from ten or twenty at least tosometimes half a hundred. They are the offspring of the Microgaster. 

What do they feed on? The lens makes conscientious enquiries; nowheredoes it manage to show me the vermin attacking solid nourishment, fattytissues, muscles or other parts; nowhere do I see them bite, gnaw, ordissect. The following experiment will tell us more fully: I pour intoa watch-glass the crowds extracted from the hospitable paunches. Iflood them with caterpillar's blood obtained by simple pricks; I placethe preparation under a glass bell-jar, in a moist atmosphere, toprevent evaporation; I repeat the nourishing bath by means of freshbleedings and give them the stimulant which they would have gained fromthe living caterpillar. Thanks to these precautions, my charges haveall the appearance of excellent health; they drink and thrive. But thisstate of things cannot last long. Soon ripe for the transformation, mygrubs leave the dining-room of the watch-glass as they would have leftthe caterpillar's belly; they come to the ground to try and weave theirtiny cocoons. They fail in the attempt and perish. They have missed asuitable support, that is to say, the silky carpet provided by thedying caterpillar. No matter: I have seen enough to convince me. Thelarvae of the Microgaster do not eat in the strict sense of the word;they live on soup; and that soup is the caterpillar's blood. 

Examine the parasites closely and you shall see that their diet isbound to be a liquid one. They are little white grubs, neatlysegmented, with a pointed forepart splashed with tiny black marks, asthough the atom had been slaking its thirst in a drop of ink. It movesits hind-quarters slowly, without shifting its position. I place itunder the microscope. The mouth is a pore, devoid of any apparatus fordisintegration-work: it has no fangs, no horny nippers, no mandibles;its attack is just a kiss. It does not chew, it sucks, it takesdiscreet sips at the moisture all around it. 

The fact that it refrains entirely from biting is confirmed by myautopsy of the stricken caterpillars. In the patient's belly, notwithstanding the number of nurselings who hardly leave room for thenurse's entrails, everything is in perfect order; nowhere do we see atrace of mutilation. Nor does aught on the outside betray any havocwithin. The exploited caterpillars graze and move about peacefully, giving no sign of pain. It is impossible for me to distinguish themfrom the unscathed ones in respect of appetite and untroubleddigestion. 

When the time approaches to weave the carpet for the support of thechrysalis, an appearance of emaciation at last points to the evil thatis at their vitals. They spin nevertheless. They are stoics who do notforget their duty in the hour of death. At last they expire, quitesoftly, not of any wounds, but of anaemia, even as a lamp goes out whenthe oil comes to an end. And it has to be. The living caterpillar, capable of feeding himself and forming blood, is a necessity for thewelfare of the grubs; he has to last about a month, until theMicrogaster's offspring have achieved their full growth. The twocalendars synchronize in a remarkable way. When the caterpillar leavesoff eating and makes his preparations for the metamorphosis, theparasites are ripe for the exodus. The bottle dries up when thedrinkers cease to need it; but until that moment it must remain more orless well-filled, although becoming limper daily. It is important, therefore, that the caterpillar's existence be not endangered by woundswhich, even though very tiny, would stop the working of theblood-fountains. With this intent, the drainers of the bottle are, in amanner of speaking, muzzled; they have by way of a mouth a pore thatsucks without bruising. 

The dying caterpillar continues to lay the silk of his carpet with aslow oscillation of the head. The moment now comes for the parasites toemerge. This happens in June and generally at nightfall. A breach ismade on the ventral surface or else in the sides, never on the back:one breach only, contrived at a point of minor resistance, at thejunction of two segments; for it is bound to be a toilsome business, inthe absence of a set of filing-tools. Perhaps the grubs take oneanother's places at the point attacked and come by turns to work at itwith a kiss. 

In one short spell, the whole tribe issues through this single openingand is soon wriggling about, perched on the surface of the caterpillar. The lens cannot perceive the hole, which closes on the instant. Thereis not even a haemorrhage: the bottle has been drained too thoroughly. You must press it between your fingers to squeeze out a few drops ofmoisture and thus discover the place of exit. 

Around the caterpillar, who is not always quite dead and who sometimeseven goes on weaving his carpet a moment longer, the vermin at oncebegin to work at their cocoons. The straw-coloured thread, drawn fromthe silk-glands by a backward jerk of the head, is first fixed to thewhite network of the caterpillar and then produces adjacent warp-beams, so that, by mutual entanglements, the individual works are weldedtogether and form an agglomeration in which each of the grubs has itsown cabin. For the moment, what is woven is not the real cocoon, but ageneral scaffolding which will facilitate the construction of theseparate shells. All these frames rest upon those adjoining and, mixingup their threads, become a common edifice wherein each grub contrives ashelter for itself. Here at last the real cocoon is spun, a prettylittle piece of closely-woven work. 

In my rearing-jars I obtain as many groups of these tiny shells as myfuture experiments can wish for. Three-fourths of the caterpillars havesupplied me with them, so ruthless has been the toll of the springbirths. I lodge these groups, one by one, in separate glass tubes, thusforming a collection on which I can draw at will, while, in view of myexperiments, I keep under observation the whole swarm produced by onecaterpillar. 

The adult Microgaster appears a fortnight later, in the middle of June. There are fifty in the first tube examined. The riotous multitude is inthe full enjoyment of the pairing-season, for the two sexes alwaysfigure among the guests of any one caterpillar. What animation! What anorgy of love! The carnival of these pigmies bewilders the observer andmakes his head swim. 

Most of the females, wishful of liberty, plunge down to the waistbetween the glass of the tube and the plug of cotton-wool that closesthe end turned to the light; but the lower halves remain free and forma circular gallery in front of which the males hustle one another, takeone another's places and hastily operate. Each bides his turn, eachattends to his little matters for a few moments and then makes way forhis rivals and goes off to start again elsewhere. The turbulent weddinglasts all the morning and begins afresh next day, a mighty throng ofcouples embracing, separating and embracing once more. 

There is every reason to believe that, in gardens, the mated ones, finding themselves in isolated couples, would keep quieter. Here, inthe tube, things degenerate into a riot because the assembly is toonumerous for the narrow space. 

What is lacking to complete its happiness? Apparently a little food, afew sugary mouthfuls extracted from the flowers. I serve up someprovisions in the tubes: not drops of honey, in which the punycreatures would get stuck, but little strips of paper spread with thatdainty. They come to them, take their stand on them and refreshthemselves. The fare appears to agree with them. With this diet, renewed as the strips dry up, I can keep them in very good conditionuntil the end of my inquisition. 

There is another arrangement to be made. The colonists in my sparetubes are restless and quick of flight; they will have to betransferred presently to sundry vessels without my risking the loss ofa good number, or even the whole lot, a loss which my hands, my forcepsand other means of coercion would be unable to prevent by checking thenimble movements of the tiny prisoners. The irresistible attraction ofthe sunlight comes to my aid. If I lay one of my tubes horizontally onthe table, turning one end towards the full light of a sunny window, the captives at once make for the brighter end and play about there fora long while, without seeking to retreat. If I turn the tube in theopposite direction, the crowd immediately shifts its quarters andcollects at the other end. The brilliant sunlight is its great joy. With this bait, I can send it whithersoever I please. 

We will therefore place the new receptacle, jar or test-tube, on thetable, pointing the closed end towards the window. At its mouth, weopen one of the full tubes. No other precaution is needed: even thoughthe mouth leaves a large interval free, the swarm hastens into thelighted chamber. All that remains to be done is to close the apparatusbefore moving it. The observer is now in control of the multitude, without appreciable losses, and is able to question it at will. 

We will begin by asking:

"How do you manage to lodge your germs inside the caterpillar?"

This question and others of the same category, which ought to takeprecedence of everything else, are generally neglected by the impalerof insects, who cares more for the niceties of nomenclature than forglorious realities. He classifies his subjects, dividing them intoregiments with barbarous labels, a work which seems to him the highestexpression of entomological science. Names, nothing but names: the resthardly counts. The persecutor of the Pieris used to be calledMicrogaster, that is to say, little belly: to-day she is calledApanteles, that is to say, the incomplete. What a fine step forward! Wenow know all about it!

Can our friend at least tell us how "the Little Belly" or "theIncomplete" gets into the caterpillar? Not a bit of it! A book which, judging by its recent date, should be the faithful echo of our actualknowledge, informs us that the Microgaster inserts her eggs direct intothe caterpillar's body. It goes on to say that the parasitic vermininhabit the chrysalis, whence they make their way out by perforatingthe stout horny wrapper. Hundreds of times have I witnessed the exodusof the grubs ripe for weaving their cocoons; and the exit has alwaysbeen made through the skin of the caterpillar and never through thearmour of the chrysalis. The fact that its mouth is a mere clingingpore, deprived of any offensive weapon, would even lead me to believethat the grub is incapable of perforating the chrysalid's covering. 

This proved error makes me doubt the other proposition, though logical, after all, and agreeing with the methods followed by a host ofparasites. No matter: my faith in what I read in print is of theslightest; I prefer to go straight to facts. Before making a statementof any kind, I want to see, what I call seeing. It is a slower and morelaborious process; but it is certainly much safer. 

I will not undertake to lie in wait for what takes place on thecabbages in the garden: that method is too uncertain and besides doesnot lend itself to precise observation. As I have in hand the necessarymaterials, to wit, my collection of tubes swarming with the parasitesnewly hatched into the adult form, I will operate on the little tablein my animals' laboratory. A jar with a capacity of about a litre(About 1 3/4 pints, or . 22 gallon. --Translator's Note. ) is placed onthe table, with the bottom turned towards the window in the sun. I putinto it a cabbage-leaf covered with caterpillars, sometimes fullydeveloped, sometimes half-way, sometimes just out of the egg. A stripof honeyed paper will serve the Microgaster as a dining room, if theexperiment is destined to take some time. Lastly, by the method oftransfer which I described above, I send the inmates of one of my tubesinto the apparatus. Once the jar is closed, there is nothing left to dobut to let things take their course and to keep an assiduous watch, fordays and weeks, if need be. Nothing worth remarking can escape me. 

The caterpillars graze placidly, heedless of their terrible attendants. If some giddy-pates in the turbulent swarm pass over the caterpillars'spines, these draw up their fore-part with a jerk and as suddenly lowerit again; and that is all: the intruders forthwith decamp. Nor do thelatter seem to contemplate any harm: they refresh themselves on thehoney-smeared strip, they come and go tumultuously. Their short flightsmay land them, now in one place, now in another, on the browsing herd, but they pay no attention to it. What we see is casual meetings, notdeliberate encounters. 

In vain I change the flock of caterpillars and vary their age; in vainI change the squad of parasites; in vain I follow events in the jar forlong hours, morning and evening, both in a dim light and in the fullglare of the sun: I succeed in seeing nothing, absolutely nothing, onthe parasite's side, that resembles an attack. No matter what theill-informed authors say--ill-informed because they had not thepatience to see for themselves--the conclusion at which I arrive ispositive: to inject the germs, the Microgaster never attacks thecaterpillars. 

The invasion, therefore, is necessarily effected through theButterfly's eggs themselves, as experiment will prove. My broad jarwould tell against the inspection of the troop, kept at too great adistance by the glass enclosure, and I therefore select a tube an inchwide. I place in this a shred of cabbage-leaf, bearing a slab of eggs, as laid by the Butterfly. I next introduce the inmates of one of myspare vessels. A strip of paper smeared with honey accompanies the newarrivals. 

This happens early in July. Soon, the females are there, fussing about, sometimes to the extent of blackening the whole slab of yellow eggs. They inspect the treasure, flutter their wings and brush theirhind-legs against each other, a sign of keen satisfaction. They soundthe heap, probe the interstices with their antennae and tap theindividual eggs with their palpi; then, this one here, that one there, they quickly apply the tip of their abdomen to the egg selected. Eachtime, we see a slender, horny prickle darting from the ventral surface, close to the end. This is the instrument that deposits the germ underthe film of the egg; it is the inoculation-needle. The operation isperformed calmly and methodically, even when several mothers areworking at one and the same time. Where one has been, a second goes, followed by a third, a fourth and others yet, nor am I able definitelyto see the end of the visits paid to the same egg. Each time, theneedle enters and inserts a germ. 

It is impossible, in such a crowd, for the eye to follow the successivemothers who hasten to lay in each; but there is one quite practicablemethod by which we can estimate the number of germs introduced into asingle egg, which is, later, to open the ravaged caterpillars and countthe grubs which they contain. A less repugnant means is to number thelittle cocoons heaped up around each dead caterpillar. The total willtell us how many germs were injected, some by the same mother returningseveral times to the egg already treated, others by different mothers. Well, the number of these cocoons varies greatly. Generally, itfluctuates in the neighbourhood of twenty, but I have come across asmany as sixty-five; and nothing tells me that this is the extremelimit. What hideous industry for the extermination of a Butterfly'sprogeny!

I am fortunate at this moment in having a highly-cultured visitor, versed in the profundities of philosophic thought. I make way for himbefore the apparatus wherein the Microgaster is at work. For an hourand more, standing lens in hand, he, in his turn, looks and sees what Ihave just seen; he watches the layers who go from one egg to the other, make their choice, draw their slender lancet and prick what the streamof passers-by, one after the other, have already pricked. Thoughtfuland a little uneasy, he puts down his lens at last. Never had he beenvouchsafed so clear a glimpse as here, in my finger-wide tube, of themasterly brigandage that runs through all life down to that of the verysmallest. 

INDEX. 

Ammophila. 

Andrena. 

Anoxia. 

Ant-lion. 

Anthidium. 

Anthophora personata. 

Anthrax. 

Apanteles, see Microgaster glomeratus. 

Arundo donax, the great reed. 

Audubon, on trapping Turkeys. 

Bats. 

Bell-ringing Toad. 

Bembex. 

Bird-catchers. 

Blackbirds, Corsican. 

Bluebottle. The laying of the eggs. Hatching. A test. Paper a protection against. The grubs. Sand a protection against. 

Bower-bird. 

Brussels Sprouts, ancestry of. 

Buprestis. 

Burying-beetles: method of burial. Appearance of the insect. Manipulation of the corpse. Cooperation of individuals. Larvae of. Attacked by vermin. The dismal end of. Experiments. Test conditions imposed. Conditions of burial. Nets of cordage cut through. Ligatures severed. Limitations of instinct. 

Cabbage, ancestry of. Offspring. 

Cabbage Butterfly, her selection of suitable Cruciferae. Eggs of. Hatching of the eggs. 

Cabbage-caterpillar. Eats egg-cases on emergence. Employment of silk by. Growth and moults. Its voracity. An old charm against. The only true charm. Movements of the caterpillar. Its chrysalis. Its deadly enemy. 

Calliphora vomitaria, see Bluebottle. 

Capricorn Beetle. The grub. Its cell. The barricade. The pupa. Metamorphosis and emergence. 

Cauliflower. 

Centauries. 

Cerambyx miles. 

Cerceris. 

Cetonia, or Rose-chafer. 

Chalicodoma. 

Chat, Black-eared. 

Cicada. The grasshopper's victim. 

Cicadella. 

Clairville on the Burying-beetle. 

Clothes-moth. 

Cockchafers. 

Cole-rape. 

Cordillac, philosophy of. 

Couch-grass. 

Cricket, Italian. Common Black. 

Cruciferae, the diet of Pieris brassicae. 

Dasypoda. 

Dermestes. 

Digger-wasps. 

Dragon-fly. 

Drilus maroccanus. 

Dung-beetles. 

Empusa. Larva of. Fore-limbs. Strange head-dress. Food of. How killed. Metamorphosis of. Curious position assumed in captivity. Pacific nature of. 

Epeira, Angular, telegraph wire of. 

Epeira fasciator. Appearance of. Its web. Nature of the thread. Her station on the web. Fatty unguent of. Nature of the adhesive glue. Hunting methods. Treatment of prey. Bite of. The alarm. The telegraph wire. 

Epeira, Silky. 

Ephippigera. 

Eucera. 

Eumenes. Cells of different species. Nest of E. Pomiformis. Prey found in nest of E. Amedei. Sex of eggs known to insect. Prey in nest of E. Pomiformis. Experiments on larvae. Position of the egg. Suspension of the larvae. The protective sheath. 

Flesh-fly, Grey. Viviparous. Maggots of. A test. Her attacks on meat-safes. Baffled by sand. 

Fly. 

Frog, burial of a. 

Froghopper. 

Geotrupes. 

Gledditsch on Burying-beetles. 

Glow-worm. Diet of Snails. Anaesthetises its prey. Digestive juice secreted by. Adhesive climbing appendage of. Luminous apparatus of. Regulation of light. Light displayed by females. Eyes of the male. Pairing. Eggs. Luminosity of eggs. Of larvae. 

Grasshopper, Green. The note of the. Stridulating apparatus. Habitat. Food. Mating habits. Eggs. Seminal capsule. 

Greenfinch. 

Halictus. 

Harmas. Description of. 

Harmonica. 

Horn-beetle. 

Hornet. 

Hunting-wasp. 

Laboratory, the outdoor. 

Lacordaire on the Burying-beetle. 

Lamellicornis. 

Larini. 

Linnet, dead, preserved from flies by paper. 

Lizard, Eyed. 

Locust. The prey of the Epeira. 

Lycosa, Narbonne. Its eyes. Its burrow. The rampart. Use of same. Methods of catching prey. Method of laying eggs. The egg-sac. Experiments with. The hatching process. The young. Experiments with. A problem of energy. 

Macrocera. 

Mantis, Praying. 

Mason-bees. Cells used by Osmiae. 

Mason-wasps. 

Massagetae, customs of the. 

Megachiles. 

Melolontho fullo. 

Michelet. 

Microgaster glomeratus. The exterminator of the Cabbage Caterpillar. Method of feeding. Emergence from the host. Cocoons. The adult. Pairing. Food. The eggs laid in the Butterfly's egg. 

Mole, burial of a. A supply of corpses obtained. 

Mouse, burial of a. 

National festival, the. 

Natterjack. 

Necrophorus, see Burying-beetles. 

Oryctes. 

Osmia. Cells of different species. Glass nests of Three-horned Osmia. Distribution of sexes. Optional determination of sex. 

Owl. Horned Owl. Common Owl. 

Oyster-plant. 

Pelopaeus. 

Pérez, Professor. 

Philanthus apivorus. 

Phylloxera. 

Pieris brassicae. 

Pine Processionary. Silken road of. Nest. Use of road. Senses. Nest. The processionary march. Experiments. On a circular track. 

Pliny, on the Cabbage Caterpillar. 

Pompilus. 

Rose-chafer. 

Sacred Beetle. 

Saprini. 

Sarcophaga carnaria, see Flesh-fly. 

Scarabaeus. 

Scolia. 

Scops. 

Serin-finch. 

Sex, distribution, determination and permutations of, in the Osmia. 

Silpha. 

Sitaris. 

Snail-shell, Osmia's use of. 

Snail, the prey of the Glow-worm. 

Sphex. 

Sphex, White-banded. 

Spiders. Apprised of prey by vibration. 

Staphylinus. 

Stizus. 

Swede. 

Tadpoles. 

Tarantula, Black-bellied, see Lycosa. 

Thistles. 

Thomisus. 

Toad, Bell-ringing. 

Tree-frogs. 

Tree Wasps. 

Turkeys, how trapped. 

Ventoux, Mount. 

Wasp, Common. 

Woodpecker.