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THE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES




BOOKS BY J. HENRI FABRE

THE LIFE OF THE SPIDER
THE LIFE OF THE FLY
THE MASON-BEES
BRAMBLE-BEES AND OTHERS
THE HUNTING WASPS
THE LIFE OF THE CATERPILLAR
THE LIFE OF THE GRASSHOPPER
THE SACRED BEETLE AND OTHERS
THE MASON-WASPS
THE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES




THE GLOW-WORM AND OTHER BEETLES

BY

J. HENRI FABRE


TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
FELLOW OF THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON




NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1924




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




CONTENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




TRANSLATOR'S NOTE


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

_The Glow-worm_, which gives its name to the present book, did not
form part of the _Souvenirs entomologiques_ as originally published.
It is one of two essays written specially, at my request, for
translation into English, towards the close of Henri Fabre's life; in
fact, this and _The Ant-lion_, a short essay for children, were the
last works that came from the veteran author's pen. _The Glow-worm_
appeared first in the _Century Magazine_. Of the remaining chapters,
several have appeared in various periodicals, notably the _English
Review_ and in _Land and Water_, the editor and proprietors of which
admirable weekly have shown the most enlightened interest in Fabre's
work.

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

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

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS.

CHELSEA, _5 September_, 1919.




CHAPTER I
THE GLOW-WORM


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

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

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

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

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

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

This detail has long been known to entomologists. What is not so
well-known, what is not known at all yet, to judge by what I have
read, is the curious method of attack, of which I have seen no other
instance anywhere.

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

But he is familiar with other preserves. He frequents the edges of the
irrigating-ditches, with their cool soil, their varied vegetation, a
favourite 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 and to 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
a little grass in a wide glass jar. In this I install a few Glow-worms
and a provision of Snails of a suitable size, neither too large nor
too small, chiefly _Helix variabilis_. We must be patient and wait.
Above all, we must keep an assiduous watch, for the desired events
come unexpectedly and do not last long.

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

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

The Lampyris doles out his tweaks. He distributes them methodically,
without hurrying, and takes a brief rest after each of them, as though
he 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 power
of movement. That other pinches are administered later, at the time of
eating, seems very likely, but I cannot say anything for certain,
because the sequel escapes me. The first few, however--there are never
many--are enough to impart inertia and loss of all feeling to the
mollusc, thanks to the prompt, I might almost say, lightning methods
of the Lampyris, who, beyond a doubt, instils some poison or other by
means of his grooved hooks.

Here is the proof of the sudden efficacity of those twitches, so mild
in appearance: I take the Snail from the Lampyris, who has operated on
the edge of the mantle some four or five times. I prick him with a
fine needle in the fore-part, which the animal, shrunk into its shell,
still leaves exposed. There is no quiver of the wounded tissues, no
reaction against the brutality of the needle. A corpse itself could
not give fewer signs of life.

Here is something even more conclusive: chance occasionally gives me
Snails attacked by the Lampyris while they are creeping along, the
foot slowly crawling, the tentacles swollen to their full extent. A
few disordered movements betray a brief excitement on the part of the
mollusc and then everything ceases: the foot no longer slugs; the
front-part loses its graceful swan-neck curve; the tentacles become
limp and give way under their weight, dangling feebly like a broken
stick. This conditions persists.

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

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

What does the Lampyris want with anæsthetical talent against a
harmless and moreover eminently peaceful adversary, who would never
begin the quarrel of his own accord? I think I see. We find in Algeria
a Beetle known as _Drilus maroccanus_, who, though non-luminous,
approaches our Glow-worm in his organization and especially in his
habits. He too feeds on land molluscs. His prey is a Cyclostome with a
graceful spiral shell, tight-closed with a stony lid which is attached
to the animal by a powerful muscle. The lid is a movable door which is
quickly shut by the inmate's mere withdrawal into his house and as
easily opened when the hermit goes forth. With this system of closing,
the abode becomes inviolable; and the Drilus knows it.

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

Let us now return to the Glow-worm. When the Snail is on the ground,
creeping, or even shrunk into his shell, the attack never presents any
difficulty. The shell possesses no lid and leaves the hermit's
fore-part to a great extent exposed. Here, on the edges of the mantle
contracted by the fear of danger, the mollusc is vulnerable and
incapable of defence. But it also frequently happens that the Snail
occupies a raised position, clinging to the tip of a grass-stalk or
perhaps to the smooth surface of a stone. This support serves him as a
temporary lid; it wards off the aggression of any churl who might try
to molest the inhabitant of the cabin, always on the express condition
that no slit show itself anywhere on the protecting circumference. If,
on the other hand, in the frequent case when the shell does not fit
its support quite closely, some point, however tiny, be left
uncovered, this is enough for the subtle tools of the Lampyris, who
just nibbles at the mollusc and at once plunges him into that profound
immobility which favours the tranquil proceedings of the consumer.

These proceedings are marked by extreme prudence. The assailant has to
handle his victim gingerly, without provoking contractions which would
make the Snail let go his support and, at the very least, precipitate
him from the tall stalk whereon he is blissfully slumbering. Now any
game falling to the ground would seem to be so much sheer loss, for
the Glow-worm has no great zeal for hunting-expeditions: he profits by
the discoveries which good luck sends him, without undertaking
assiduous searches. It is essential, therefore, that the equilibrium
of a prize perched on the top of a stalk and only just held in
position by a touch of glue should be disturbed as little as possible
during the onslaught; it is necessary that the assailant should go to
work with infinite circumspection and without producing pain, lest any
muscular reaction should provoke a fall and endanger the prize. As we
see, sudden and profound anæsthesia is an excellent means of enabling
the Lampyris to attain 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 minute
particles, which are afterwards ground by a chewing-apparatus? I think
not. I never see a trace of solid nourishment on my captives' mouths.
The Glow-worm does not eat in the strict sense of the word: he drinks
his fill; he feeds on a thin gruel into which he transforms his prey
by a method recalling that of the maggot. Like the flesh-eating grub
of the Fly, he too is able to digest before consuming; he liquefies
his prey before feeding on it.

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

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

And this is done with exquisite precision, though the equilibrium is
sometimes anything but steady. My rearing-glasses supply me with
magnificent examples. Crawling up the sides, the Snails imprisoned in
my apparatus sometimes reach the top, which is closed with a glass
pane, and fix themselves to it by means of a speck of glair. This is a
mere temporary halt, in which the mollusc is miserly with its adhesive
product, and the merest shake is enough to loosen the shell and send
it to the bottom of the jar.

Now it is not unusual for the Glow-worm to hoist himself to the top,
with the help of a certain climbing-organ that makes up for his weak
legs. He selects his quarry, makes a minute inspection of it to find
an entrance-slit, nibbles it a little, renders it insensible and,
without delay, proceeds to prepare the gruel which he will consume for
days 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 faint
stickiness, has not come loose, has not even shifted its position in
the smallest degree: without any protest from the hermit gradually
converted into broth, it has been drained on the very spot at which
the first attack was delivered. These small details tell us how
promptly the anæsthetic bite takes effect; they teach us how
dexterously the Glow-worm treats his Snail without causing him to fall
from a very slippery vertical support and without even shaking him on
his slight line of adhesion.

Under these conditions of equilibrium, the operator's short, clumsy
legs are obviously not enough; a special accessory apparatus is needed
to defy the danger of slipping and to seize the unseizable. And this
apparatus the Lampyris possesses. At the hinder end of the animal we
see a white spot which the lens separates into some dozen short,
fleshy appendages, sometimes gathered into a cluster, sometimes spread
into a rosette. There is your organ of adhesion and locomotion. If he
would fix himself somewhere, even on a very smooth surface, such as a
grass-stalk, the Glow-worm opens his rosette and spreads it wide on
the support, to which it adheres by its own stickiness. The same
organ, rising and falling, opening and closing, does much to assist
the act of progression. In short, the Glow-worm is a new sort of
self-propelled cripple, who decks his hind-quarters with a dainty
white rose, a kind of hand with twelve fingers, not jointed, but
moving in every direction: tubular fingers which do not seize, but
stick.

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

If the Glow-worm possessed no other talent than that of chloroforming
his prey by means of a few tweaks resembling kisses, he would be
unknown to the vulgar herd; but he also knows how to light himself
like a beacon; he shines, which is an excellent manner of achieving
fame. Let us consider more particularly the female, who, while
retaining her larval shape, becomes marriageable and glows at her best
during the hottest part of summer. The lighting-apparatus occupies the
last three segments of the abdomen. On each of the first two, it takes
the form, on the ventral surface, of a wide belt covering almost the
whole of the arch; on the third, the luminous part is much less and
consists simply of two small crescent-shaped markings, or rather two
spots which shine through to the back and are visible both above and
below the animal. Belts and spots emit a glorious white light,
delicately tinged with blue. 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 exclusive attribute of the marriageable female, are the
part richest in light: to glorify her wedding, the future mother dons
her brightest gauds; she lights her two resplendent scarves. But,
before that, from the time of the hatching, she had only the modest
rush-light of the stern. This efflorescence of light is the equivalent
of the final metamorphosis, which is usually represented by the gift
of wings and flight. Its brilliance heralds the pairing-time. Wings
and flight there will be none: the female retains her humble larval
form, but she kindles her blazing beacon.

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

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

The luminescence, therefore, is controlled by the respiratory organs
and the work produced is an oxidization. The white sheet supplies the
oxidizable matter and the thick air-tube spreading into a tufty bush
distributes the flow of air over it. There remains the question of the
substance whereof this sheet is formed. The first suggestion was
phosphorus, in the chemist's sense of the word. The Glow-worm has been
calcined and treated with the violent reagents that bring the simple
substances to light; but no one, so far as I know, has obtained a
satisfactory answer along these lines. Phosphorus seems to play no
part here, in spite of the name of phosphorescence which is sometimes
bestowed upon the Glow-worm's gleam. The answer lies elsewhere, no one
knows where.

We are better informed as regards another question. Has the Glow-worm
a free control of the light which he emits? Can he turn it on or down
or put it out as he pleases? Has he an opaque screen which is drawn
over the flame at will, or is that flame always left exposed? There is
no need for any such mechanism: the insect has something better for
its revolving light.

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

Excitement can set the attendant air-duct in motion. We must here
distinguish between two cases: that of the gorgeous scarves, the
exclusive ornament of the female ripe for matrimony, and that of the
modest fairy-lamp on the last segment, which both sexes kindle at any
age. In the second case, the extinction caused by a flurry is sudden
and complete, or nearly so. In my nocturnal hunts for young
Glow-worms, measuring about 5 millimetres long,[3] I can plainly see
the glimmer on the blades of grass; but, should the least false step
disturb a neighbouring twig, the light goes out at once and the
coveted insect becomes invisible. Upon the full-grown females, lit up
with their nuptial scarves, even a violent start has but a slight
effect and often none at all.

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

I fire a gun beside a wire-gauze cage in which I am rearing my
menagerie of females in the open air. The explosion produces no
result. The illumination continues, as bright and placid as before. I
take a spray and rain down a slight shower of cold water upon the
flock. Not one of my animals puts out its light; at the very most,
there is a brief pause in the radiance; and then only in some cases. I
send a puff of smoke from my pipe into the cage. This time, the pause
is more marked. There are even some extinctions, but these do not last
long. Calm soon returns and the light is renewed as brightly as ever.
I take some of the captives in my fingers, turn and return them, tease
them a little. The illumination continues and is not much diminished,
if I do not press too hard with my thumb. At this period, with the
pairing close at hand, the insect is in all the fervour of its
passionate splendour; and nothing short of very serious reasons would
make it put out its signals altogether.

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

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

The light is white, calm and soft to the eyes and suggests a spark
dropped by the full moon. Despite its splendour, it is a very feeble
illuminant. If we move a Glow-worm along a line of print, in perfect
darkness, we can easily make out the letters, one by one, and even
words, when these are not too long; but nothing more is visible beyond
a narrow zone. A lantern of this kind soon tires the reader's
patience.

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

Photography gives us a striking proof of this. I have a score of
females, all at the height of their splendour, in a wire-gauze cage in
the open air. A tuft of thyme forms a grove in the centre of their
establishment. When night comes, my captives clamber to this pinnacle
and strive to show off their luminous charms to the best advantage at
every point of the horizon, thus forming along the twigs marvellous
clusters from which I expected magnificent effects on the
photographer's plates and paper. My hopes are disappointed. All that I
obtain is white, shapeless patches, denser here and less dense there
according to the numbers forming the group. There is no picture of the
Glow-worms themselves; not a trace either of the tuft of thyme. For
want of satisfactory light, the glorious firework is represented by a
blurred 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 the
lower surface of the abdomen and face the ground, whereas the summoned
males, whose flights are sudden and uncertain, travel overhead, in the
air, sometimes a great way up. In its normal position, therefore, the
glittering lure is concealed from the eyes of those concerned; it is
covered by the thick bulk of the bride. The lantern ought really to
gleam on the back and not under the belly; otherwise the light is
hidden under a bushel.

The anomaly is corrected in a very ingenious fashion, for every female
has her little wiles of coquetry. At nightfall, every evening, my
caged captives make for the tuft of thyme with which I have
thoughtfully furnished the prison and climb to the top of the upper
branches, those most in sight. Here, instead of keeping quiet, as they
did at the foot of the bush just now, they indulge in violent
exercises, twist the tip of their very flexible abdomen, turn it to
one side, turn it to the other, jerk it in every direction. In this
way, the search-light cannot fail to gleam, at one moment or another,
before the eyes of every male who goes a-wooing in the neighbourhood,
whether on the ground or in the air.

It is very like the working of the revolving mirror used in catching
Larks. If stationary, the little contrivance would leave the bird
indifferent; turning and breaking up its light in rapid flashes, it
excites it.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II
THE SITARES


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

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

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

It is most often during the months of August and September, those
happy months of the summer holidays, that I have visited the banks
inhabited by the Anthophora. At this period all is silent near the
nests; the work has long been completed; and numbers of Spiders' webs
line the crevices or plunge their silken tubes into the Bee's
corridors. Let us not, however, hastily abandon the city once so
populous, so full of life and bustle and now deserted. A few inches
below the surface, thousands of larvæ and nymphs, imprisoned in their
cells of clay, are resting until the coming spring. Might not such a
succulent prey as these larvæ, paralysed and incapable of defence,
tempt certain parasites who are industrious enough to attain them?

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

[Footnote 3: Cf. _The Life of the Fly_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated
by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. ii. and iv.--_Translator's
Note_.]

Let us now give a few blows of the pick to the surface beneath which
the singular incidents already in our mind must be occurring, beneath
which similar things occurred last year; perhaps we shall find some
evidence of the parasitism which we suspected. If we search the
dwellings of the Anthophoræ during the early days of August, this is
what we see: the cells forming the superficial layer are not like
those situated at a greater depth. This difference arises from the
fact that the same establishment is exploited simultaneously by the
Anthophora and by an Osmia (_O. tricornis_)[4] as is proved by an
observation made at the working-period, in May. The Anthophoræ are the
actual pioneers, the work of boring the galleries is wholly theirs;
and their cells are situated right at the end. The Osmia profits by
the galleries which have been abandoned either because of their age,
or because of the completion of the cells occupying the most distant
part; she builds her cells by dividing these corridors into unequal
and inartistic chambers by means of rude earthen partitions. The
Osmia's sole achievement in the way of masonry is confined to these
partitions. This, by the way, is the ordinary building-method adopted
by the various Osmiæ, who content themselves with a chink between two
stones, an empty Snail-shell, or the dry and hollow stem of some
plant, wherein to build their stacks of cells, at small expense, by
means of light partitions of mortar.

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

The cells of the Anthophora, with their faultless geometrical
regularity and their perfect finish, are works of art, excavated, at a
suitable depth, in the very substance of the loamy bank, without any
manufactured part save the thick lid that closes the orifice. Thus
protected by the prudent industry of their mother, well out of reach
in their distant, solid retreats, the Anthophora's larvæ are devoid of
the glandular apparatus designed for secreting silk. They therefore
never spin a cocoon, but lie naked in their cells, whose inner surface
has the polish of stucco.

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

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

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

[Footnote 7: Another genus of Beetles. The grub of _A. musæorum_, the
Museum Beetle, is very destructive to
insect-collections.--_Translator's Note_.]

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

The fore-part of this nymph is fashioned like a sort of boar's-snout
armed with six strong spikes, a multiple ploughshare, eminently
adapted for burrowing in the soil. A double row of hooks surmounts the
dorsal ring of the four front segments of the abdomen. These are so
many grappling-irons, with whose assistance the creature is enabled to
progress in the narrow gallery dug by the snout. Lastly, a sheaf of
sharp points forms the armour of the hinder-part. If we examine
attentively the surface of the vertical wall which contains the
various nests, it will not be long before we discover nymphs like
those which we have been describing, with one extremity held in a
gallery of their own diameter, while the fore-part projects freely
into the air. But these nymphs are reduced to their cast skins, along
the back and head of which runs a long slit through which the perfect
insect has escaped. The purpose of the nymph's powerful weapons is
thus made manifest: it is the nymph that has to rend the tough cocoon
which imprisons it, to excavate the tightly-packed soil in which it is
buried, to dig a gallery with its six-pointed snout and thus to bring
to the light the perfect insect, which apparently is incapable of
performing these strenuous tasks for itself.

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

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

But what is this curious shell in which the Sitaris is invariably
enclosed, a shell unexampled in the Beetle order? Can this be a case
of parasitism in the second degree, that is, can the Sitaris be living
inside the chrysalis of a first parasite, which itself exists at the
cost of the Anthophora's larva or of its provisions? And, even so, how
can this parasite, or these parasites, obtain access to a cell which
seems to be inviolable, because of the depth at which it lies, and
which, moreover, does not reveal, to the most careful examination
under the magnifying-glass, any violent inroad on the enemy's part?
These are the questions that presented themselves to my mind when for
the first time, in 1855, I observed the facts which I have just
related. Three years of assiduous observation enabled me to add one of
its most astonishing chapters to the story of the formation of
insects.

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

In the glass jars in which I kept my Sitares I saw the pairing follow
very closely upon the first moments of freedom. I even witnessed a
fact which shows emphatically how imperious, in the perfect insect, is
the need to perform, without delay, the act intended to ensure the
preservation of its race. A female, with her head already cut out of
the shell, is anxiously struggling to release herself entirely; a
male, who has been free for a couple of hours, climbs on the shell
and, tugging here and there, with his mandibles, at the fragile
envelope, strives to deliver the female from her shackles. His efforts
are soon crowned with success; and, though the female is still three
parts swathed in her swaddling-bands, the coupling takes place
immediately, lasting about a minute. During the act, the male remains
motionless on the top of the shell, or on the top of the female when
the latter is entirely free. I do not know whether, in ordinary
circumstances, the male occasionally thus helps the female to gain her
liberty; to do so he would have to penetrate into a cell containing a
female, which, after all, is not beyond his powers, seeing that he has
been able to escape from his own. Still, on the actual site of the
cells, the coupling is generally performed at the entrance to the
galleries of the Anthophoræ; and then neither of the sexes drags about
with it the least shred of the shell from which it has emerged.

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

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

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

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

The female, painfully dragging her big abdomen, perambulates all the
nooks and corners of her makeshift dwelling, exploring them with her
palpi, which she passes everywhere. After half an hour of groping and
careful investigation, she ends by selecting the horizontal gallery
dug in the cork. She thrusts her abdomen into this cavity and, with
her head hanging outside, begins her laying. Not until thirty-six
hours later was the operation completed; and during this incredible
lapse of time the patient creature remained absolutely motionless.

The eggs are white, oval and very small. They measure barely
two-thirds of a millimetre[8] in length. They stick together slightly
and are piled in a shapeless heap which might be likened to a
good-sized pinch of the unripe seeds of some orchid. As for their
number, I will admit that it tried my patience to no purpose. I do
not, however, believe that I am exaggerating when I estimate it as at
least two thousand. Here are the data on which I base this figure: the
laying, as I have said, lasts thirty-six hours; and my frequent visits
to the female working in the cavity in the cork convinced me that
there was no perceptible interruption in the successive emission of
the eggs. Now less than a minute elapses between the arrival of one
egg and that of the next; and the number of these eggs cannot
therefore be lower than the number of minutes contained in thirty-six
hours, or 2160. But the exact number is of no importance: we need only
note that it is very large, which implies, for the young larvæ issuing
from the eggs, very numerous chances of destruction, since so lavish a
supply of germs is necessary to maintain the species in the requisite
proportions.

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

Enlightened by these observations and informed of the shape, the
number and the arrangement of the eggs, I searched the galleries of
the Anthophoræ for those which the Sitares had laid there and
invariably found them gathered in a heap inside the galleries, at a
distance of an inch or two from the orifice, which is always open to
the outer world. Thus, contrary to what one was to some extent
entitled to suppose, the eggs are not laid in the cells of the pioneer
Bee; they are simply dumped in a heap inside the entrance to her
dwelling. Nay more, the mother does not make any protective structure
for them; she takes no pains to shield them from the rigours of
winter; she does not even attempt, by stopping for a short distance,
as best she can, the entrance-lobby in which she has laid them, to
protect them from the thousand enemies that threaten them; for, as
long as the frosts of winter have not arrived, these open galleries
are trodden by Spiders, by Acari, by Anthrenus-grubs and other
plunderers, to whom these eggs, or the young larvæ about to emerge
from them, must be a dainty feast. In consequence of the mother's
heedlessness, the number of those who escape all these voracious
hunters and the inclemencies of the weather must be curiously small.
This perhaps explains why she is compelled to make up by her fecundity
for her deficient industry.

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

In vain I placed within their reach lumps of earth containing nests of
the Anthophora, open cells, larvæ and nymphs of the Bee: nothing was
able to tempt them; they persisted in forming, with the egg-skins, a
powdery heap of speckled black and white. It was only by drawing the
point of a needle through this pinch of living dust that I was able to
provoke an active wriggling. Apart from this, all was still. If I
forcibly removed a few larvæ from the common heap, they at once
hurried back to it, in order to hide themselves among the rest.
Perhaps they had less reason to fear the cold when thus collected and
sheltered beneath the egg-skins. Whatever may be the motive that
impels them to remain thus gathered in a heap, I recognized that none
of the means suggested by my imagination succeeded in forcing them to
abandon the little spongy mass formed by the skins of the eggs, which
were slightly glued together. Lastly, to assure myself that the larvæ,
in the free state, do not disperse after they are hatched, I went
during the winter to Carpentras and inspected the banks inhabited by
the Anthophoræ. There, as in my boxes, I found the larvæ piled into
heaps, all mixed up with the skins of the eggs.




CHAPTER III
THE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE SITARES


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

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

The antennæ consist of two cylindrical segments, equal in length, not
very definitely divided; these segments are nearly as long as those of
the palpi; the outer is surmounted by a cirrus whose length is as much
as thrice that of the head and tapers off until it becomes invisible
under a powerful pocket-lens. Behind the base of either antennæ are
two ocelli, unequal in size and almost touching.

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

The abdomen has nine segments, of practically equal length, but
shorter than those of the thorax and diminishing very rapidly in width
toward the last. Fixed below the eighth segment, or rather below the
strip of membrane separating this segment and the last, we see two
spikes, slightly curved, short, but with strong, sharp, hard points,
and placed one to the right and the other to the left of the median
line. These two appendages are able, by means of a mechanism
recalling, on a smaller scale, that of the Snail's horns, to withdraw
into themselves, as a result of the membranous character of their
base. They can also retreat under the eighth segment, borne, as they
are, by the anal segment, when this last, as it contracts, withdraws
into the eighth. Lastly, the ninth or anal segment bears on its hinder
edge two long cirri, like those of the legs and the antennæ, curving
backwards from tip to base. At the rear of this segment a fleshy
nipple appears, more or less prominent; this is the anus. I do not
know where the stigmata are placed; they have evaded my
investigations, though these were undertaken with the aid of the
microscope.

When the larva is at rest, the various segments overlap evenly; and
the membranous intervals, corresponding with the articulations, do not
show. But, when the larva walks, all the articulations, especially
those of the abdominal segments, are distended and end by occupying
almost as much space as the horny arches. At the same time the anal
segment emerges from the sheath formed by the eighth; the anus, in
turn, is stretched into a nipple; and the two points of the
penultimate ring rise, at first slowly, and then suddenly stand up
with an abrupt motion similar to that of a spring when released. In
the end, these two points diverge like the horns of a crescent. Once
this complex apparatus is unfolded, the tiny creature is ready to
crawl upon the most slippery surface.

The last segment and its anal button are curved at right angles to the
axis of the body; and the anus comes and presses upon the surface of
locomotion, where it ejects a tiny drop of transparent, treacly fluid,
which glues and holds the little creature firmly in position,
supported on a sort of tripod formed by the anal button and the two
cirri of the last segment. If we are observing the animal's manner of
locomotion on a strip of glass, we can hold the strip in a vertical
position, or even turn it upside down, or shake it lightly, without
causing the larva to become detached and fall, held fast as it is by
the glutinous secretion of the anal button.

If it has to proceed along a surface where there is no danger of a
fall, the microscopic creature employs another method. It crooks its
belly and, when the two spikes of the eighth segment, now fully
outspread, have found a firm support by ploughing, so to speak, the
surface of locomotion, it bears upon that base and pushes forward by
expanding the various abdominal articulations. This forward movement
is also assisted by the action of the legs, which are far from
remaining inactive. This done, it casts anchor with the powerful claws
of its feet; the abdomen contracts; the various segments draw
together; and the anus, pulled forward, obtains a fresh purchase, with
the aid of the two spikes, before beginning the second of these
curious strides.

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

Even the little that we have just learnt shows us that the young
Sitaris-larva is not called upon to move on an ordinary surface. The
spot, whatever it may be like, where this larva is to live later
exposes it to the risk of many dangerous falls, since, in order to
prevent them, it is not only equipped with strong and extremely mobile
talons and a steel-shod crescent, a sort of ploughshare capable of
biting into the most highly polished substance, but is further
provided with a viscous liquid, sufficiently tenacious and adhesive to
hold it in position without the help of other appliances. In vain I
racked my brains to guess what the substance might be, so shifting, so
uncertain and so perilous, which the young Sitares are destined to
inhabit; and I discovered nothing to explain the necessity for the
structure which I have described. Convinced beforehand, by an
attentive examination of this structure, that I should witness some
peculiar habits, I waited with eager impatience for the return of the
warm weather, never doubting that by dint of persevering observation
the mystery would be disclosed to me next spring. At last this spring,
so fervently desired, arrived; I brought to bear all the patience, all
the imagination, all the insight and discernment that I may possess;
but, to my utter shame and still greater regret, the secret escaped
me. Oh, how painful are those tortures of indecision, when one has to
postpone till the following year an investigation which has led to no
result!

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

The desired nourishment could only be the contents of the cells of the
Anthophora, since we afterwards find the Sitares in these cells. Now
these contents are limited to honey or larvæ. It just happens that I
have kept some Anthophora-cells occupied by larvæ or nymphs. I place a
few of these, some open, some closed, within reach of the young
Sitares, as I had already done directly after the hatching. I even
slip the Sitares into the cells: I place them on the sides of the
larva, a succulent morsel to all appearances; I do all sorts of things
to tempt their appetite; and, after exhausting my ingenuity, which
continues fruitless, I remain convinced that my famished grubs are
seeking neither the larvæ nor nymphs of the Anthophora.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When April came, my Sitaris-larvæ began, as usual, to bestir
themselves. The first Bee to appear, an Osmia, is dropped alive into a
glass jar containing a few of these larvæ; and after a lapse of some
fifteen minutes I inspect them through the pocket-lens. Five Sitares
are embedded in the fleece of the thorax. It is done, the problem's
solved! The larvæ of the Sitares, like those of the Oil-beetles, cling
like grim death to the fleece of their generous host and make him
carry them into the cell. Ten times over I repeat the experiment with
the various Bees that come to plunder the lilac flowering outside my
window and in particular with male Anthophoræ; the result is still the
same: the larvæ embed themselves in the hair of the Bees' thorax. But
after so many disappointments one becomes distrustful and it is better
to go and observe the facts upon the spot; besides, the Easter
holidays fall very conveniently and afford me the leisure for my
observations.

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

On the days that followed, a serene and balmy sky enabled the
Anthophoræ to leave their retreats and scatter over the countryside
and despoil the flowers. I renewed my examination on those Anthophoræ
flying incessantly from one flower to another, whether in the
neighbourhood of the places where they were born or at great distances
from these places. Some were without Sitaris-larvæ; others, more
numerous, had two, three, four, five or more among the hairs of their
thorax. At Avignon, where I have not yet seen _Sitaris humeralis_, the
same species of Anthophora, observed at almost the same season, while
pillaging the lilac-blossom, was always free of young Sitaris-grubs;
at Carpentras, on the contrary, where there is not a single
Anthophora-colony without Sitares, nearly three-quarters of the
specimens which I examined carried a few of these larvæ in their
fleece.

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

One might even at first sight believe that they live for some time on
the Anthophora's body, just as the ordinary parasites, the various
species of Lice, live on the body of the animal that feeds them. But
not at all. The young Sitares, embedded in the fleece, at right angles
to the Anthophora's body, head inwards, rump outwards, do not stir
from the point which they have selected, a point near the Bee's
shoulders. We do not see them wandering from spot to spot, exploring
the Anthophora's body, seeking the part where the skin is more
delicate, as they would certainly do if they were really deriving some
nourishment from the juices of the Bee. On the contrary, they are
nearly always established on the toughest and hardest part of the
Bee's body, on the thorax, a little below the insertion of the wings,
or, more rarely, on the head; and they remain absolutely motionless,
fixed to the same hair, by means of the mandibles, the feet, the
closed crescent of the eighth segment and, lastly, the glue of the
anal button. If they chance to be disturbed in this position, they
reluctantly repair to another point of the thorax, pushing their way
through the insect's fur and in the end fastening on to another hair,
as before.

To confirm my conviction that the young Sitaris-grubs do not feed on
the Anthophora's body, I have sometimes placed within their reach, in
a glass jar, some Bees that have long been dead and are completely
dried up. On these dry corpses, fit at most for gnawing, but certainly
containing nothing to suck, the Sitaris-larvæ took up their customary
position and there remained motionless as on the living insect. They
obtain nothing, therefore, from the Anthophora's body; but perhaps
they nibble her fleece, even as the Bird-lice nibble the birds'
feathers?

To do this, they would require mouth-parts endowed with a certain
strength and, in particular, horny and sturdy jaws, whereas their jaws
are so fine that a microscopic examination failed to show them to me.
The larvæ, it is true, are provided with powerful mandibles; but these
finely-pointed mandibles, with their backward curve, though excellent
for tugging at food and tearing it to pieces, are useless for grinding
it or gnawing it. Lastly, we have a final proof of the passive
condition of the Sitaris-larvæ on the body of the Anthophoræ in the
fact that the Bees do not appear to be in any way incommoded by their
presence, since we do not see them trying to rid themselves of the
grubs. Some Anthophoræ which were free from these grubs and some
others which were carrying five or six upon their bodies were placed
separately in glass jars. When the first disturbance resulting from
their captivity was appeased, I could see nothing peculiar about those
occupied by the young Sitares. And, if all these arguments were not
sufficient, I might add that a creature which has already been able to
spend seven months without food and which in a few days' time will
proceed to drink a highly-flavoured fluid would be guilty of a
singular inconsistency if it were to start nibbling the dry fleece of
a Bee. It therefore seems to me undeniable that the young Sitares
settle on the Anthophora's body merely to make her carry them into the
cells which she will soon be building.

But until then the future parasites must hold tight to the fleece of
their hostess, despite her rapid evolutions among the flowers, despite
her rubbing against the walls of the galleries when she enters to take
shelter and, above all, despite the brushing which she must often give
herself with her feet to dust herself and keep spick and span. Hence
no doubt the need for that curious apparatus which no standing or
moving upon ordinary surfaces could explain, as was said above, when
we were wondering what the shifting, swaying, dangerous body might be
on which the larva would have to establish itself later. This body is
a hair of a Bee who makes a thousand rapid journeys, now diving into
her narrow galleries, now forcing her way down the tight throat of a
corolla, and who never rests except to brush herself with her feet and
remove the specks of dust collected by the down which covers her.

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

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

If we remove a few clods from the area occupied by the nests, we see
that, though all the males have already opened and abandoned their
cells, the females, on the contrary, are still enclosed in theirs, but
on the point of soon taking flight. This appearance of the males
almost a month before the emergence of the females is not peculiar to
the Anthophoræ; I have observed it in many other Bees and particularly
in the Three-horned Osmia (_O. tricornis_), who inhabits the same site
as the Hairy-footed Anthophora (_A. pilipes_). The males of the Osmia
make their appearance even before those of the Anthophora and at so
early a season that the young Sitaris-larvæ are perhaps not yet
aroused by the instinctive impulse which urges them to activity. It is
no doubt to their precocious awakening that the males of the Osmia owe
their ability to traverse with impunity the corridors in which the
young Sitaris-grubs are heaped together, without having the latter
fasten to their fleece; at least, I cannot otherwise explain the
absence of these larvæ from the backs of the male Osmiæ, since, when
we place them artificially in the presence of these Bees, they fasten
on them as readily as on the Anthophoræ.

The emergence from the common site begun by the male Osmiæ is
continued by the male Anthophoræ and ends with the almost simultaneous
emergence of the female Osmiæ and Anthophoræ. I was easily able to
verify this sequence by observing at my own place, in the early
spring, the dates at which the cells, collected during the previous
autumn, were broken.

At the moment of their emergence, the male Anthophoræ, passing through
the galleries in which the Sitaris-larvæ are waiting on the alert,
must pick up a certain number of them; and those among them who, by
entering empty corridors, escape the enemy on this first occasion will
not evade him for long, for the rain, the chilly air and the darkness
bring them back to their former homes, where they take shelter now in
one gallery, now in another, during a great part of April. This
constant traffic of the males in the entrance-lobbies of their houses
and the prolonged stay which the bad weather often compels them to
make provide the Sitares with the most favourable opportunity for
slipping into the Bees' fur and taking up their position. Moreover,
when this state of affairs has lasted a month or so, there can be only
very few if any larvæ left wandering about without having attained
their end. At that period I was unable to find them anywhere save on
the body of the male Anthophora.

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

In support of these deductions, here is a fairly conclusive
experiment, though it reproduces the natural circumstances but
roughly. On a female taken in her cell and therefore free from
Sitares, I place a male who is infested with them; and I keep the two
sexes in contact, suppressing their unruly movements as far as I am
able. After fifteen or twenty minutes of this enforced proximity, the
female is invaded by one or more of the larvæ which at first were on
the male. True, experiment does not always succeed under these
imperfect conditions.

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

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

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

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

"Woe," said I to myself, "woe to the reckless wight bold enough to
enter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand upon
the dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded by the furious
host, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousand
stings!"

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

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

A few strokes of the net, aimed, beyond the limits of the swarm, at
the Anthophoræ on their way to the harvest or returning, soon informed
me that the Sitaris-larvæ are perched on the thorax, as I expected,
occupying the same position as on the males. The circumstances
therefore could not be more favourable. We will inspect the cells
without further delay.

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

This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the work
in progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells,
spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ and
crushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastation
results merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is not
followed by any hostile demonstration. The Anthophoræ whose cells are
not hurt go about their labours as if nothing unusual were happening
round about them; those whose dwellings are overturned try to repair
them, or hover distractedly in front of the ruins; but none of them
seems inclined to swoop down upon the author of the damage. At most, a
few, more irritated than the rest, come at intervals and hover before
my face, confronting me at a distance of a couple of inches, and then
fly away, after a few moments of this curious inspection.

Despite the selection of a common site for their nests, which might
suggest an attempt at communistic interests among the Anthophoræ,
these Bees, therefore, obey the egotistical law of each one for
himself and do not know how to band themselves together to repel an
enemy who threatens one and all. Taken singly, the Anthophora does not
even know how to dash at the enemy who is ravaging her cells and drive
him away with her stings; the pacific creature hastily leaves its
dwelling when disturbed by undermining and escapes in a crippled
state, sometimes even mortally wounded, without thinking of making use
of its venomous sting, except when it is seized and handled. Many
other Hymenoptera, honey-gatherers or hunters, are quite as
spiritless; and I can assert to-day, after a long experience, that
only the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps and the
Bumble-bees, know how to devise a common defence; and only they dare
fall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance.

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

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

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

We will now proceed to examine the cells. Some are still open and
contain only a more or less complete store of honey. Others are
hermetically sealed with an earthen lid. The contents of these latter
vary greatly. Sometimes we find the larva of a Bee which has finished
its mess or is on the point of finishing it; sometimes a larva, white
like the first, but more corpulent and of a different shape; at other
times honey with an egg floating on the surface. The honey is liquid
and sticky, with a brownish colour and a very strong, repulsive smell.
The egg is of a beautiful white, cylindrical in shape, slightly curved
into an arc, a fifth or a sixth of an inch in length and not quite a
twenty-fifth of an inch in thickness; it is the egg of the Anthophora.

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

When and how did it get in? In none of the cells where I have observed
it was I able to distinguish a fissure which could have allowed it to
enter; they are all sealed in a quite irreproachable manner. The
parasite therefore established itself in the honey-warehouse before
the warehouse was closed; on the other hand, the open cells, full of
honey, but as yet without the egg of the Anthophora, are always free
from parasites. It is therefore during the laying, or afterwards, when
the Anthophora is occupied in plastering the door of the cell, that
the young larva gains admittance. It is impossible to decide by
experiment to which of these two periods we must ascribe the
introduction of the Sitares into the cell; for, however peaceable the
Anthophora may be, it is evident that we cannot hope to witness what
happens in the cell at the moment when she is laying an egg or at the
moment when she is making the lid. But a few attempts will soon
convince us that the only second which would allow the Sitaris to
establish itself in the home of the Bee is the very second when the
egg is laid on the surface of the honey.

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

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

In short, all attempts to establish the Sitaris-grub in an
Anthophora-cell provisioned with honey and furnished with an egg are
no more successful than those which I made with cells whose store of
food had already been broached by the larva of the Bee, as described
above. It is therefore certain that the Sitaris-grub does not leave
the fleece of the Mason-bee when the Bee is in her cell or at the
entrance to it, in order itself to make a rush for the coveted honey;
for this honey would inevitably cause its death, if it happened by
accident to touch the perilous surface merely with the tip of its
tarsi.

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

In the second place, observations repeated _ad nauseam_ have shown me
that at no period do we find in each invaded cell more than a single
Sitaris, in one or other of the forms which it successively assumes.
Yet there are several young larvæ established in the silky tangle of
the Bee's thorax, all eagerly watching for the propitious moment at
which to enter the dwelling in which they are to continue their
development. How then does it happen that these larvæ, goaded by such
an appetite as one would expect after seven or eight months' complete
abstinence, instead of all rushing together into the first cell within
reach, on the contrary enter the various cells which the Bee is
provisioning one at a time and in perfect order? Some action must take
place here independent of the Sitares.

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

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

In opening cells whose lid is still moist, we end by discovering one
in which the egg, recently laid, supports a young Sitaris. This egg is
intact and in irreproachable condition. But now the work of
devastation begins: the larva, a tiny black speck which we see running
over the white surface of the egg, at last stops and balances itself
firmly on its six legs; then, seizing the delicate skin of the egg
with the sharp hooks of its mandibles, it tugs at it violently until
it breaks, spilling its contents, which the larva eagerly drinks up.
Thus the first stroke of the mandibles which the parasite delivers in
the usurped cell is aimed at the destruction of the Bee's egg. A
highly logical precaution! The Sitaris-larva, as we shall see, has to
feed upon the honey in the cell; the Anthophora-larva which would
proceed from that egg would require the same food; but the portion is
too small for two; so, quick, a bite at the egg and the difficulty
will be removed. The story of these facts calls for no comment. This
destruction of the cumbersome egg is all the more inevitable inasmuch
as special tastes compel the young Sitaris-grub to make its first
meals of it. Indeed we see the tiny creature begin by greedily
drinking the juices which the torn wrapper of the egg allows to
escape; and for several days it may be observed, at one time
motionless on this envelope, in which it rummages at intervals with
its head, at others running over it from end to end to rip it open
still wider and to cause a little of the juices, which become daily
less abundant, to trickle from it; but we never catch it imbibing the
honey which surrounds it on every side.

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

On the other hand, we can easily rear Sitaris-grubs by taking
Anthophora-cells not invaded by the parasites, cells in which the egg
is not yet hatched. All that we have to do is to pick up one of these
grubs with the moistened tip of a needle and to lay it delicately on
the egg. There is then no longer the least attempt to escape. After
exploring the egg to find its way about, the larva rips it open and
for several days does not stir from the spot. Henceforth its
development takes place unhindered, provided that the cell be
protected from too rapid evaporation, which would dry up the honey and
render it unfit for the grub's food. The Anthophora's egg therefore is
absolutely necessary to the Sitaris-larva, not merely as a boat, but
also as its first nourishment. This is the whole secret, for lack of
knowing which I had hitherto failed in my attempts to rear the larvæ
hatched in my glass jars.

At the end of a week, the egg, drained by the parasite, is nothing but
a dry skin. The first meal is finished. The Sitaris-larva, whose
dimensions have almost doubled, now splits open along the back; and
through a slit which comprises the head and the three thoracic
segments a white corpusculum, the second form of this singular
organism, escapes to fall on the surface of the honey, while the
abandoned slough remains clinging to the raft which has hitherto
safeguarded and fed the larva. Presently both sloughs, those of the
Sitaris and the egg, will disappear, submerged under the waves of
honey which the new larva is about to raise. Here ends the history of
the first form adopted by the Sitaris.

In summing up the above, we see that the strange little creature
awaits, without food, for seven months, the appearance of the
Anthophoræ and at last fastens on to the hairs on the corselet of the
males, who are the first to emerge and who inevitably pass within its
reach in going through their corridors. From the fleece of the male
the larva moves, three or four weeks later, to that of the female, at
the moment of coupling; and then from the female to the egg leaving
the oviduct. It is by this concatenation of complex manoeuvres that
the larva in the end finds itself perched upon an egg in the middle of
a closed cell filled with honey. These perilous gymnastics on the hair
of a Bee in movement all the day, this passing from one sex to the
other, this arrival in the middle of the cell by way of the egg, a
dangerous bridge thrown across the sticky abyss, all this necessitates
the balancing-appliances with which it is provided and which I have
described above. Lastly, the destruction of the egg calls, in its
turn, for a sharp pair of scissors; and such is the object of the
keen, curved mandibles. Thus the primary form of the Sitares has as
its function to get itself carried by the Anthophora into the cell and
to rip up her egg. This done, the organism becomes transformed to such
a degree that repeated observations are required to make us believe
the evidence of our eyes.




CHAPTER IV
THE PRIMARY LARVA OF THE OIL-BEETLES


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

Observed in the down of various Bees, the queer little creature for a
long time baffled the sagacity of the naturalists, who, mistaking its
true origin, made it a species of a special family of wingless
insects. It was the Bee-louse (_Pediculus apis_) of Linnæus;[1] the
Triungulin of the Andrenæ (_Triungulinus andrenetarum_) of Léon
Dufour. They saw in it a parasite, a sort of Louse, living in the
fleece of the honey-gatherers. It was reserved for the distinguished
English naturalist Newport to show that this supposed Louse was the
first state of the Oil-beetles. Some observations of my own will fill
a few lacunæ in the English scientist's monograph. I will therefore
sketch the evolution of the Oil-beetles, using Newport's work where my
own observations are defective. In this way the Sitares and the
Meloes, alike in habits and transformations, will be compared; and the
comparison will throw a certain light upon the strange metamorphoses
of these insects.

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

The same Mason-bee (_Anthophora pilipes_) upon whom the Sitares live
also feeds a few scarce Meloes (_M. cicatricosus_) in its cells. A
second Anthophora of my district (_A. parietina_) is more subject to
this parasite's invasions. It was also in the nests of an Anthophora,
but of a different species (_A. retusa_), that Newport observed the
same Oil-beetle. These three lodgings adopted by _Meloe cicatricosus_
may be of some slight interest, as leading us to suspect that each
species of Meloe is apparently the parasite of diverse Bees, a
suspicion which will be confirmed when we examine the manner in which
the larvæ reach the cell full of honey. The Sitares, though less given
to change of lodging, are likewise able to inhabit nests of different
species. They are very common in the cells of _Anthophora pilipes_;
but I have found them also, in very small numbers, it is true, in the
cells of _A. personata_.

Despite the presence of _Meloe cicatricosus_ in the dwellings of the
Mason-bee, which I so often ransacked in compiling the history of the
Sitares, I never saw this insect, at any season of the year, wandering
on the perpendicular soil, at the entrance of the corridors, for the
purpose of laying its eggs there, as the Sitares do; and I should know
nothing of the details of the egg-laying if Godart,[2] de Geer[3] and,
above all, Newport had not informed us that the Oil-beetles lay their
eggs in the earth. According to the last-named author, the various
Oil-beetles whom he had the opportunity of observing dig, among the
roots of a clump of grass, in a dry soil exposed to the sun, a hole a
couple of inches deep which they carefully fill up after laying their
eggs there in a heap. This laying is repeated three or four times
over, at intervals of a few days during the same season. For each
batch of eggs the female digs a special hole, which she does not fail
to fill up afterwards. This takes place in April and May.

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

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

The number of eggs laid in a single batch is really prodigious. In the
first batch, which, it is true, is the most prolific of all, _Meloe
proscarabæus_, according to Newport's calculations, produces the
astonishing number of 4,218 eggs, which is double the number of eggs
laid by a Sitaris. And what must the number be, when we allow for the
two or three batches that follow the first! The Sitares, entrusting
their eggs to the very corridors through which the Anthophora is bound
to pass, spare their larvæ a host of dangers which the larvæ of the
Meloe have to run, for these, born far from the dwellings of the Bees,
are obliged to make their own way to their hymenopterous
foster-parents. The Oil-beetles, therefore, lacking the instinct of
the Sitares, are endowed with incomparably greater fecundity. The
richness of their ovaries atones for the insufficiency of instinct by
proportioning the number of germs in accordance with the risks of
destruction. What transcendent harmony is this, which thus holds the
scales between the fecundity of the ovaries and the perfection of
instinct!

The hatching of the eggs takes place at the end of May or in June,
about a month after they are laid. The eggs of the Sitares also are
hatched after the same lapse of time. But the Meloe-larvæ, more
greatly favoured, are able to set off immediately in search of the
Bees that are to feed them; while those of the Sitares, hatched in
September, have to wait motionless and in complete abstinence for the
emergence of the Anthophoræ the entrance to whose cells they guard. I
will not describe the young Meloe-larva, which is sufficiently well
known, in particular by the description and the diagram furnished by
Newport. To enable the reader to understand what follows, I will
confine myself to stating that this primary larva is a sort of little
yellow louse, long and slender, found in the spring in the down of
different Bees.

How has this tiny creature made its way from the underground lodging
where the eggs are hatched to the fleece of a Bee? Newport suspects
that the young Oil-beetles, on emerging from their natal burrow, climb
upon the neighbouring plants, especially upon the Cichoriceæ, and
wait, concealed among the petals, until a few Bees chance to plunder
the flower, when they promptly fasten on to their fur and allow
themselves to be borne away by them. I have more than Newport's
suspicions upon this curious point; my personal observations and
experiments are absolutely convincing. I will relate them as the first
phase of the history of the Bee-louse. They date back to the 23rd of
May, 1858.

A vertical bank on the road from Carpentras to Bédoin is this time the
scene of my observations. This bank, baked by the sun, is exploited by
numerous swarms of Anthophoræ, who, more industrious than their
congeners, are in the habit of building, at the entrance to their
corridors, with serpentine fillets of earth, a vestibule, a defensive
bastion in the form of an arched cylinder. In a word, they are swarms
of _A. parietina_. A sparse carpet of turf extends from the edge of
the road to the foot of the bank. The more comfortably to follow the
work of the Bees, in the hope of wresting some secret from them, I had
been lying for a few moments upon this turf, in the very heart of the
inoffensive swarm, when my clothes were invaded by legions of little
yellow lice, running with desperate eagerness through the hairy
thickets of the nap of the cloth. In these tiny creatures, with which
I was powdered here and there as with yellow dust, I soon recognized
an old acquaintance, the young Oil-beetles, whom I now saw for the
first time elsewhere than in the Bees' fur or the interior of their
cells. I could not lose so excellent an opportunity of learning how
these larvæ manage to establish themselves upon the bodies of their
foster-parents.

In the grass where, after lying down for a moment, I had caught these
lice were a few plants in blossom, of which the most abundant were
three composites: _Hedypnois polymorpha_, _Senecio gallicus_ and
_Anthemis arvensis_. Now it was on a composite, a dandelion, that
Newport seemed to remember seeing some young Oil-beetles; and my
attention therefore was first of all directed to the plants which I
have named. To my great satisfaction, nearly all the flowers of these
three plants, especially those of the camomile (_Anthemis_) were
occupied by young Oil-beetles in greater or lesser numbers. On one
head of camomile I counted forty of these tiny insects, cowering
motionless in the centre of the florets. On the other hand, I could
not discover any on the flowers of the poppy or of a wild rocket
(_Diplotaxis muralis_) which grew promiscuously among the plants
aforesaid. It seems to me, therefore, that it is only on the composite
flowers that the Meloe-larvæ await the Bees' arrival.

In addition to this population encamped upon the heads of the
composites and remaining motionless, as though it had achieved its
object for the moment, I soon discovered yet another, far more
numerous, whose anxious activity betrayed a fruitless search. On the
ground, in the grass, numberless little larvæ were running in a great
flutter, recalling in some respects the tumultuous disorder of an
overturned Ant-hill; others were hurriedly climbing to the tip of a
blade of grass and descending with the same haste; others again were
plunging into the downy fluff of the withered everlastings, remaining
there a moment and quickly reappearing to continue their search.
Lastly, with a little attention, I was able to convince myself that
within an area of a dozen square yards there was perhaps not a single
blade of grass which was not explored by several of these larvæ.

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

Though the green carpet was continued for a considerable distance
along the side of the road, I could not detect a single Meloe-larva
elsewhere than in the few square yards lying in front of the bank
inhabited by the Mason-bee. These larvæ therefore could not have come
far; to find themselves near the Anthophoræ they had had no long
pilgrimage to make, for there was not a sign of the inevitable
stragglers and laggards that follow in the wake of a travelling
caravan. The burrows in which the eggs were hatched were therefore in
that turf opposite the Bees' abode. Thus the Oil-beetles, far from
laying their eggs at random, as their wandering life might lead one to
suppose, and leaving their young to the task of approaching their
future home, are able to recognize the spots haunted by the Anthophoræ
and lay their eggs in the near neighbourhood of those spots.

With such a multitude of parasites occupying the composite flowers in
close proximity to the Anthophora's nests, it is impossible that the
majority of the swarm should not become infested sooner or later. At
the time of my observations, a comparatively tiny proportion of the
starving legion was waiting on the flowers; the others were still
wandering on the ground, where the Anthophoræ very rarely alight; and
yet I detected the presence of several Meloe-larvæ in the thoracic
down of nearly all the Anthophoræ which I caught and examined.

I have also found them on the bodies of the Melecta- and
Coelioxys-bees,[4] who are parasitic on the Anthophoræ. Suspending
their audacious patrolling before the galleries under construction,
these spoilers of the victualled cells alight for an instant on a
camomile-flower and lo, the thief is robbed! A tiny, imperceptible
louse has slipped into the thick of the downy fur and, at the moment
when the parasite, after destroying the Anthophora's egg, is laying
her own upon the stolen honey, will creep upon this egg, destroy it in
its turn and remain sole mistress of the provisions. The mess of honey
amassed by the Anthophora will thus pass through the hands of three
owners and remain finally the property of the weakest of the three.

[Footnote 4: Cf. _The Mason-bees_: chaps. viii. and ix.--_Translator's
Note_.]

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

The young Meloe-larvæ established in the down of the Anthophoræ or in
that of the Melecta- and the Coelioxys-bees, their parasites, had
adopted an infallible means of sooner or later reaching the desired
cell. Was it, so far as they were concerned, a choice dictated by the
foresight of instinct, or just simply the result of a lucky chance?
The question was soon decided. Various Flies--Drone-flies and
Bluebottles (_Eristalis tenax_ and _Calliphora vomitoria_)--would
settle from time to time on the groundsel- or camomile-flowers
occupied by the young Meloes and stop for a moment to suck the sweet
secretions. On all these Flies, with very few exceptions, I found
Meloe-larvæ, motionless in the silky down of the thorax. I may also
mention, as infested by these larvæ, an Ammophila (_A. hirsuta_),[5]
who victuals her burrows with a caterpillar in early spring, while her
kinswomen build their nests in autumn. This Wasp merely grazes, so to
speak, the surface of a flower; I catch her; there are Meloes moving
about her body. It is clear that neither the Drone-flies nor the
Bluebottles, whose larvæ live in putrefying matter, nor yet the
Ammophilæ who victual theirs with caterpillars, could ever have
carried the larvæ which invaded them into cells filled with honey.
These larvæ therefore had gone astray; and instinct, as does not often
happen, was here at fault.

[Footnote 5: For the Wasp known as the Hairy Ammophila, who feeds her
young on the Grey Worm, the caterpillar of the Turnip Moth, cf. _The
Hunting Wasps_, chaps. xviii. to xx.--_Translator's Note_.]

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

Their immobility is, as we have said, complete; but nothing is easier
than to arouse their suspended activity. Shake a camomile-blossom
lightly with a bit of straw: instantly the Meloes leave their
hiding-places, come up and scatter in all directions on the white
petals of the circumference, running over them from one end to the
other with all the speed which the smallness of their size permits. On
reaching the extreme end of the petals, they fasten to it either with
their caudal appendages, or perhaps with a sticky substance similar to
that furnished by the anal button of the Sitares; and, with their
bodies hanging outside and their six legs free, they bend about in
every direction and stretch as far out as they can, as though striving
to touch an object out of their reach. If nothing offers for them to
seize upon, after a few vain attempts they regain the centre of the
flower and soon resume their immobility.

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

After these experiments I tried others with hairy materials imitating
more or less closely the down of the Bees, with little pieces of cloth
or velvet cut from my clothes, with plugs of cotton wool, with pellets
of flock gathered from the everlastings. Upon all these objects,
offered with the tweezers, the Meloes flung themselves without any
difficulty; but, instead of keeping quiet, as they do on the bodies of
the Bees, they soon convinced me, by their restless behaviour, that
they found themselves as much out of their element on these furry
materials as on the smooth surface of a bit of straw. I ought to have
expected this: had I not just seen them wandering without pause upon
the everlastings enveloped with cottony flock? If reaching the shelter
of a downy surface were enough to make them believe themselves safe in
harbour, nearly all would perish, without further attempts, in the
down of the plants.

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

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

After exhausting the insect class, I put within their reach my last
resource, a large black Spider. Without hesitation they passed from
the flower to the arachnid, made for places near the joints of the
legs and settled there without moving. Everything therefore seems to
suit their plans for leaving the provisional abode where they are
waiting; without distinction of species, genus, or class, they fasten
to the first living creature that chance brings within their reach. We
now understand how it is that these young larvæ have been observed
upon a host of different insects and especially upon the early Flies
and Bees pillaging the flowers; we can also understand the need for
that prodigious number of eggs laid by a single Oil-beetle, since the
vast majority of the larvæ which come out of them will infallibly go
astray and will not succeed in reaching the cells of the Anthophoræ.
Instinct is at fault here; and fecundity makes up for it.

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

How then do they recognize the nature of the object to which they have
just moved? How is it that this object, whatever the quality of its
surface, will sometimes suit them and sometimes not? Do they judge
their new lodging by sight? But then no mistake would be possible; the
sense of sight would tell them at the outset whether the object within
reach was suitable or not; and emigration would or would not take
place according to its decision. And then how can we suppose that,
buried in the dense thicket of a pellet of cotton-wool or in the
fleece of an Anthophora, the imperceptible larva can recognize, by
sight, the enormous mass which it is perambulating?

Is it by touch, by some sensation due to the inner vibrations of
living flesh? Not so, for the Meloes remain motionless on insect
corpses that have dried up completely, on dead Anthophoræ taken from
cells at least a year old. I have seen them keep absolutely quiet on
fragments of an Anthophora on a thorax long since nibbled and emptied
by the Mites. By what sense then can they distinguish the thorax of an
Anthophora from a velvety pellet, when sight and touch are out of the
question? The sense of smell remains. But in that case what exquisite
subtlety must we not take for granted? Moreover, what similarity of
smell can we admit between all the insects which, dead or alive, whole
or in pieces, fresh or dried, suit the Meloes, while anything else
does not suit them? A wretched louse, a living speck, leaves us
mightily perplexed as to the sensibility which directs it. Here is yet
one more riddle added to all the others.

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

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

Were it necessary to prove this, it would be enough to say that we
never see these larvæ attempt to pierce the skin of the Bee, or else
to nibble at a hair or two, nor do we see them increase in size so
long as they are on the Bee's body. To the Meloes, as to the Sitares,
the Anthophora serves merely as a vehicle which conveys them to their
goal, the victualled cell.

It remains for us to learn how the Meloe leaves the down of the Bee
which has carried it, in order to enter the cell. With larvæ collected
from the bodies of different Bees, before I was fully acquainted with
the tactics of the Sitares, I undertook, as Newport had done before
me, certain investigations intended to throw light on this leading
point in the Oil-beetle's history. My attempts, based upon those which
I had made with the Sitares, resulted in the same failure. The tiny
creatures, when brought into contact with Anthophora-larvæ or -nymphs,
paid no attention whatever to their prey; others, placed near cells
which were open and full of honey, did not enter them, or at most
ventured to the edge of the orifice; others, lastly, put inside the
cell, on the dry wall or on the surface of the honey, came out again
immediately or else got stuck and died. The touch of the honey is as
fatal to them as to the young Sitares.

Searches made at various periods in the nests of the Hairy-footed
Anthophora had taught me some years earlier that _Meloe cicatricosus_,
like the Sitares, is a parasite of that Bee; indeed I had at different
times discovered adult Meloes, dead and shrivelled, in the Bee's
cells. On the other hand, I knew from Léon Dufour that the little
yellow animal, the Louse found in the Bee's down, had been recognized,
thanks to Newport's investigations, as the larva of the Oil-beetle.
With these data, rendered still more striking by what I was learning
daily on the subject of the Sitares, I went to Carpentras, on the 21st
of May, to inspect the nests of the Anthophoræ, then building, as I
have described. Though I was almost certain of succeeding, sooner or
later, with the Sitares, who were excessively abundant, I had very
little hope of the Meloes, which on the contrary are very scarce in
the same nests. Circumstances, however, favoured me more than I dared
hope and, after six hours' labour, in which the pick played a great
part, I became the possessor, by the sweat of my brow, of a
considerable number of cells occupied by Sitares and two other cells
appropriated by Meloes.

While my enthusiasm had not had time to cool at the sight, momentarily
repeated, of a young Sitaris perched upon an Anthophora's egg floating
in the centre of the little pool of honey, it might well have burst
all restraints on beholding the contents of one of these cells. On the
black, liquid honey a wrinkled pellicle is floating; and on this
pellicle, motionless, is a yellow louse. The pellicle is the empty
envelope of the Anthophora's egg; the louse is a Meloe-larva.

The story of this larva becomes self-evident. The young Meloe leaves
the down of the Bee at the moment when the egg is laid; and, since
contact with the honey would be fatal to the grub, it must, in order
to save itself, adopt the tactics followed by the Sitaris, that is to
say, it must allow itself to drop on the surface of the honey with the
egg which is in the act of being laid. There, its first task is to
devour the egg which serves it for a raft, as is attested by the empty
envelope on which it still remains; and it is after this meal, the
only one that it takes so long as it retains its present form, that it
must commence its long series of transformations and feed upon the
honey amassed by the Anthophora. This was the reason of the complete
failure both of my attempts and of Newport's to rear the young
Meloe-larvæ. Instead of offering them honey, or larvæ, or nymphs, we
should have placed them on the eggs recently laid by the Anthophora.

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




CHAPTER V
HYPERMETAMORPHOSIS


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

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

The rapidity however is not to be compared with that with which the
gluttonous larvæ of the Anthophora consume their food. Thus, on
visiting the dwellings of the Anthophoræ for the last time, on the
25th of June, I found that the Bee's larvæ had all finished their
rations and attained their full development, whereas those of the
Sitares, still immersed in the honey, were, for the most part, only
half the size which they must finally attain. This is yet another
reason why the Sitares should destroy an egg which, were it to
develop, would produce a voracious larva, capable of starving them in
a very short time. When rearing the larvæ myself in test-tubes, I have
found that the Sitares take thirty-five to forty days to finish their
mess of honey and that the larvæ of the Anthophora spend less than a
fortnight over the same meal.

It is in the first half of July that the Sitaris-grubs reach their
full dimensions. At this period the cell usurped by the parasite
contains nothing beyond a full-fed larva and, in a corner, a heap of
reddish droppings. This larva is soft and white, about half an inch in
length and a quarter of an inch wide at its broadest part. Seen from
above as it floats on the honey, it is elliptical in form, tapering
gradually towards the front and more suddenly towards the rear. Its
ventral surface is highly convex; its dorsal surface, on the contrary,
is almost flat. When the larva is floating on the liquid honey, it is
as it were steadied by the excessive development of the ventral
surface immersed in the honey, which enables it to acquire an
equilibrium that is of the greatest importance to its welfare. In
fact, the breathing-holes, arranged without means of protection on
either edge of the almost flat back, are level with the viscous liquid
and would be choked by that sticky glue at the least false movement,
if a suitably ballasted hold did not prevent the larva from heeling
over. Never was corpulent abdomen of greater use: thanks to this
plumpness of the belly the larva is protected from asphyxia.

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

The labrum is prominent, is not distinctly divided from the head, is
curved in front and edged with pale and very fine bristles. The
mandibles are small, reddish toward the tips, blunt and hollowed out
spoonwise on the inner side. Below the mandibles is a fleshy part
crowned with two very tiny nipples. This is the lower lip with its two
palpi. It is flanked right and left by two other parts, likewise
fleshy, adhering closely to the lip and bearing at the tip a
rudimentary palp consisting of two or three very tiny joints. These
two parts are the future jaws. All this apparatus of lips and jaws is
completely immobile and in a rudimentary condition which is difficult
to describe. They are budding organs, still faint and embryonic. The
labrum and the complicated lamina formed by the lip and the jaws leave
between them a narrow slit in which the mandibles work.

The legs are merely vestiges, for, though they consist of three tiny
cylindrical joints, they are barely a fiftieth of an inch in length.
The creature is unable to make use of them, not only in the liquid
honey upon which it lives, but even on a solid surface. If we take the
larva from the cell and place it on a hard substance, to observe it
more readily, we see that the inordinate protuberance of the abdomen,
by lifting the thorax from the ground, prevents the legs from finding
a support. Lying on its side, the only possible position because of
its conformation, the larva remains motionless or only makes a few
lazy, wriggling movements of the abdomen, without ever stirring its
feeble limbs, which for that matter could not assist it in any way. In
short, the tiny creature of the first stage, so active and alert, is
succeeded by a ventripotent grub, deprived of movement by its very
obesity. Who would recognize in this clumsy, flabby, blind, hideously
pot-bellied creature, with nothing but a sort of stumps for legs, the
elegant pigmy of but a little while back, armour-clad, slender and
provided with highly perfected organs for performing its perilous
journeys?

Lastly, we count nine pairs of stigmata: one pair on the mesothorax
and the rest on the first eight segments of the abdomen. The last
pair, that on the eighth abdominal segment, consists of stigmata so
small that to detect them we have to gather their position by that in
the succeeding states of the larva and to pass a very patient
magnifying-glass along the direction of the other pairs. These are as
yet but vestigial stigmata. The others are fairly large, with pale,
round, flat edges.

If in its first form the Sitaris-larva is organized for action, to
obtain possession of the coveted cell, in its second form it is
organized solely to digest the provisions acquired. Let us take a
glance at its internal structure and in particular at its digestive
apparatus. Here is a strange thing: this apparatus, in which the hoard
of honey amassed by the Anthophora is to be engulfed, is similar in
every respect to that of the adult Sitaris, who possibly never takes
food. We find in both the same very short oesophagus, the same
chylific ventricle, empty in the perfect insect, distended in the
larva with an abundant orange-coloured pulp; in both the same
gall-bladders, four in number, connected with the rectum by one of
their extremities. Like the perfect insect, the larva is devoid of
salivary glands or any other similar apparatus. Its nervous system
comprises eleven ganglia, not counting the oesophageal collar, whereas
in the perfect insect there are only seven: three for the thorax, of
which the last two are contiguous, and four for the abdomen.

When its rations are finished the larva remains a few days in a
motionless condition, ejecting from time to time a few reddish
droppings until the digestive canal is completely cleared of its
orange-coloured pulp. Then the creature contracts itself, huddles
itself together; and before long we see coming detached from its body
a transparent, slightly crumpled and extremely fine pellicle, forming
a closed bag, in which the successive transformations will take place
henceforth. On this epidermal bag, this sort of transparent leather
bottle, formed by the larva's skin detached all of a piece, without a
slit of any kind, we can distinguish the several well-preserved
external organs: the head, with its antennæ, mandibles, paws and
palpi; the thoracic segments, with their vestiges of legs; the
abdomen, with its chain of breathing-holes still connected one to
another by tracheal threads.

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

It is an inert, segmented body, with an oval outline, a horny
consistency, just like that of pupæ and chrysalids, and a
bright-yellow colour, which we can best describe by likening it to
that of a lemon-drop. Its upper surface forms a double inclined plane
with a very blunt ridge; its lower surface is at first flat, but, as
the result of evaporation, becomes more concave daily, leaving a
projecting rim all around its oval outline. Lastly, its two
extremities or poles are slightly flattened. The major axis of the
lower surface averages half an inch in length and the minor axis a
quarter of an inch.

At the cephalic pole of this body is a sort of mask, modelled roughly
on the head of the larva, and at the opposite pole a small circular
disk deeply wrinkled at the centre. The three segments that come after
the head bear each a pair of very minute knobs, hardly visible without
the lens: these are, to the legs of the larva in its previous form,
what the cephalic mask is to the head of the same larva. They are not
organs, but indications, landmarks placed at the points where these
organs will appear later. On either side we count nine stigmata, set
as before on the mesothorax and the first eight abdominal segments.
The first eight breathing-holes are dark brown and stand out plainly
against the yellow colour of the body. They consist of small, shiny,
conical knobs, perforated at the top with a round hole. The ninth
stigma, though fashioned like the others, is ever so much smaller; it
cannot be distinguished without the lens.

The anomaly, already so manifest in the change from the first form to
the second, becomes even more so here; and we do not know what name to
give to an organism without a standard of comparison, not only in the
order of Beetles, but in the whole class of insects. While, on the one
hand, this organism offers many points of resemblance to the pupæ of
the Flies in its horny consistency, in the complete immobility of its
various segments, in the all but absolute absence of relief which
would enable one to distinguish the parts of the perfect insect;
while, on the other hand, it approximates to the chrysalids, because
the creature, to attain this condition, has to shed its skin, as the
caterpillars do, it differs from the pupa because it has for covering
not the surface skin, which has become horny, but rather one of the
inner skins of the larva; and it differs from the chrysalids by the
absence of mouldings which in the latter betray the appendages of the
perfect insect. Lastly, it differs yet more profoundly from the pupa
and the chrysalis because from both these organisms the perfect insect
springs straightway, whereas that which follows what we are
considering is simply a larva like that which went before. I shall
suggest, to denote this curious organism, the term _pseudochrysalis_;
and I shall reserve the names _primary larva_, _secondary larva_ and
_tertiary larva_ to denote, in a couple of words, each of the three
forms under which the Sitares possess all the characteristics of
larvæ.

Although the Sitaris, on assuming the form of the pseudochrysalis, is
transfigured outwardly to the point of baffling the science of
entomological phases, this is not so inwardly. I have at every season
of the year examined the viscera of the pseudochrysalids, which
generally remain stationary for a whole year, and I have never
observed other forms among their organs than those which we find in
the secondary larva. The nervous system has undergone no change. The
digestive apparatus is absolutely void and, because of its emptiness,
appears only as a thin cord, sunk, lost amid the adipose sacs. The
stercoral intestine has more substance; its outlines are better
defined. The four gall-bladders are always perfectly distinct. The
adipose tissue is more abundant than ever: it forms by itself the
whole contents of the pseudochrysalis, for in the matter of volume the
insignificant threads of the nervous system and the digestive
apparatus count for nothing. It is the reserve upon which life must
draw for its future labours.

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

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

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

And indeed, if we tear the double envelope which protects this
mystery, we recognize, not without astonishment, that we have before
our eyes a new larva similar to the secondary. After one of the
strangest transformations, the creature has gone back to its second
form. To describe the new larva is unnecessary, for it differs from
the former in only a few slight details. In both there is the same
head, with its various appendages barely outlined; the same vestiges
of legs, the same stumps transparent as crystal. The tertiary larva
differs from the secondary only by its abdomen, which is less fat,
owing to the absolute emptiness of the digestive apparatus; by a
double chain of fleshy cushions extending along each side; by the rim
of the stigmata, crystalline and slightly projecting, but less so than
in the pseudochrysalis; by the ninth pair of breathing-holes, hitherto
rudimentary but now almost as large as the rest; lastly by the
mandibles ending in a very sharp point. Evicted from its twofold
sheath, the tertiary larva makes only very lazy movements of
contraction and dilation, without being able to advance, without even
being able to maintain its normal position, because of the weakness of
its legs. It usually remains motionless, lying on its side, or else
displays its drowsy activity merely by feeble, wormlike movements.

By dint of these alternate contractions and dilations, indolent though
they be, the larva nevertheless contrives to turn right round in the
sort of shell with which the pseudochrysalidal integuments provide it,
when by accident it finds itself placed head downwards; and this
operation is all the more difficult inasmuch as the larva almost
exactly fills the cavity of the shell. The creature contracts, bends
its head under its belly and slides its front half over its hinder
half by wormlike movements so slow that the lens can hardly detect
them. In less than a quarter of an hour the larva, at first turned
upside down, finds itself again head uppermost. I admire this
gymnastic feat, but have some difficulty in understanding it, so small
is the space which the larva, when at rest in its cell, leaves
unoccupied, compared with that which we should be justified in
expecting from the possibility of such a reversal. The larva does not
long enjoy the privilege which enables it to resume inside its cell,
when this is moved from its original position, the attitude which it
prefers, that is to say, with its head up.

Two days, at most, after its first appearance it relapses into an
inertia as complete as that of the pseudochrysalis. On removing it
from its amber shell, we see that its faculty of contracting or
dilating at will is so completely paralysed that the stimulus of a
needle is unable to provoke it, though the integuments have retained
all their flexibility and though no perceptible change has occurred in
the organization. The irritability, therefore, which in the
pseudochrysalis is suspended for a whole year, reawakens for a moment,
to relapse instantly into the deepest torpor. This torpor will be
partly dispelled only at the moment of the passing into the nymphal
stage, to return immediately afterwards and last until the insect
attains the perfect state.

Further, on holding larvæ of the third form, or nymphs enclosed in
their cells, in an inverted position, in glass tubes, we never see
them regain an erect position, however long we continue the
experiment. The perfect insect itself, during the time that it is
enclosed in the shell, cannot regain it, for lack of the requisite
flexibility. This total absence of movement in the tertiary larva,
when a few days old, and also in the nymph, together with the
smallness of the space left free in the shell, would necessarily lead
to the conviction, if we had not witnessed the first moments of the
tertiary larva, that it is absolutely impossible for the creature to
turn right round.

And now see to what curious inferences this lack of observations made
at the due moment may lead us. We collect some pseudochrysalids and
heap them in a glass jar in all possible positions. The favourable
season arrives; and with very legitimate astonishment we find that, in
a large number of shells, the larva or nymph occupies an inverted
position, that is to say, the head is turned towards the anal
extremity of the shell. In vain we watch these reversed bodies for any
indications of movement; in vain we place the shells in every
imaginable position, to see if the creature will turn round; in vain,
once more, we ask ourselves where the free space is which this turning
would demand. The illusion is complete: I have been taken in by it
myself; and for two years I indulged in the wildest conjectures to
account for this lack of correspondence between the shell and its
contents, to explain, in short, a fact which is inexplicable once the
propitious moment has passed.

On the natural site, in the cells of the Anthophora, this apparent
anomaly never occurs, because the secondary larva, when on the point
of transformation into the pseudochrysalis, is always careful to place
its head uppermost, according as the axis of the cell more or less
nearly approaches the vertical. But, when the pseudochrysalids are
placed higgledy-piggledy in a box or jar, all those which are upside
down will later contain inverted larvæ or nymphs.

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

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

Nor does the nymph which succeeds this tertiary larva present any
peculiarity: it is the perfect insect in swaddling-bands, yellowish
white, with its various external members, clear as crystal, displayed
under the abdomen. A few weeks elapse, during which the nymph partly
dons the livery of the adult state; and, in about a month, the insect
moults for a last time, in the usual manner, in order to attain its
final form. The wing-cases are now of a uniform yellowish white, as
are the wings, the abdomen and the greater part of the legs; very
nearly all the rest of the body is of a glossy black. In the space of
twenty-four hours, the wing-cases assume their half-black, half-russet
colouring; the wings grow darker; and the legs finish turning black.
This done, the adult organism is completed. However, the Sitaris
remains still a fortnight in the intact shell, ejecting at intervals
white droppings of uric acid, which it pushes back together with the
shreds of its last two sloughs, those of the tertiary larva and of the
nymph. Lastly, about the middle of August, it tears the double bag
that contains it, pierces the lid of the Anthophora's cell, enters a
corridor and appears outside in quest of the other sex.

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

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

These larvæ are blind, soft, fleshy, yellowish white, covered with a
fine down visible only under the lens, curved into a fish-hook like
the larvæ of the Lamellicorns, to which they bear a certain
resemblance in their general configuration. The segments, including
the head, number thirteen, of which nine are provided with
breathing-holes with a pale, oval rim. These are the mesothorax and
the first eight abdominal segments. As in the Sitaris-larvæ, the last
pair of stigmata, that of the eighth segment of the abdomen, is less
developed than the rest.

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

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

The larger of the two larvæ of the 25th of June, placed in a test-tube
with what remained of its provisions, assumed a new form during the
first week of the following month. Its skin split along the front
dorsal half and, after being pushed half back, left partly uncovered a
pseudochrysalis bearing the closest analogy with that of the Sitares.
Newport did not see the larva of the Oil-beetle in its second form,
that which it displays when it is eating the mess of honey hoarded by
the Bees, but he did see its moulted skin half-covering the
pseudochrysalis which I have just mentioned. From the sturdy mandibles
and the legs armed with a powerful claw which he observed on this
moulted skin, Newport assumed that, instead of remaining in the same
Anthophora-cell, the larva, which is capable of burrowing, passes from
one cell to another in search of additional nourishment. This
suspicion seems to me to be well-founded, for the size which the larva
finally attains exceeds the proportions which the small quantity of
honey enclosed in a single cell would lead us to expect.

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

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

On comparing the pseudochrysalids of the Oil-beetles and Sitares, we
observe a most striking similarity between the two. The same structure
occurs in both, down to the smallest details. We find on either side
the same cephalic masks, the same tubercles occupying the place of the
legs, the same distribution and the same number of stigmata and,
lastly, the same colour, the same rigidity of the integuments. The
only points of difference are in the general appearance, which is not
the same in the two pseudochrysalids, and in the covering formed by
the cast skin of the late larva. In the Sitares, in fact, this cast
skin constitutes a closed bag, a pouch completely enveloping the
pseudochrysalis; in the Oil-beetles, on the contrary, it is split down
the back and pushed to the rear and, consequently, only half-covers
the pseudochrysalis.

The post-mortem examination of the only pseudochrysalis in my
possession showed me that, similarly to that which happens in the
Sitares, no change occurred in the organization of the viscera,
notwithstanding the profound transformations which take place
externally. In the midst of innumerable little sacs of adipose tissue
is buried a thin thread in which we easily recognize the essential
features of the digestive apparatus, both of the preceding larval form
and of the perfect insect. As for the medullary cord of the abdomen,
it consists, as in the larva, of eight ganglia. In the perfect insect
it comprises only four.

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

Be this as it may, I found at the end of August one of these
pseudochrysalids which had already attained the nymphal stage. It is
with the help of this precious capture that I shall be able to finish
the story of the Oil-beetle's development. The horny integuments of
the pseudochrysalis are split along a fissure which includes the whole
ventral surface and the whole of the head and runs up the back of the
thorax. This cast skin, which is stiff and keeps its shape, is
half-enclosed, as was the pseudochrysalis, in the skin shed by the
secondary larva. Lastly, through the fissure, which divides it almost
in two, a Meloe-nymph half-emerges; so that, to all appearances, the
pseudochrysalis has been followed immediately by the nymph, which does
not happen with the Sitares, which pass from the first of these two
states to the second only by assuming an intermediary form closely
resembling that of the larva which eats the store of honey.

But these appearances are deceptive, for, on removing the nymph from
the split sheath formed by the integuments of the pseudochrysalis, we
find, at the bottom of this sheath, a third cast skin, the last of
those which the creature has so far rejected. This skin is even now
adhering to the nymph by a few tracheal filaments. If we soften it in
water, we easily recognize that it possesses an organization almost
identical with that which preceded the pseudochrysalis. In the latter
case only, the mandibles and the legs are not so robust. Thus, after
passing through the pseudochrysalid stage, the Oil-beetles for some
time resume the preceding form, almost without modification.

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

The Sitares and Meloes belong to the same family, that of the
Meloidæ.[2] Their strange transformations must probably extend
throughout the group; indeed, I had the good fortune to discover a
third example, which I have not hitherto been able to study in all its
details after twenty-five years of investigation. On six occasions, no
oftener, during this long period I have set eyes on the
pseudochrysalis which I am about to describe. Thrice I obtained it
from old Chalicodoma-nests built upon a stone, nests which I at first
attributed to the Chalicodoma of the Walls and which I now refer with
greater probability to the Chalicodoma of the Sheds. I once extracted
it from the galleries bored by some wood-eating larva in the trunk of
a dead wild pear-tree, galleries afterwards utilized for the cells of
an Osmia, I do not know which. Lastly, I found a pair of them in
between the row of cocoons of the Three-pronged Osmia (_O.
tridentata_, DUF.), who provides a home for her larvæ in a channel dug
in the dry bramble stems. The insect in question therefore is a
parasite of the Osmiæ. When I extract it from the old
Chalicodoma-nests, I have to attribute it not to this Bee but to one
of the Osmiæ (_O. tricornis_ and _O. Latreillii_) who, when making
their nests, utilize the old galleries of the Mason-bee.

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

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

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

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

Of the six pseudochrysalids which a lucky accident placed at my
disposal, four were dead; the other two were furnished by _Zonitis
mutica_. This justified my forecast, which from the first, with
analogy for my guide, made me attribute these curious organizations to
the genus Zonitis. The meloidal parasite of the Osmiæ, therefore, is
recognized. We have still to make the acquaintance of the primary
larva, which gets itself carried by the Osmia into the cell full of
honey, and the tertiary larva, the one which, at a given moment, must
be found contained in the pseudochrysalis, a larva which will be
succeeded by the nymph.

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

But suppose that this diet varies, that the environment in which they
are called upon to live changes, that the circumstances accompanying
their development are liable to great changes: it then becomes evident
that the moult may and even must adapt the organization of the larva
to these new conditions of existence. The primary larva of the Sitaris
lives on the body of the Anthophora. Its perilous peregrinations
demand agility of movement, long-sighted eyes and masterly
balancing-appliances; it has, in fact, a slender shape, ocelli, legs
and special organs adapted to averting a fall. Once inside the Bee's
cell, it has to destroy the egg; its sharp mandibles, curved into
hooks, will fulfil this office. This done, there is a change of diet:
after the Anthophora's egg the larva proceeds to consume the ration of
honey. The environment in which it has to live also changes: instead
of balancing itself on a hair of the Anthophora, it has now to float
on a sticky fluid; instead of living in broad daylight, it has to
remain plunged in the profoundest darkness. Its sharp mandibles must
therefore become hollowed into a spoon that they may scoop up the
honey; its legs, its cirri, its balancing-appliances must disappear as
useless and even harmful, since all these organs can only involve the
larva in serious danger, by causing it to stick in the honey; its
slender shape, its horny integuments, its ocelli, being no longer
necessary in a dark cell where movement is impossible, where there are
no rough encounters to be feared, may likewise give place to complete
blindness, to soft integuments, to a heavy, slothful form. This
transfiguration, which everything shows to be indispensable to the
life of the larva, is effected by a simple moult.

We do not so plainly perceive the necessity of the subsequent forms,
which are so abnormal that nothing like them is known in all the rest
of the insect class. The larva which is fed on honey first adopts a
false chrysalid appearance and afterwards goes back to its earlier
form, though the necessity for these transformations escapes us
entirely. Here I am obliged to record the facts and to leave the task
of interpreting them to the future. The larva of the Meloidæ,
therefore, undergo four moults before attaining the nymphal state; and
after each moult their characteristics alter most profoundly. During
all these external changes, the internal organization remains
unchangingly the same; and it is only at the moment of the nymph's
appearance that the nervous system becomes concentrated and that the
reproductive organs are developed, absolutely as in the other Beetles.

Thus, to the ordinary metamorphoses which make a Beetle pass
successively through the stages of larva, nymph and perfect insect,
the Meloidæ add others which repeatedly transform the larva's
exterior, without introducing any modification of its viscera. This
mode of development, which preludes the customary entomological forms
by the multiple transfigurations of the larva, certainly deserves a
special name: I suggest that of _hypermetamorphosis_.

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

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

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

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

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

The pseudochrysalis is a body deprived of all movement and clad in
horny integuments which may be compared with those of the pupæ and
chrysalids. On these integuments we see a cephalic mask without
distinct or movable parts, six tubercles indicating the legs and nine
pairs of breathing-holes. In the Sitares the pseudochrysalis is
enclosed in a sort of sealed pouch and in the Zonites in a
tight-fitting bag formed of the skin of the secondary larva. In the
Meloes it is simply half-sheathed in the split skin of the secondary
larva.

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

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




CHAPTER VI
CEROCOMÆ, MYLABRES AND ZONITES


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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's very hot, my poor Émile; we are both of us pretty done. Never
mind: let's go back to our sand-hill and dig and have another search.
I must have the larva that comes before the pseudochrysalis; I must,
if possible, have the insect that comes out of it."

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

Let us now proceed to examine my double find. And first of all the
pseudochrysalis, which put me on the alert. It is a motionless, rigid
body, of a waxen yellow, smooth, shiny, curved like a fish-hook
towards the head, which is inflected. Under a very powerful
magnifying-glass the surface is seen to be strewn with very tiny
points which are slightly raised and shinier than the surface. There
are thirteen segments, including the head. The dorsal surface is
convex, the ventral surface flat. A blunt ridge divides the two
surfaces. The three thoracic segments bear each a pair of tiny conical
nipples, of a deep rusty red, signs of the future legs. The stigmata
are very distinct, appearing as specks of a deeper red than the rest
of the integuments. There is one pair, the largest, on the second
segment of the thorax, almost on the line dividing it from the first
segment. Then follow eight pairs, one on each segment of the abdomen
except the last, making in all nine pairs of stigmata. The last pair,
that of the eighth abdominal segment, is the smallest.

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

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

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

Apart from the general configuration, it will be seen that we have
here the strikingly characteristic appearance of the pseudochrysalids
of the Sitares, Oil-beetles and Zonites. There are the same rigid
integuments, of the red of a cough-lozenge or virgin wax; the same
cephalic mask, in which the future mouth-parts are represented by
faintly marked tubercles; the same thoracic studs, which are the
vestiges of the legs; the same distribution of the stigmata. I was
therefore firmly convinced that the parasite of the Mantis-hunters
could only be a Meloid.

Let us also record the description of the strange larva found
devouring the heap of Mantes in the burrows of the Tachytes. It is
naked, blind, white, soft and sharply curved. Its general appearance
suggests the larva of some Weevil. I should be even more accurate if I
compared it with the secondary larva of _Meloe cicatricosus_, of which
I once published a drawing in the _Annales des sciences
naturelles_.[3] If we reduce the dimensions considerably, we shall
have something very like the parasite of the Tachytes.

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

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

The legs are short, white and transparent and end in a feeble claw. A
pair of stigmata on the mesothorax, near the line of junction with the
prothorax; a stigma on either side of the first eight abdominal
segments; in all nine pairs of stigmata, distributed like those of the
pseudochrysalis. These stigmata are small, tinged with red and rather
difficult to distinguish. Varying in size, like the pseudochrysalid
which seems to come from it, this larva averages nearly half an inch
in length and an eighth of an inch in width.

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

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

I imagine that, in the burrows of the Tachytes, the grub, when its
heap of Mantes is consumed, moves from cell to cell until it has
satisfied its appetite. Its subterranean excursions cannot cover a
wide range, but they enable it to visit a few adjacent cells. I have
mentioned how greatly the Tachytes' provision of Mantes varies.[4] The
smaller rations certainly fall to the males, which are puny dwarfs
compared with their companions; the more plentiful fall to the
females. The parasitic grub to which fate has allotted the scanty
masculine ration has not perhaps sufficient with this share; it wants
an extra portion, which it can obtain by changing its cell. If it be
favoured by chance, it will eat according to the measure of its hunger
and will attain the full development of which its race allows; if it
wander about without finding anything, it will fast and will remain
small. This would explain the differences which I note in both the
grubs and the pseudochrysalids, differences amounting in linear
dimensions to a hundred per cent and more. The rations, rare or
abundant according to the cells lit upon, would determine the size of
the parasite.

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

During the active period, the larva undergoes a few moults; I have
witnessed at least one of these. The creature stripped of its skin
appears as it was before, without any change of form. It instantly
resumes its meal, which was interrupted while the old skin was shed;
it embraces with its legs another Mantis on the heap and proceeds to
nibble her. Whether simple or multiple, this moult has nothing in
common with the renewals due to the hypermetamorphosis, which so
profoundly change the creature's appearance.

Ten days' rearing in the partitioned box is enough to prove how right
I was when I looked upon the parasitic larva feeding on Mantes as the
origin of the pseudochrysalis, the object of my eager attention. The
creature, which I kept supplied with additional food as long as it
accepted it, stops eating at last. It becomes motionless, retracts its
head slightly and bends itself into a hook. Then the skin splits
across the head and down the thorax. The tattered slough is thrust
back; and the pseudochrysalis appears in sight, absolutely naked. It
is white at first, as the larva was; but by degrees and fairly rapidly
it turns to the russet hue of virgin wax, with a brighter red at the
tips of the various tubercles which indicate the future legs and
mouth-parts. This shedding of the skin, which leaves the body of the
pseudochrysalis uncovered, recalls the mode of transformation observed
in the Oil-beetles and is different from that of the Sitares and the
Zonites, whose pseudochrysalis remains wholly enveloped in the skin of
the secondary larva, a sort of bag which is sometimes loose, sometimes
tight and always unbroken.

The mist that surrounded us at the outset is dispelled. This is indeed
a Meloid, a true Meloid, one of the strangest anomalies among the
parasites of its tribe. Instead of living on the honey of a Bee, it
feeds on the skewerful of Mantes provided by a Tachytes. The
North-American naturalists have taught us lately that honey is not
always the diet of the Blister-beetles: some Meloidæ in the United
States devour the packets of eggs laid by the Grasshoppers. This is a
legitimate acquisition on their part, not an illegal seizure of the
food-stores of others. No one, as far as I am aware, had as yet
suspected the true parasitism of a carnivorous Meloid. It is
nevertheless very remarkable to find in the Blister-beetles, on both
sides of the Atlantic, this weakness for the flavour of Locust: one
devours her eggs; the other a representative of the order, in the
shape of the Praying Mantis and her kin.

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

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

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

Thirteen segments, including the head, which is large, with a
quadrilateral cranium, rounded at the sides. Short antennæ, consisting
of three knotted joints. Powerful curved mandibles, with two or three
little teeth at the end, of a fairly bright red. Labial palpi rather
bulky, short and with three joints, like the antennæ. The mouth-parts,
labrum, mandibles and palpi are movable and stir slightly, as though
seeking food. A small brown speck near the base of each antenna,
marking the place of the future eyes. Prothorax wider than the
segments that come after it. These are all of one width and are
distinctly divided by a furrow and a slight lateral rim. Legs short,
transparent, without a terminal claw. They are three-jointed stumps.
Pale stigmata, eight pairs of them, placed as in the pseudochrysalis,
that is, the first and largest pair on the line dividing the first two
segments of the thorax and the seven others on the first seven
abdominal segments. The secondary larva and the pseudochrysalis also
have a very small stigma on the penultimate segment of the abdomen.
This stigma has disappeared in the tertiary larva; at least I cannot
detect it with the aid of a good magnifying-glass.

Lastly, we find the same strong mandibles as in the secondary larva,
the same feeble legs, the same appearance of a Weevil-grub. The
movements return, but are less clearly marked than in the primary
form. The passage through the pseudochrysalid state has led to no
change that is really worth describing. The creature, after this
singular phase, is what it was before. The Meloes and Sitares, for
that matter, behave similarly.

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

The tertiary larval stage is of brief duration, lasting about a
fortnight. The larva then sheds its skin by a longitudinal rent along
the back, as did the secondary larva, uncovering the nymph, in which
we recognize the Beetle, the genus and species being almost
determinable by the antennæ.

The second year's development turned out badly. The few nymphs which I
obtained about the middle of June shrivelled up without attaining the
perfect form. Some pseudochrysalids remained on my hands without
showing any sign of approaching transformation. I attributed this
delay to lack of warmth. I was in fact keeping them in the shade, on a
what-not, in my study, whereas under natural conditions they are
exposed to the hottest sun, beneath a layer of sand a few inches deep.
To imitate these conditions without burying my charges, whose progress
I wished to follow comfortably, I placed the pseudochrysalids that
remained on a layer of fresh sand at the bottom of a glass receiver.
Direct exposure to the sun was impracticable: it would have been fatal
at a period when life is subterranean. To avoid it, I tied over the
mouth of the receiver a few thicknesses of black cloth, to represent
the natural screen of sand; and the apparatus thus prepared was
exposed for some weeks to the most brilliant sunshine in my window.
Under the cloth cover, which, owing to its colour, favours the
absorption of heat, the temperature, during the day-time, became that
of an oven; and yet the pseudochrysalids persisted in remaining
stationary. The end of July was near and nothing indicated a speedy
hatching. Convinced that my attempts at heating would be fruitless, I
replaced the pseudochrysalids in the shade, on the shelves, in glass
tubes. Here they passed a second year, still in the same condition.

June returned once more and with it the appearance of the tertiary
larva, followed by the nymph. For the second time this stage of
development was not exceeded; the one and only nymph that I succeeded
in obtaining shrivelled, like those of the year before. Will these two
failures, arising no doubt from the overdry atmosphere of my
receivers, conceal from us the genus and the species of the
Mantis-eating Meloid? Fortunately, no. The riddle is easily solved by
deduction and comparison.

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

Any lingering doubts may be dispelled: by good fortune, a friend of
mine, Dr. Beauregard, who is preparing a masterly work upon the
Blister-beetles, had some pseudochrysalids of Schreber's Cerocoma in
his possession. Having visited Sérignan for the purpose of scientific
investigations, he had searched the Tachytes' sand-heaps in my company
and taken back to Paris a few pseudochrysalids of grubs fed on Mantes,
in order to follow their development. His attempts, like mine, had
miscarried; but, on comparing the Sérignan pseudochrysalids with those
of Schreber's Cerocoma, which came from Aramon, near Avignon, he was
able to establish the closest resemblance between the two organisms.
Everything therefore confirms the supposition that my discovery can
relate only to Schaeffer's Cerocoma. As for the other, it must be
eliminated: its extreme rarity in my neighbourhood is a sufficient
reason.

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

The riddle is deciphered: the Meloid that eats Praying Mantes is
Schaeffer's Cerocoma, of whom I find plenty, in the spring, on the
blossoms of the everlasting. Whenever I see it, my attention is
attracted by an unusual peculiarity: the great difference of size that
is able to exist between one specimen and another, albeit of the same
sex. I see stunted creatures, females as well as males, which are
barely one third the length of their better-developed companions. The
Twelve-spotted Mylabris and the Four-spotted Mylabris present
differences quite as pronounced in this respect.

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

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

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

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

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

A sorry intellect and sorry manners, which hardly repay the minute
cares involved in the rearing. To browse, to love her lord, to dig a
hole in the earth and carelessly to bury her eggs in it: that is the
whole life of the adult Meloid. The dull creature acquires a little
interest only at the moment when the male begins to toy with his mate.
Every species has its own ritual in declaring its passion; and it is
not beneath the dignity of the observer to witness the manifestations,
sometimes so very strange, of the universal Eros, who rules the world
and brings a tremor to even the lowest of the brute creation. This is
the ultimate aim of the insect, which becomes transfigured for this
solemn function and then dies, having no more to do.

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

A female Cantharides is peacefully nibbling her leaf. A lover comes
upon the scene, approaches her from behind, suddenly mounts upon her
back and embraces her with his two pairs of hind-legs. Then with his
abdomen, which he lengthens as much as possible, he energetically
slaps that of the female, on the right side and the left by turns. It
is like the strokes of a washerwoman's bat, delivered with frenzied
rapidity. With his antennæ and his fore-legs, which remain free, he
furiously lashes the neck of the victim. While the blows fall thick as
hail, in front and behind, the head and corselet of the amorous swain
are shaken by an extravagant swaying and trembling. You would think
that the creature was having an epileptic fit.

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

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

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

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

While the front half of the body swings up and down, the fore-legs
execute magnetic passes on either side of the tight-clasped female,
moving with a sort of twirl, so rapidly that the eye can hardly follow
them. The female appears insensible to this flagellatory twirl. She
innocently curls her antennæ. The rejected suitor leaves her and moves
on to another. His dizzy, twirling passes, his protestations are
everywhere refused. The moment has not yet arrived, or rather the spot
is not propitious. Captivity appears to weigh upon the future mothers.
Before listening to their wooers they must have the open air, the
sudden joyful flight from cluster to cluster on the sunlit slope, all
gold with everlastings. Apart from the idyll of the twirling passes, a
mitigated form of the Cantharides' blows, the Cerocoma refused to
yield before my eyes to the last act of the bridal.

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

The Zonites, a rude clan, grazing on the heads of the prickly eryngo,
despise all tender preliminaries. A few rapid vibrations of the
antennæ on the males' part; and that is all. The declaration could not
be briefer. The pairing, with the creatures placed end to end, lasts
nearly an hour.

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

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

I take the mother from her pit while she is engaged in filling it up.
Delicately, with the tip of a camel-hair pencil, I move her a couple
of inches. The Beetle does not return to her batch of eggs, does not
even look for it. She climbs up the wire gauze and proceeds to graze
among her companions on the bindweed or scabious, without troubling
herself further about her eggs, whose hiding-place is only
half-filled. A second mother, whom I move only one inch, is no longer
able to return to her task, or rather does not think of doing so. I
take a third, after shifting her just as slightly, and, while the
forgetful creature is climbing up the trellis-work, bring her back to
the pit. I replace her with her head at the opening. The mother stands
motionless, looking thoroughly perplexed. She sways her head, passes
her front tarsi through her mandibles, then moves away and climbs to
the top of the dome without attempting anything. In each of these
three cases I have to finish filling in the pit myself. What then are
this maternity, which the touch of a brush causes to forget its
duties, and this memory, which is lost at a distance of an inch from
the spot? Compare with these shortcomings of the adult the expert
machinations of the primary larva, which knows where its victuals are
and as its first action introduces itself into the dwelling of the
host that is to feed it. How can time and experience be factors of
instinct? The newborn animalcule amazes us with its foresight; the
adult insect astonishes us with its stupidity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 9: Cf. _Bramble-bees and Others_: chaps. xii. to
xiv.--_Translator's Note_.]

The primary larva of the Mylabris therefore does not imitate those of
the Sitaris and the Oil-beetle; it does not settle in the fleece of
its host to get itself carried to the cell crammed with victuals. The
task of seeking and finding the heap of food falls upon its own
shoulders. The small number of the eggs that constitute a batch also
leads to the same conclusion. Remember that the primary larva of the
Oil-beetle, for instance, settles on any insect that happens to pay a
momentary visit to the flower in which the tiny creature is on the
look-out. Whether this visitor be hairy or smooth-skinned, a
manufacturer of honey, a canner of animal flesh or without any
determined calling, whether she be Spider, Butterfly, Fly or Beetle
makes no difference: the instant the little yellow louse espies the
new arrival, it perches on her back and leaves with her. And now it
all depends on luck! How many of these stray travellers must be lost;
how many will never be carried into a warehouse full of honey, their
sole food! Therefore, to remedy this enormous waste, the mother
produces an innumerable family. The Oil-beetle's batch of eggs is
prodigious. Prodigious too is that of the Sitaris, who is exposed to
similar misadventures.

If, with her thirty or forty eggs, the Mylabris had to run the same
risks, perhaps not one larva would reach the desired goal. For so
strictly limited a family a safer method is needed. The young larva
must not get itself carried to the game-basket, or more probably to
the honey-pot, at the risk of never reaching it; it must travel on its
own legs. Allowing myself to be guided by the logic of things, I shall
therefore complete the story of the Twelve-spotted Mylabris as
follows.

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

Two Zonites, both visitors of the eryngo-heads during the heats of
summer, are among the Meloidæ of my part of the country. They are
_Zonitis mutica_ and _Z. præusta_. I have spoken of the first in
another volume;[10] I have mentioned its pseudochrysalis found in the
cells of two Osmiæ, namely, the Three-pronged Osmia, which piles its
cells in a dry bramble-stem, and the Three-horned Osmia and also
Latreille's Osmia, both of which exploit the nests of the Chalicodoma
of the Sheds. The second Zonitis is to-day adding its quota of
evidence to a story which is still very incomplete. I have obtained
the Burnt Zonitis, in the first place, from the cotton pouches of
_Anthidium scapulare_, who, like the Three-toothed Osmia, makes her
nests in the brambles; in the second place, from the wallets of
_Megachile sericans_, made with little round disks of the leaves of
the common acacia; in the third place, from the cells which _Anthidium
bellicosum_[11] builds with partitions of resin in the shell of a dead
Snail. This last Anthidium is the victim also of the Unarmed Zonitis.
Thus we have two closely-related exploiters for the same victim.

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

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

During the last fortnight of July, I witness the emergence of the
Burnt Zonitis from the pseudochrysalis. The latter is cylindrical,
slightly curved and rounded at both ends. It is closely wrapped in the
cast skin of the secondary larva, a skin consisting of a diaphanous
bag, without any outlet, with running along each side a white tracheal
thread which connects the various stigmatic apertures. I easily
recognize the seven abdominal stigmata; they are round and diminish
slightly in width from front to back. I also detect the thoracic
stigma. Lastly, I perceive the legs, which are quite small, with weak
claws, incapable of supporting the creature. Of the mouth-parts I see
plainly only the mandibles, which are short, weak and brown. In short,
the secondary larva was soft, white, big-bellied, blind, with
rudimentary legs. Similar results were furnished by the shed skin of
the secondary larva of _Zonitis mutica_, consisting, like the other,
of a bag without an opening, fitting closely over the pseudochrysalis.

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

At the bottom of this pseudochrysalidal sheath I find a little white
wad which, when placed in water, softened and then patiently
unravelled with the tip of a paint-brush, yields a white, powdery
substance, which is uric acid, the usual product of the work of the
nymphosis, and a rumpled membrane, in which I recognize the cast skin
of the nymph. There should still be the tertiary larva, of which I see
not a trace. But, on taking a needle and gradually breaking the
envelope of the pseudochrysalis, after soaking it awhile in water, I
see it dividing into two layers, one an outer layer, brittle, horny in
appearance and currant-red; the other an inner layer, consisting of a
transparent, flexible pellicle. There can be no doubt that this inner
layer represents the tertiary larva, whose skin is left adhering to
the envelope of the pseudochrysalis. It is fairly thick and tough, but
I cannot detach it except in shreds, so closely does it adhere to the
horny, crumbly sheath.

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

The Zonites, therefore, display a peculiarity which is not offered by
the other Meloidæ, namely, a series of tightly-fitting shells, one
within the other. The pseudochrysalis is enclosed in the skin of the
secondary larva, a skin which forms a pouch without an orifice, fitted
very closely to its contents. The slough of the tertiary larva fits
even more closely to the inner surface of the pseudochrysalid sheath.
The nymph alone does not adhere to its envelope. In the Cerocomæ and
the Oil-beetles, each form of the hypermetamorphosis becomes detached
from the preceding skin by a complete extraction; the contents are
removed from the ruptured container and have no further connection
with it. In the Sitares, the successive casts are not ruptured and
remain enclosed inside one another, but with an interval between, so
that the tertiary larva can move and turn as it wishes in its multiple
enclosure. In the Zonites, there is the same arrangement, with this
difference, that, until the nymph appears, there is no empty space
between one slough and the next. The tertiary larva cannot budge. It
is not free, as witness its cast skin, which fits so precisely to the
envelope of the pseudochrysalis. This form would therefore pass
unperceived if its existence were not proclaimed by the membrane which
lines the inside of the pseudochrysalid pouch.

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




CHAPTER VII
THE CAPRICORN


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

[Footnote 1: Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, Abbé de Mureaux (1715-1780),
the leading exponent of sensational philosophy. His most important
work is the _Traité des sensations_, in which he imagines a statue,
organized like a man, and endows it with the senses one by one,
beginning with that of smell. He argues by a process of imaginative
reconstruction that all human faculties and all human knowledge are
merely transformed sensation, to the exclusion of any other principle,
that, in short, everything has its source in sensation: man is nothing
but what he has acquired.--_Translator's Note_.]

When wedge and mallet are at work, preparing my provision of firewood
under the grey sky that heralds winter, a favourite relaxation creates
a welcome break in my daily output of prose. By my express orders, the
woodman 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
prefer wood that is worm-eaten, _chirouna_, as he calls it, to sound
wood, which burns so much better. I have my views on the subject; and
the worthy man submits to them.

And now to us two, O my fine oak-trunk seamed with scars, gashed with
wounds whence trickle the brown drops smelling of the tan-yard. The
mallet drives home, the wedges bite, the wood splits. What do your
flanks contain? Real treasures for my studies. In the dry and hollow
parts, groups of various insects, capable of living through the bad
season of the year, have taken up their winter quarters: in the
low-roofed galleries, galleries built by some Buprestis Beetle, Osmiæ,
working their paste of masticated leaves, have piled their cells one
above the other; in the deserted chambers and vestibules, Megachiles
have arranged their leafy jars; in the live wood, filled with juicy
saps, the larvæ of the Capricorn (_Cerambyx miles_), the chief author
of the oak's undoing, have set up their home.

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

[Footnote 2: "Chafing and raging, he swalloweth the ground, neither
doth he make account when the noise of the trumpet soundeth."--Job,
xxxix, 23 (Douai version).--_Translator's Note_.]

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

The legs, consisting of three pieces, the first globular, the last
sharp-pointed, are mere rudiments, vestiges. They are hardly a
millimetre[3] long. For this reason, they are of no use whatever for
walking; they do not even bear upon the supporting surface, being kept
off it by the obesity of the chest. The organs of locomotion are
something altogether different. The Cetonia-grub[4] has shown us how,
with the aid of the hairs and the pad-like excrescences upon its
spine, it manages to reverse the universally-accepted usage and to
wriggle along on its back. The grub of the Capricorn is even more
ingenious: it moves at the same time on its back and belly; instead of
the useless legs of the thorax, it has a walking-apparatus almost
resembling feet, which appear, contrary to every rule, on the dorsal
surface.

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

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

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

With the double support of its back and belly, with alternate puffings
and shrinkings, the animal easily advances or retreats along its
gallery, a sort of mould which the contents fill without a gap. But,
if the 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. Laid on the surface of a piece of split oak, a rough,
uneven surface, due to the gash made by the wedge, it twists and
writhes, moves the front part of its body very slowly from left to
right and right to left, lifts it a little, lowers it and begins
again. These are the most extensive movements made. The vestigial legs
remain inert and absolutely useless.

Then why are they there? Better to lose them altogether, if it be true
that crawling inside the oak has deprived the animal of the good legs
with which it started. The influence of environment, so well-inspired
in endowing the grub with ambulatory pads, becomes a mockery 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, there
is no sign in the grub of the eyes wherewith the Cerambyx will be
richly 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's
inmost heart, the sense of hearing would be a non-sense. Where sounds
are lacking, of what use is the faculty of discerning them? Should
there be any doubts, I will reply to them with the following
experiment. Split lengthwise, the grub's abode leaves a half-tunnel
wherein I can watch the occupant's doings. When left alone, it now
gnaws the front of its gallery, now rests, fixed by its ambulacra to
the two sides of the channel. I avail myself of these moments of quiet
to enquire into its power of perceiving sounds. The banging of hard
bodies, the ring of metallic objects, the grating of a file upon a saw
are tried in vain. The animal remains impassive. Not a wince, not a
move of the skin; no sign of awakened attention. I succeed no better
when I scratch the wood close by with a hard point, to imitate the
sound of some neighbouring larva gnawing the intervening thickness.
The indifference to my noisy tricks could be no greater in a lifeless
object. The animal is deaf.

Can it smell? Everything tells us no. Scent is of assistance in the
search for food. But the Capricorn-grub need not go in quest of
eatables: it feeds on its home, it lives on the wood that gives it
shelter. Let us make an attempt or two, however. I scoop in a log of
fresh cypress-wood a groove of the same diameter as that of the
natural galleries and I place the worm inside it. Cypress-wood is
strongly-scented; it possesses in a high degree that resinous aroma
which characterizes most of the pine family. Well, when laid in the
odoriferous channel, the larva goes to the end, as far as it can go,
and makes no further movement. Does not this placid quiescence point
to the absence of a sense of smell? The resinous flavour, so strange
to the grub which has always lived in oak, ought to vex it, to trouble
it; and the disagreeable impression ought to be revealed by a certain
commotion, by certain attempts to get away. Well, nothing of the kind
happens: once the larva has found the right position in the groove, it
does not stir. I do more: I set before it, at a very short distance,
in its normal canal, a piece of camphor. Again, no effect. Camphor is
followed by naphthaline. Still nothing. After these fruitless
endeavours, I do not think that I am going too far when I deny the
creature a sense of smell.

Taste is there, no doubt. But such taste! The food is without variety:
oak, for three years at a stretch, and nothing else. What can the
grub's palate appreciate in this monotonous fare? The tannic relish of
a fresh piece, oozing with sap; the uninteresting flavour of an
over-dry piece, robbed of its natural condiment: these probably
represent the whole gustative scale.

There remains touch, the far-spreading passive sense common to all
live flesh that quivers under the goad of pain. The sensitive schedule
of the Cerambyx-grub, therefore, is limited to taste and touch, both
exceedingly obtuse. This almost brings us to Condillac's statue. The
imaginary 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 so
plainly perceived the scent of a rose and distinguished it so clearly
from any other. The real case will bear comparison with the
fictitious.

What can be the psychology of a creature possessing such a powerful
digestive organism combined with such a feeble set of senses? A vain
wish has often come to me in my dreams: it is to be able to think, for
a few minutes, with the crude brain of my Dog, to see the world with
the faceted eyes of a Gnat. How things would change in appearance!
They would change much more if interpreted by the intellect of the
grub. What have the lessons of touch and taste contributed to that
rudimentary receptacle of impressions? Very little; almost nothing.
The animal knows that the best bits possess an astringent flavour;
that the sides of a passage not carefully planed are painful to the
skin. This is the utmost limit of its acquired wisdom. In comparison,
the statue with the sensitive nostrils was a marvel of knowledge, a
paragon too generously endowed by its inventor. It remembered,
compared, judged, reasoned: does the drowsy, digesting paunch
remember? Does it compare? Does it reason? I defined the
Capricorn-grub as a bit of an intestine that crawls about. The
undeniable accuracy of this definition provides me with my answer: the
grub has the aggregate of sense-impressions that a 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 anything of the present, sees very
clearly into the future. Let us take an illustration on this curious
subject. For three years on end, the larva wanders about in the thick
of the trunk; it goes up, goes down, turns to this side and that; it
leaves one vein for another of better flavour, but without moving too
far from the inner depths, where the temperature is milder and greater
safety reigns. A day is at hand, a dangerous day for the recluse
obliged to quit its excellent retreat and face the perils of the
surface. Eating is not everything: we have to get out of this. The
larva, so well-equipped with tools and muscular strength, finds no
difficulty in going where it pleases, by boring through the wood; but
does the coming Capricorn, whose short spell of life must be spent in
the open air, possess the same advantages? Hatched inside the trunk,
will the long-horned Beetle be able to clear itself a way of escape?

That is the difficulty which the worm solves by inspiration. Less
versed in things of the future, despite my gleams of reason, I resort
to experiment with a view to fathoming the question. I begin by
ascertaining that the Capricorn, when he wishes to leave the trunk, is
absolutely unable to make use of the tunnel wrought by the larva. It
is a very long and very irregular maze, blocked with great heaps of
wormed wood. Its diameter decreases progressively from the final blind
alley to the starting-point. The larva entered the timber as slim as a
tiny bit of straw; it is to-day as thick as one's finger. In its three
years' wanderings, it always dug its gallery according to the mould of
its body. Evidently, the road by which the larva entered and moved
about cannot be the Capricorn's exit-way: his immoderate antennæ, his
long legs, his inflexible armour-plates would encounter an insuperable
obstacle in the narrow, winding corridor, which would have to be
cleared of its wormed wood and, moreover, greatly enlarged. It would
be less 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; and
each of my artificial cells receives a newly-transformed Cerambyx,
such as my provisions of firewood supply, when split by the wedge, in
October. The two pieces are then joined and kept together with a few
bands of wire. June comes. I hear a scraping inside my billets. Will
the Capricorns come out, or not? The delivery does not seem difficult
to me: there is hardly three-quarters of an inch to pierce. Not one
emerges. When all is silence, I open my apparatus. The captives, from
first to last, are dead. A vestige of sawdust, less than a pinch of
snuff, represents all their work.

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

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

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

We are now persuaded: despite his stalwart appearance, the Capricorn
is powerless to leave the tree-trunk by his unaided efforts. It
therefore falls to the worm, to the wisdom of that bit of an
intestine, to prepare the way for him. We see renewed, in another
form, the feats of prowess of the Anthrax, whose pupa, armed with
trepans, bores through rock on the feeble Fly's behalf. Urged by a
presentiment that to us remains an unfathomable mystery, the
Cerambyx-grub leaves the inside of the oak, its peaceful retreat, its
unassailable stronghold, to wriggle towards the outside, where lives
the foe, the Woodpecker, who may gobble up the succulent little
sausage. At the risk of its life, it stubbornly digs and gnaws to the
very bark, of which it leaves no more intact than the thinnest film, a
slender screen. Sometimes, even, the rash one opens the window wide.

This is the Capricorn's doorway. The insect will have but to file the
screen a little with its mandibles, to bump against it with its
forehead, in order to bring it down; it will even have nothing to do
when the window is free, as often happens. The unskilled carpenter,
burdened with his extravagant head-dress, will emerge from the
darkness through 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
distance down its gallery and, in the side of the exit-way, digs
itself a transformation-chamber more sumptuously furnished and
barricaded than any that I have ever seen. It is a roomy niche, shaped
like a flattened ellipsoid, the length of which reaches some eighty to
a hundred millimetres.[7] The two axes of the cross-section vary: the
horizontal measures twenty-five to thirty millimetres;[8] the vertical
measures only fifteen.[9] This greater dimension of the cell, where
the thickness of the perfect insect is concerned, leaves a certain
scope for the action of its legs when the time comes for forcing the
barricade, which is more than a close-fitting mummy-case would do.

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

[Footnote 8: .975 to 1.17 inch.--_Translator's Note_.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the exit-way is prepared and the cell upholstered in velvet and
closed with a three-fold barricade, the industrious worm has concluded
its 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 detail
in appearance; but it is everything in reality. To lie this way or
that in the long cell is a matter of great indifference to the worm,
which is very supple, turning easily in its narrow lodging and
adopting whatever position it pleases. The coming Capricorn will not
enjoy the same privileges. Stiffly girt in his horn cuirass, he will
not be able to turn from end to end; he will not even be capable of
bending, if some sudden wind should make the passage difficult. He
must absolutely find the door in front of him, lest he perish in the
casket. Should the grub forget this little formality, should it lie
down to its nymphal sleep with its head at the back of the cell, the
Capricorn is infallibly lost: his cradle becomes a hopeless dungeon.

But there is no fear of this danger: the knowledge of the bit of an
intestine is too sound in things of the future for the grub to neglect
the formality of keeping its head to the door. At the end of spring,
the Capricorn, now in possession of his full strength, dreams of the
joys of the sun, of the festivals of light. He wants to get out. What
does he find before him? A heap of filings easily dispersed with his
claws; 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 few
pushes of the forehead, a few tugs of the claws. In fact, I find the
lid intact on the threshold of the abandoned cells. Last comes a
second mass of woody remnants as easy to disperse as the first. The
road is now free: the Cerambyx has but to follow the spacious
vestibule, which will lead him, without the possibility of mistake, to
the exit. Should the window not be open, all that he has to do is to
gnaw through a thin screen: an easy task; and behold him outside, his
long antennæ aquiver with excitement.

What have we learnt from him? Nothing from him; much from his grub.
This grub, so poor in sensory organs, gives us with its prescience no
little food for reflection. It knows that the coming Beetle will not
be able to cut himself a road through the oak and it bethinks itself
of opening one for him at its own risk and peril. It knows that the
Cerambyx, in his stiff armour, will never be able to turn and make for
the orifice of the cell; and it takes care to fall into its nymphal
sleep with its head to the door. It knows how soft the pupa's flesh
will be and upholsters the bedroom with velvet. It knows that the
enemy is likely to break in during the slow work of the transformation
and, to set a bulwark against his attacks, it stores a calcium pap
inside its stomach. It knows the future with a clear vision, or, to be
accurate, behaves as though it knew the future. Whence did it derive
the motives of its actions? Certainly not from the experience of the
senses. What does it know of the outside world? Let us repeat, as much
as a bit of an intestine can know. And this sense-less creature
astounds us! I regret that the clever logician, instead of conceiving
a statue smelling a rose, did not imagine it gifted with some
instinct. How quickly he would have recognized that, quite apart from
sense-impressions, the animal, including man, possesses certain
psychological resources, certain inspirations that are innate and not
acquired!




CHAPTER VIII
THE PROBLEM OF THE SIREX


The cherry-tree supports a small jet-black Capricorn, _Cerambyx
cerdo_, whose larval habits it was as well to study in order to learn
whether the instincts are modified when the form and the organization
remain identical. Has this pigmy of the family the same talents as the
giant, the ravager of the oak-tree? Does it work on the same
principles? The resemblance between the two, both in the larval state
and in that of the perfect insect, is complete; the denizen of the
cherry-tree is an exact replica, on a smaller scale, of the denizen of
the oak. If instinct is the inevitable consequence of the organism, we
ought to find in the two insects a strict similarity of habits; if
instinct is, on the other hand, a special aptitude favoured by the
organs, we must expect variations in the industry exercised. For the
second time the alternative is forced upon our attention: do the
implements govern the practice of the craft, or does the craft govern
the employment of the implements? Is instinct derived from the organ,
or is the organ instinct's servant? An old dead cherry-tree will
answer our question.

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

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

The two Capricorns have, in short, the same system of closing their
cells. Note above all the lens-shaped stony lid. In each case we find
the same chemical composition, the same formation, like the cup of an
acorn. Dimensions apart, the two structures are identical. But no
other genus of Longicorn, so far as I am aware, practises this craft.
I will therefore complete the classic description of the
Cerambyx-beetles by adding one characteristic: they seal their
metamorphosis-chambers with a chalk slab.

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

Let us vary the testimony of the Longicorns. I am not selecting; I am
recording it in the order of my discoveries. The Shagreen Saperda (_S.
carcharias_) lives in the black poplar; the Scalary Saperda (_S.
scalaris_) lives in the cherry-tree. In both we find the same
organization and the same implements, as is fitting in two
closely-related species. The Saperda of the Poplar adopts the method
of the Capricorn of the Oak in its general features. It inhabits the
interior of the trunk. On the approach of the transformation, it makes
an exit-gallery, the door of which is open or else masked by a remnant
of bark. Then, retracing its steps, it blocks the passage with a
barricade of coarse packed shavings; and, at a depth of about eight
inches, not far from the heart of the tree, it hollows out a cavity
for the nymphosis without any particular upholstering. The defensive
system is limited to the long column of shavings. To deliver itself,
the insect will only have to push the heap of woody rubbish back, in
so many lots; the path will open in front of it ready-made. If some
screen of bark hide the gallery from the outside, its mandibles will
easily dispose of that: it is soft and not very thick.

The Scalary Saperda imitates the habits of its messmate, the Capricorn
of the Cherry-tree. Its larva lives between the wood and the bark. To
undergo its transformation, it goes down instead of coming up. In the
sap-wood, parallel with the surface of the trunk, under a layer of
wood barely a twenty-fifth of an inch in thickness, it makes a
cylindrical cell, rounded at the ends and roughly padded with ligneous
fibres. A solid plug of shavings barricades the entrance, which is not
preceded by any vestibule. Here the work of deliverance is the
simplest. The Saperda has only to clear the door of his chamber to
find beneath his mandibles the little bit of bark that remains to be
pierced. As you see, we once more have to do with two specialists,
each working in his own manner with the same tools.

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

The Nine-spotted Buprestis (_Ptosima novemmaculata_) behaves in the
apricot-tree precisely as the Bronze Buprestis does in the poplar. Its
larva bores the inside of the trunk with very low-ceilinged galleries,
usually parallel with the axis; then, at a distance of an inch and a
quarter or an inch and a half from the surface, it suddenly makes a
sharp turn and proceeds in the direction of the bark. It tunnels
straight ahead, taking the shortest road, instead of advancing by
irregular windings as at first. Moreover, a sensitive intuition of
coming events inspires its chisel to alter the plan of work. The
perfect insect is a cylinder; the grub, wide in the thorax but slender
elsewhere, is a strap, a ribbon. The first, with its unyielding
cuirass, needs a cylindrical passage; the second needs a very low
tunnel, with a roof that will give a purchase to the ambulatory
nipples of the back. The larva therefore changes its manner of boring
utterly: yesterday, the gallery, suited to a wandering life in the
thickness of the wood, was a wide burrow with a very low ceiling,
almost a slot; to-day the passage is cylindrical: a gimlet could not
bore it more accurately. This sudden change in the system of
road-making on behalf of the coming insect once more suggests for our
meditation the eminent degree of foresight possessed by a bit of an
intestine.

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

I find numbers of specimens of a black Buprestis (_B. octoguttata_) in
the old stumps of pine-trees left standing in the ground, hard outside
but soft within, where the wood is as pliable as tinder. In this
yielding substance, which has a resinous aroma, the larvæ spend their
life. For the metamorphosis they leave the unctuous regions of the
centre and penetrate the hard wood, where they hollow out oval
recesses, slightly flattened, measuring from twenty-five to thirty
millimetres[1] in length. The major axis of these cells is always
vertical. They are continued by a wide exit-path, sometimes straight,
sometimes slightly curved, according as the tree is to be quitted
through the section above or through the side. The exit-channel is
nearly always bored completely; the window by which the insect escapes
opens directly upon the outside world. At most, in a few rare
instances, the grub leaves the Buprestis the trouble of piercing a
leaf of wood so thin as to be translucent. But, if easy paths are
necessary to the insect, protective ramparts are no less needed for
the safety of the nymphosis; and the larva plugs the liberating
channel with a fine paste of masticated wood, very different from the
ordinary sawdust. A layer of the same paste divides the bottom of the
chamber from the low-ceilinged gallery, the work of the grub's active
life. Lastly, the magnifying-glass reveals upon the walls of the cell
a tapestry of woody fibres, very finely divided, standing erect and
closely shorn, so as to make a sort of velvet pile. This quilted
lining, of which the Cerambyx of the Oak showed us the first example,
is, it seems to me, pretty often employed by the wood-eaters,
Buprestes as well as Longicorns.

[Footnote 1: .975 to 1.17 inch.--_Translator's Note_.]

After these migrants, which travel from the centre of the tree to the
surface, we will mention some others which from the surface plunge
into the interior. A small Buprestis who ravages the cherry-trees,
_Anthaxia nitidula_, passes his larval existence between the wood and
the bark. When the time comes for changing its shape, the pigmy
concerns itself, like the others, with future and present needs. To
assist the perfect insect, the grub first gnaws the under side of the
bark, leaving a thin screen of cuticle untouched, and then sinks in
the wood a perpendicular well, blocked with unresisting sawdust. That
is on behalf of the future: the frail Buprestis will be able to leave
without hindrance. The bottom of the well, better wrought than the
rest and ceiled with the aid of an adhesive fluid which holds the fine
sawdust of the stopper in place, is a thing of the present; it is the
nymphosis-chamber.

A second Buprestis, _Chrysobothrys chrysostigma_, likewise an
exploiter of the cherry-tree, between the wood and the bark, although
more vigorous, expends less labour on its preparations. Its chamber,
with modestly varnished walls, is merely an expanded extension of the
ordinary gallery. The grub, disinclined for persistent labour, does
not bore the wood. It confines itself to hollowing a slanting dug-out
in the bark, without touching the surface layer, through which the
insect will have to gnaw its own way.

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

An inhabitant of old pine-stumps, _Criocephalus ferus_ makes an
exit-gallery which yawns widely on the outside world, opening either
on the section of the stump or on the sides. The road is barricaded
about two inches down with a long plug of coarse shavings. Next comes
the nymph's cylindrical, compressed apartment, which is padded with
woody fibres. It is continued underneath by the labyrinth of the
larva, the burrow crammed full of digested wood. Note also the
complete boring of the liberating passage, including the bark when
there is any.

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

_Clytus tropicus_, a sapper of the cherry-tree, _C. arietis_ and _C.
arvicola_, sappers of the hawthorn, have a cylindrical exit-gallery,
with a sharp turn to it. The gallery is masked on the outside by a
remnant of bark or wood, hardly a millimetre thick,[2] and widens, not
far from the surface, into a nymphosis-chamber, which is divided from
the burrow by a mass of packed sawdust.

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

To continue the subject would entail an excess of monotonous
repetition. The general law stands out very clearly from these few
data: the wood-eating grubs of the Longicorns and Buprestes prepare
the path of deliverance for the perfect insect, which will have merely
in one case to pass a barricade of shavings or wormed wood, or in
another to pierce a slight thickness of wood or bark. Thanks to a
curious reversal of its usual attributes, youth is here the season of
energy, of strong tools, of stubborn work; adult age is the season of
leisure, of industrial ignorance, of idle diversions, without trade or
profession. The infant has its paradise in the arms of its mother, its
providence; here the infant, the grub, is the providence of the
mother. With its patient tooth, which neither the perils of the
outside world nor the difficult task of boring through hard wood are
able to deter, it clears a way for her to the supreme delights of the
sun. The youngster prepares an easy life for the adult.

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

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

They have not the strength, or rather the patient art; and the larva,
more highly gifted, works for them. It gnaws with indomitable
perseverance, an essential to success even for the strong; it digs
with amazing foresight. It knows the future shape of the adult,
whether round or oval, and bores the exit-passage accordingly, making
it cylindrical in one case and elliptical in the other. It knows that
the adult is very impatient to reach the light; and it leads her
thither by the shortest way. In its wandering life in the heart of the
tree, it loves low-roofed, winding tunnels, just big enough to pass
through, or widening into stations when it strikes a vein with a
better flavour; now, it makes a short, straight, roomy corridor,
leading with a sharp bend to the outside world. It had plenty of time
during its capricious wanderings; the adult has none to spare: his
days are numbered; he must get out as quickly as he can. Hence the
shortest road and as little encumbered by obstacles as is consistent
with safety. The grub knows that the too sudden junction of the
horizontal and the vertical part would stop the stiff, inflexible
insect and bends it towards the outside with a gentle curve. This
elbow changing the direction occurs whenever the larva ascends from
the depths; it is very short when the nymphosis-chamber is next to the
surface, but continues for some length when the chamber is well inside
the trunk. In this case, the path traced by the grub has so regular a
curve that you feel inclined to subject the work to geometrical
measurement.

For want of sufficient data, I should have left this elbow in the
shadow of a note of interrogation, had I had at my disposal only the
emergence-galleries of the Longicorns and Buprestes, which are too
short to lend themselves to trustworthy examination with the
compasses. A lucky find provided me with the factors required. This
was the trunk of a dead poplar, riddled, to a height of several yards,
with an infinite number of round holes the diameter of a pencil. The
precious pole, still standing, is uprooted with due respect, in view
of my designs, and carried into my study, where it is sawn into
longitudinal sections planed smooth.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, for the compasses, but not perhaps for the sapper. The length
traversed is not the only factor of the work accomplished, of the
total activity expended. We must take into account the resistance
overcome, a resistance which varies according to the depth of the more
or less hard strata and according to the method of attacking the woody
fibres, which are either broken across or divided lengthwise. Under
these conditions, whose value remains to be determined, can there be a
curve involving a minimum of mechanical labour in cutting through the
wood?

I was already trying to discover how the resistance may vary according
to depth and direction; I was working out my differentials and my
minimum integrals, when a very simple idea overturned my slippery
scaffolding. The calculation of variations has nothing to do with the
matter. The animal is not the moving body of the mathematicians, the
particle of matter guided in its trajectory solely by the motive
forces and the resistance of the medium traversed; it bears within
itself conditions which control the others. The adult insect does not
even enjoy the larva's privileges; it cannot bend freely in all
directions. Under its harness it is almost a stiff cylinder. To
simplify the explanation, we may liken the insect to a section of an
inflexible straight line.

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

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

It remains to discover whether the facts confirm the logical argument.
I take accurate tracings of a score of galleries, selecting those
whose length best lends itself to the test of the compasses. Well,
logic agrees with reality: over lengths which sometimes exceed four
inches, the track of the compasses is identical with that of the
insect. The most pronounced deviations do not exceed the small
variations which we must reasonably expect in a problem of a physical
nature, a problem incompatible with the absolute accuracy of abstract
truths.

The Sirex' exit-gallery then is a wide arc of a circle whose lower
extremity is connected with the corridor of the larva and whose upper
extremity is prolonged in a straight line which ends at the surface
with a perpendicular or slightly oblique incidence. The wide
connecting arc enables the insect to tack about. When, starting from a
position parallel with the axis of the tree, the Sirex has passed
gradually to a transversal position, he completes his course in a
straight line, which is the shortest road.

Does the trajectory imply the minimum of work? Yes, under the
conditions of the insect's existence. If the larva had taken the
precaution to place itself in a different direction when preparing for
the nymphosis, to turn its head towards the nearest point of the bark
instead of turning it lengthwise with the trunk, obviously the adult
would escape more easily: he would merely have to gnaw straight in
front of him in order to pass through the minimum thickness. But
reasons of convenience whereof the grub is the sole judge, reasons
dictated perhaps by weight, cause the vertical to precede the
horizontal position. In order to pass from the former to the latter,
the insect veers round by describing the arc of a circle. When this
turn has been effected, the distance is completed in a straight line.

Let us consider the Sirex at his starting-point. His stiffness of
necessity compels him to turn gradually. Here the insect can do
nothing of its own initiative; everything is mechanically determined.
But, being free to pivot on its axis and to attack the wood on either
side of the sheath, it has the option of attempting this reversal in a
host of different ways, by a series of connected arcs, not in the same
plane. Nothing prevents it from describing winding curves by revolving
upon itself: spirals, loops constantly changing their direction, in
fact, the complicated route of a creature that has lost its way. It
might wander in a tortuous maze, making fresh attempts here, there and
everywhere, groping for ever so long without succeeding.

But it does not grope and it succeeds very well. Its gallery is still
contained within one plane, the first condition of the minimum of
labour. Moreover, of the different vertical planes that can pass
through the eccentric starting-point, one, the plane which passes
through the axis of the tree, corresponds on the one side with the
minimum of resistance to be overcome and on the other with the
maximum. Nothing prevents the Sirex from tracing his path in any one
of the multitude of planes on which the path would possess an
intermediate value between the shortest and the longest. The insect
refuses them all and constantly adopts the one which passes through
the axis, choosing, of course, the side that entails the shortest
path. In brief, the Sirex' gallery is contained in a plane pointing
towards the axis of the tree and the starting-point; and of the two
portions of this plane the channel passes through the less extensive.
Under the conditions, therefore, imposed upon him by his stiffness the
hermit of the poplar-tree releases himself with the minimum of
mechanical labour.

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

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

There is an exit-compass, that is incontestable, both for the larvæ
preparing the passage of deliverance and for the adult insect, the
Sirex obliged to make that passage for himself. What is it? Here the
problem becomes surrounded with a darkness which is perhaps
impenetrable; we are not well enough equipped with means of receiving
impressions even to imagine the causes which guide the creature. There
is, in certain events, another world of the senses in which our organs
perceive nothing, a world which is closed to us. The eye of the camera
sees the invisible and photographs the image of the ultra-violet rays;
the tympanum of the microphone hears what to us is silence. A
scientific toy, a chemical contrivance surpass us in sensibility.
Would it be rash to attribute similar faculties to the delicate
organization of the insect, even with regard to agencies unknown to
our science, because they do not fall within the domain of our senses?
To this question there is no positive reply; we have suspicions and
nothing more. Let us at least dispel a few false notions that might
occur to us.

Does the wood guide the insect, adult or larva, by its structure?
Gnawed across the grain, it must produce a certain impression; gnawed
lengthwise, it must produce a different impression. Is there not
something here to guide the sapper? No, for in the stump of a tree
left standing the emergence takes place, according to the proximity of
the light, sometimes by way of the horizontal section, by means of a
rectilinear path running along the grain, and sometimes by way of the
side, by means of a curved road cutting across the grain.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX
THE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS


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

Heaven forfend that I should complain! The gathering of ideas does not
necessarily imply distant expeditions. Jean-Jacques Rousseau[1]
herborized with the bunch of chick-weed whereon he fed his Canary;
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre[2] discovered a world on a strawberry-plant
that grew by accident in a corner of his window; Xavier de Maistre,[3]
using an arm-chair by way of post-chaise, made one of the most famous
of journeys around his room.

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 4: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. vi. to
ix.--_Translator's Note_.]

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

If cruising among the nooks and corners of the garden do not suffice,
a longer voyage shows ample profit. I double the cape of the
neighbouring hedges and, at a few hundred yards, enter into relations
with the Sacred Beetle,[6] the Capricorn, the Geotrupes,[7] the
Copris,[8] the Decticus,[9] the Cricket,[10] the Green
Grasshopper,[11] in short, with a host of tribes the telling of whose
story would exhaust a lifetime. Certainly, I have enough and even too
much to do with my near neighbours, without leaving home to rove in
distant lands.

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

[Footnote 7: Cf. _idem_: chaps. xii. to xiv.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 8: Cf. _idem_: chaps. ix. and xvi.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 9: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. xi. to
xiii.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 10: Cf. _idem_: chaps. xv. and xvi.--_Translator's Note_.]

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

Besides, roaming the world, scattering one's attention over a host of
subjects, is not observing. The travelling entomologist can stick
numerous species, the joy of the collector and the nomenclator, into
his boxes; but to gather circumstantial evidence is a very different
matter. A Wandering Jew of science, he has no time to stop. Where a
prolonged stay would be necessary to study this or that fact, he is
hurried past the next stage. We must not expect the impossible of him
under these conditions. Let him pin his specimens to cork tablets, let
him steep them in jars of spirit, and leave to the sedentary the
patient observations that require time.

This explains the extreme penury of history outside the dry
descriptions of the nomenclator. Overwhelming us with its numbers, the
exotic insect nearly always preserves the secret of its manners.
Nevertheless, it were well to compare what happens under our eyes with
that which happens elsewhere; it were excellent to see how, in the
same guild of workers, the fundamental instinct varies with climatic
conditions.

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

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

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

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

A glorious beginning! An accidental find procures me, to begin with,
the Splendid Phanæus (_P. splendidulus_), who combines a coppery
effulgence with the sparkling green of the emerald. One is quite
astonished to see so rich a gem load its basket with ordure. It is the
jewel on the dung-hill. The corselet of the male is grooved with a
wide hollow and he sports a pair of sharp-edged pinions on his
shoulders; on his forehead he plants a horn which vies with that of
the Spanish Copris. While equally rich in metallic splendour, his mate
has no fantastic embellishments, which are an exclusive prerogative of
masculine dandyism among the Dung-beetles of La Plata as among our
own.

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

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

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

Settled under the sumptuous dish dropped by the Ox, the Phanæus, one
would think, ought to make the very best use of it and to stock her
burrow with a number of ovoids, after the example of the Lunary
Copris. She does nothing of the sort, preferring to roam from one find
to the other and to take from each the wherewithal to model a single
pellet, which is left to itself for the soil to incubate. She is not
driven to practise economy even when she is working the produce of the
Sheep far from the pastures of the Argentine.

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

The two next, _Megathopa bicolor_ and _M. intermedia_, have certain
points of resemblance with the Sacred Beetle, for whose ebon hue they
substitute a blue black. The first besides brightens his corselet with
magnificent copper reflections. With their long legs, their forehead
with its radiating denticulations and their flattened wing-cases, they
are fairly successful smaller editions of the famous pill-roller.

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

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

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

In her, the Dung-beetles' guild reveals itself under a very unexpected
aspect. We know insects that knead soft loaves; and here are some
which, to keep their bread fresh, discover ceramics and become
potters, working clay in which they pack the food of the larvæ. Before
my housekeeper, before any of us, they knew how, with the aid of a
round jar, to keep the provisions from drying during the summer heats.
The work of the Bolbites is an ovoid, hardly differing in shape from
that of the Copres; but this is where the ingenuity of the American
insect shines forth. The inner mass, the usual dung-cake furnished by
the Cow or the Sheep, is covered with a perfectly homogeneous and
continuous coating of clay, which makes a piece of solid pottery
impervious to evaporation.

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

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

Have no fears: the pot-maker knows quite well how matters stand. She
takes good care not to close the top with the plastic earth which
supplied her with the walls. At some distance from the tip of the
nipple, the clay ceases to play its part and makes way for fibrous
particles, for tiny scraps of undigested fodder, which, arranged one
above the other with a certain order, form a sort of thatched roof
over the egg. The inward and outward passage of the air is assured
through this coarse screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agreed. But, in the matter of breathing, the egg is no better off for
being shut up, on top of the provisions, in a clay casket quite as
air-tight as the jar itself. Examine the thing more closely, however,
and you will receive a satisfactory reply. The walls of the
hatching-chamber are carefully glazed inside. The mother has taken
meticulous pains to give them a stucco-like finish. The vaulted
ceiling alone is rugged, because the building-tool now works from the
outside and is unable to reach the inner surface of the lid and smooth
it. Moreover, in the centre of this curved and embossed ceiling, a
small opening has been made. This is the air-hole, which allows of
gaseous exchanges between the atmosphere inside the box and that
outside.

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

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

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

If similarity of shape implied purity of work, we ought unhesitatingly
to attribute to _Phanæus Milon_ short, thick puddings like those made
by Olivier's Onitis.[16] Alas, structure is a bad guide where instinct
is concerned! The square-chined, short-legged Dung-beetle excels in
the art of manufacturing gourds. The Sacred Beetle herself supplies
none that are more correctly shaped nor, above all, more capacious.

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 17: Or Burying-beetle. Cf. Chapters XI. and XII. of the
present volume.--_Translator's Note_.]

I know in my neighbourhood one Dung-beetle and one alone who also
works among carrion. This is _Onthophagus ovatus_, LIN., a constant
frequenter of dead Moles and Rabbits. But the dwarf undertaker does
not on that account scorn stercoraceous fare: he feasts upon it like
the other Onthophagi. Perhaps there is a twofold diet here: the bun
for the adult; the highly-spiced, far-gone meat for the grub.

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

Let us now examine the work of _Phanæus Milon_ more thoroughly. The
calabashes reached me in a state of complete desiccation. They are
very nearly as hard as stone; their colour inclines to a pale
chocolate. Neither inside nor out does the lens discover the slightest
ligneous particle pointing to a vegetable residue. The strange
Dung-beetle does not, therefore, use cakes of Cow-dung or anything
like them; he handles products of another class, which at first are
rather difficult to specify.

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

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

In the colour and general appearance of the whole, the kernel does not
differ from the wrapper. But break it open and minutely examine the
pieces. We now recognize tiny fragments of bone, flocks of down,
threads of wool, scraps of flesh, the whole mixed in an earthy paste
resembling chocolate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have here, in short, the edifice of the Gromphas, in a different
style of architecture. The grub is born in a casket surmounting the
stack of food but not communicating with it. The budding larva must
therefore, at the opportune moment, itself pierce the covering of the
pot of preserves. As a matter of fact, later, when the grub is on the
sausage-meat, we find the floor perforated with a hole just large
enough for it to pass through.

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

To satisfy these, the insect has been equally well-inspired. The neck
of the calabash is pierced, in the direction of its axis, with a tiny
channel which would admit at most the slenderest of straws. Inside,
this conduit opens at the top of the dome of the hatching-chamber;
outside, at the tip of the nipple, it spreads into a wide mouth. This
is the ventilating-shaft, protected against intruders by its extreme
narrowness and by grains of dust which obstruct it a little without
stopping it up. I said it was simply marvellous. Was I wrong? If a
construction of this sort is a fortuitous result, we must admit that
blind chance is gifted with extraordinary powers of foresight.

How does the clumsy insect manage to accomplish so delicate and
complex a piece of building? Exploring the pampas as I do through the
eyes of an intermediary, my only guide in this question is the
structure of the work, a structure whence we can deduct the workman's
method without going far astray. I therefore imagine the building to
proceed in this manner: a small carcase is found, the oozing of which
has softened the underlying loam. The insect collects more or less of
this loam, according to the richness of the vein. There are no precise
limits here. If the plastic material be plentiful, the collector is
lavish with it and the provision-box becomes all the more solid. Then
enormous calabashes are obtained, exceeding a Hen's egg in volume and
formed of an outer wall three-quarters of an inch thick. But a mass of
this description is beyond the strength of the modeller, is badly
handled and betrays, in its shape, the awkwardness attendant on an
over-difficult task. If the material be rare, the insect confines its
harvesting to what is strictly necessary; and then, freer in its
movements, it obtains a magnificently regular gourd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can it be that there was a schism among the primitive scavengers and
that these, at first addicted to the same industry, afterwards divided
the hygienic task, some burying the ordure of the intestines, the
others the ordure of death? Can the comparative frequency of this or
the other provender have brought about the formation of two
trade-guilds?

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

Nothing, not the scarcity of provisions, nor the climate, nor the
reversed seasons, would explain this strange divergence. We must
perforce regard it as a matter of original specialities, of tastes not
acquired but prescribed from the beginning. And what prescribed them
was anything but the structure.

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

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

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

This excursion to the pampas leans to one conclusion of some
importance. We find in another hemisphere, with reversed seasons, a
different climate and dissimilar biological conditions, a series of
true dung-workers whose habits and industry repeat, in their essential
facts, the habits and industry of our own. Prolonged investigations,
made at first hand and not, like mine, at second hand, would add
greatly to the list of similar workers.

And it is not only in the grassy plains of La Plata that the modellers
of dung proceed according to the principles usual over here; we may
say, without fear of being mistaken, that the magnificent Copres of
Ethiopia and the big Sacred Beetles of Senegambia work exactly like
our own.

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

[Footnote  19: Cf. _The Mason-wasps_, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. iii. to vi.--_Translator's
Note_.]

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

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

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

[Footnote 23: For the Narbonne Lycosa, or Black-bellied Tarantula, cf.
_The Life of the Spider_: chaps. i. and iii. to vii.--_Translator's
Note_.]

[Footnote 24: Cf. _The Life of the Fly_: chap. i.--_Translator's
Note_.]

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

I grant you that to some small extent it modifies the shape, the fur
or feather, the colouring, the outward accessories. To go farther
would be to fly in the face of facts. If the surroundings become too
exacting, the animal protests against the violence endured and
succumbs rather than change. If they go to work gently, the creature
subjected to them adapts itself as best it can, but invincibly refuses
to cease to be what it is. It must live in the form of the mould
whence it issued, or it must die: there is no other alternative.

Instinct, one of the higher characteristics, is no less rebellious to
the injunctions of environment than are the organs, which serve its
activity. Innumerable guilds divide the work of the entomological
world; and each member of one of these corporations is subject to
rules which not climate, nor latitude, nor the most serious
disturbances of diet are able to alter.

Look at the Dung-beetles of the pampas. At the other end of the world,
in their vast flooded pastures, so different from our scanty
greenswards, they follow, without notable variations, the same methods
as their colleagues in Provence. A profound change of surroundings in
no way effects the fundamental industry of the group.

Nor do the provisions available affect it. The staple food to-day is
matter of bovine origin. But the Ox is a newcomer in the land, an
importation of the Spanish conquest. What did the Megathopæ, the
Bolbites, the Splendid Phanæus eat and knead, before the arrival of
the present purveyor? The Llama, that denizen of the uplands, was not
able to feed the Dung-beetles confined to the plains. In days of old,
the foster-father was perhaps the monstrous Megatherium, a
dung-factory of incomparable prodigality.

And from the produce of the colossal beast, whereof naught remains but
a few rare skeletons, the modellers passed to the produce of the Sheep
and the Ox, without altering their ovoids or their gourds, even as our
Sacred Beetle, without ceasing to be faithful to her pear, accepts the
Cow's flat cake in the absence of the favourite morsel, the Sheep's
bannock.

In the south as in the north, at the antipodes as here, every Copris
fashions ovoids with the egg at the smaller end; every Sacred Beetle
models pears or gourds with a hatching-chamber in the neck; but the
materials employed vary greatly according to the season and locality
and can be furnished by the Megatherium, the Ox, the Horse, the Sheep
or by man and several others.

We must not allow this diversity to lead us to believe in changes of
instinct: that would be to strain at a Gnat and swallow a Camel. The
industry of the Megachiles, for instance, consists of manufacturing
wallets with bits of leaves; that of the Cotton-bees of making bags of
wadding with the flock gathered from certain plants. Whether the
pieces be cut from the leaves of this shrub or that, or at need from
the petals of some flower; whether the cotton-wool be collected here
or there, as chance may direct the encounter, the industry undergoes
no essential changes.

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

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

From the outset, without the use of compasses, without any mechanical
rolling, without shifting the thing on its base, one and all obtain
the ball, the delicately executed compact body supremely favourable to
the grub's well-being. To the shapeless lump, demanding no pains, they
all prefer the sphere, lovingly fashioned and calling for much
manipulation, the globe which is the preeminent form and best-adapted
for the preservation of energy, in the case of a sun and of a
Dung-beetle's cradle alike.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X
INSECT COLOURING


_Phanæus splendidulus_, the glittering, the resplendent: this is the
epithet selected by the official nomenclators to describe the
handsomest Dung-beetle of the pampas. The name is not at all
exaggerated. Combining the fire of gems with metallic lustre, the
insect, according to the incidence of the light, emits the green
reflections of the emerald or the gleam of ruddy copper. The
muck-raker would do honour to the jeweller's show-cases.

For the rest, our own Dung-beetles, though usually modest in their
attire, also have a leaning toward luxurious ornament. One Onthophagus
decorates his corselet with Florentine bronze; another wears garnets
on his wing-cases. Black above, the Mimic Geotrupes is the colour of
copper pyrites below; also black in all parts exposed to the light of
day, the Stercoraceous Geotrupes displays a ventral surface of a
glorious amethyst violet.

Many other series, of greatly varied habits, Carabi,[1] Cetoniæ,
Buprestes, Chrysomelæ,[2] rival and even surpass the magnificent
Dung-beetles in the matter of jewellery. At times we encounter
splendours which the imagination of a lapidary would not venture to
depict. The Azure Hoplia,[3] the inmate of the osier-beds and elders
by the banks of the mountain streams, is a wonderful blue, tenderer
and softer to the eye than the azure of the heavens. You could not
find an ornament to match it save on the throats of certain
Humming-birds and the wings of a few Butterflies in equatorial climes.

[Footnote 1: Cf. Chapter XIV. of the present volume.--_Translator's
Note_.]

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

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

To adorn itself like this, in what Golconda does the insect gather its
gems? In what diggings does it find its gold nuggets? What a pretty
problem is that of a Buprestis' wing-case! Here the chemistry of
colours ought to reap a delightful harvest; but the difficulties are
great, it seems, so much so that science cannot yet tell us the why
and the wherefore of the humblest costume. The answer will come in a
remote future, if indeed it ever comes completely, for life's
laboratory may well contain secrets denied to our retorts. For the
moment, I shall perhaps be contributing a grain of sand to the future
palace if I describe the little that I have seen.

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

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

Under the transparent skin of the larva, which has been recently
hatched and is consuming its first Cricket, we soon perceive some fine
white spots, which rapidly increase in size and number and eventually
cover the whole body, except the first two or three segments. On
dissecting the grub, we find that these spots have to do with the
adipose layer, of which they form a considerable part, for, far from
being scattered only on the surface, they run through its whole
thickness and are present in such numbers that the forceps cannot
seize the least fragment of this tissue without picking up a few of
them.

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

An inspection under the microscope tells us that the contents of the
white cells are composed of very fine, opaque grains, insoluble in
water and of greater density. The use of chemical reagents on the
object-slide proves that nitric acid dissolves these grains, with
effervescence and without leaving the least residue, even when they
are still enclosed in their vesicles. On the other hand, the true
fatty cells suffer in no way when attacked by this acid; they merely
turn a little yellower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the larva of the Hydrophilus, on the other hand, the excretions
enjoy a free outlet from the beginning; and the urinary products
escape as and when formed and are no longer deposited in the adipose
tissue. But during the intense labour of the metamorphosis, any
excretion becomes impossible; the uric acid must and does collect in
the adipose substance of the different larvæ.

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

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

To beautify themselves cheaply by using up their own refuse is a very
common method even among insects endowed with all that is wanted for
evacuating waste matter. While the larvæ of the Hunting Wasps, unable
to do better, stipple themselves with uric acid, there are plenty of
industrious creatures that are able to make themselves a superb dress
by preserving their excretions in spite of their own open sewers. With
a view to self-embellishment, they collect and treasure up the dross
which others hasten to expel. They turn filth into finery.

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

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

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

He therefore converts into a paint-factory what at first was a
warehouse for storing up foodstuffs; and with his chalk-like uric pulp
he lavishly daubs his belly, which turns a creamy white, and smears it
on his forehead, his face, his cheeks, until they assume the
appearance of old ivory. All those parts, in fact, which lie
immediately under the translucid skin are covered with a layer of
pigment which can be turned into murexide and is identical in nature
with the white powder of the adipose lace.

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

White, slightly tinged with yellow, is all that the urinary palette of
the Locustidæ shows us. A caterpillar, the Spurge Hawk-moth's, will
take us a little farther. Dappled red, black, white and yellow, its
livery is the most remarkable in our part of the country. Réaumur in
fact calls it _la Belle_. The flattering title is well-deserved. On
the black background of the larva, vermillion-red, chrome-yellow and
chalk-white figure side by side in circles, spots, freckles and
stripes, as clearly marked as the glaring patches of a harlequin's
dress.

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

The black parts are an exception. Unassailable by nitric acid, they
retain their sombre tint after treatment as before, whereas the
portions stripped of their pigment by the reagent become almost as
transparent as glass. The skin of the handsome caterpillar thus has
two sorts of coloured patches.

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

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

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

Examined from the outside with the lens, the black parts reveal
nothing out of the common. The black is homogeneous and everywhere of
equal depth. On the other hand, in the coloured portions, we see
little polygonal, granular masses, forming a close-meshed network. By
cutting round the circumference of the abdomen with a pair of
scissors, the horny integument of the dorsal surface may readily be
removed in one piece, without any shreds of the organs which it
protected. This large strip of skin is transparent in the zones that
correspond with the white bands in the natural state; it is black or
yellow on the black or yellow bands. These last indeed owe their
colouring to a layer of pigment which the point of a paintbrush will
easily loosen and remove.

As for the white bands, their origin is this: once the skin has been
removed, the dorsal surface of the abdomen, whose graceful mosaic is
not in any way disturbed, reveals a layer of polygonal white spots,
distributed in belts, here densely and there less so. The denser belts
correspond with the white bands. It is their magnificent opaque white
granulations which, seen through the transparent skin, form the
snow-white stripes in the live Spider.

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

Let us abridge this dry subject; let us be content with these few
data, which could if necessary be corroborated by many others. What
does the little that we have learnt teach us? It tells us that the
materials rejected by the organism, guanine, uric acid and other dross
from life's refinery, play an important part in the coloration of the
insect.

Two cases are distinguishable, according as the colour is dyed or
simply painted. The skin, itself colourless and transparent, is in
places illumined by a coloured varnish, which can be removed by a
touch with a paintbrush. Here we have paint, the result of the urinary
compound laid on the inner surface of the covering, just as the
chromatic ingredients of our glass-painters are laid on our
stained-glass windows.

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

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

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

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

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

Newly stripped of his cast-off nymphal skin, the Sacred Beetle
possesses a strange costume, bearing no resemblance to the ebony black
which will be the portion of the mature insect. The head, legs and
thorax are a bright rusty red; the wing-cases and abdomen are white.
As a colour, the red is almost that of the Spurge Caterpillar, but it
is the result of a dye on which nitric acid has no effect as a
detector of urates. The same chromatic principle must certainly exist
in a more elaborate form and under a different molecular arrangement
in the skin of the abdomen and the wing-cases which will presently
replace white by red.

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

The Scarabæus is now all red. The first brown stains show themselves
on the denticulations of the forehead and fore-legs, the sign of an
earlier maturity in the implements of labour, which are to acquire an
exceptional hardness. The smoky tinge spreads more or less all over
the insect, replaces the red, turns darker and finally becomes the
regulation black. In less than a week the colourless insect turns a
rusty red, next a sooty brown and then an ebony black. The process is
completed; the insect possesses its normal colouring.

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

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

The metallic lustre does not call for a change of nature; a mere
nothing is enough to produce it. Silver, when very finely subdivided
by the methods whereof chemistry knows the secret, becomes a dust as
poor to look at as soot. When pressed between two hard bodies, this
dirty powder, which might be dried mud, at once acquires the metallic
sheen and again becomes the silver which we know. A mere molecular
contact has wrought the miracle.

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

Everything, then, appears to show that the same substance, derived
from urinary excretions, yields, according to the mode in which its
ultimate particles are grouped, the metallic red of the Phanæus, as
well as the white, the dull red and the black of the Sacred Beetle. It
becomes black on the dorsal surface of the Stercoraceous Geotrupes and
the Mimic Geotrupes; and, with a quick change, it turns into amethyst
under the belly of the first and into copper pyrites under the belly
of the second. It covers the back of _Cetonia floricola_ with golden
bronze and the under surface with metallic purple. According to the
insect, according to the part of the body, it remains a dingy compound
or sparkles with reflections even more vivid and varied than those
possessed by the metals.

Light seems irrelevant to the development of these splendours; it
neither accelerates nor retards them. Since direct exposure to the
sun, owing to the excess of heat, is fatal to the delicate process of
the nymphosis, I shaded the solar rays with a screen of water
contained between slips of glass; and to the bright light thus
moderated in temperature I daily, throughout the period of chromatic
evolution, subjected a number of Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes and
Cetoniæ. As standards of comparison I had witnesses of whom I kept
some in diffused light and others in complete darkness. My experiments
had no appreciable result. The development of the colours took place
in the sunlight and in the dark alike, neither more rapidly nor more
slowly and without difference in the tints.

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

[Footnote 9: Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chaps. i. to
v.--_Translator's Note_.]

The chromatics of the insect, having as its basis the urinary waste
products, might well be found in various animals of a higher order. We
know of at least one example. The pigment of a small American lizard
is converted into uric acid under the prolonged action of boiling
hydrochloric acid.[10] This cannot be an isolated instance; and there
is reason to believe that the reptilian class daubs its garments with
similar products.

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

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




CHAPTER XI
THE BURYING-BEETLES: THE BURIAL


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What were they doing there, all these feverish workers? They were
making a clearance of death on behalf of life. Transcendent
alchemists, they were transforming that horrible putrescence into a
living and inoffensive product. They were draining the dangerous
corpse to the point of rendering it as dry and sonorous as the remains
of an old slipper hardened on the refuse-heap by the frosts of winter
and the heats of summer. They were working their hardest to render the
carrion innocuous.

Others will soon put in their appearance, smaller creatures and more
patient, who will take over the relic and exploit it ligament by
ligament, bone by bone, hair by hair, until the whole has been
restored to the treasury of life. All honour to these purifiers! Let
us put back the 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 the most vigorous and famous of these expurgators of the soil.
This is the Burying-beetle, the Necrophorus, so different from the
cadaveric mob in dress and habits. In honour of his exalted functions
he exhales an odour of musk; he bears a red tuft at the tip of his
antennæ; his breast is covered with nankeen; and across his wing-cases
he wears a double, scalloped scarf of vermillion. An elegant, almost
sumptuous costume, very superior to that of the others, but yet
lugubrious, as befits your undertaker's man.

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

This hoarder of dead bodies, with his stiff and almost heavy
movements, is astonishingly quick at storing away wreckage. In a shift
of a few hours, a comparatively enormous animal, a Mole, for instance,
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. No
visible trace of his work remains but a tiny hillock, a burial-mound,
a tumulus.

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


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


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

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


"The following case," he continues, "recorded by Gleditsch,[6] has
also every indication of the intervention of reason. One of his
friends, wishing to desiccate a Frog, placed it on the top of a stick
thrust into the ground, in order to make sure that the Necrophori
should not come and carry it off. But this precaution was of no
effect; the insects, being unable to reach the Frog, dug under the
stick and, having caused it to fall, buried it as well as the
body."[7]


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

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

To grant, in the intellect of the insect, a lucid understanding of the
relations between cause and effect, between the end and the means, is
to make a statement of serious import. I know of scarcely any more
suited to the philosophical brutalities of my time. But are these two
anecdotes really true? Do they involve the consequences deduced from
them? Are not those who accept them as sound evidence just a little
too simple?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 8: Cf. _The Hunting Wasps_: chaps. i. to iii.--_Translator's
Note_.]

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

The difficulties of inhumation are capable of such variety as causes
us already to foresee that the Necrophorus cannot employ fixed methods
in performing his task. Exposed to fortuitous hazards, he must be able
to modify his tactics within the limits of his modest discernment. To
saw, to break, to disentangle, to lift, to shake, to displace: these
are so many means which are indispensable to the grave-digger in a
predicament. Deprived of these resources, reduced to uniformity of
procedure, the insect would be incapable of pursuing its calling.

We see at once how imprudent it would be to draw conclusions from an
isolated case in which rational co-ordination or premeditated
intention might appear to play its part. Every instinctive action no
doubt has its motive; but does the animal in the first place judge
whether the action is opportune? Let us begin by a careful
consideration of the creature's labours; let us support each piece of
evidence by others; and then we shall perhaps be able to answer the
question.

First of all, a word as to diet. A general scavenger, the
Burying-beetle refuses no sort of cadaveric putrescence. All is good
to his senses, feathered game or furry, provided that the burden do
not exceed his strength. He exploits the batrachian or the reptile
with no less animation. He accepts without hesitation extraordinary
finds, probably unknown to his race, as witness a certain Goldfish, a
red Chinese Carp, whose body, placed in one of my cages, was forthwith
considered an excellent tit-bit and buried according to the rules. Nor
is butcher's meat despised. A mutton-cutlet, a strip of beef-steak, in
the right stage of maturity, disappeared beneath the soil, receiving
the same attentions as those lavished on the Mole or the Mouse. In
short, the Necrophorus has no exclusive preferences; anything putrid
he conveys underground.

The maintenance of his industry, therefore, presents no sort of
difficulty. If one kind of game be lacking, some other, the first to
hand, will very well replace it. Nor is there much trouble in fixing
the site of his industry. A capacious wire-gauze cover, resting on an
earthen pan filled to the brim with fresh, heaped sand, is sufficient.
To obviate criminal attempts on the part of the Cats, whom the game
would not fail to tempt, the cage is installed in a closed
glass-house, which in winter shelters the plants and in summer serves
as 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 for
comfortable work. Four Necrophori, three males and a female, are there
with the body. They remain invisible, hidden beneath the carcase,
which from time to time seems to return to life, shaken from end to
end by the backs of the workers. An observer not in the secret would
be somewhat astonished to see the dead creature move. From time to
time, one of the sextons, almost always a male, comes out and walks
round the animal, which he explores, probing its velvet coat. He
hurriedly returns, appears again, once more investigates and creeps
back under the corpse.

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

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

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

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

The moment has come. Let us inform ourselves of what is happening down
there. Let us visit the place of corruption. I shall never invite
anybody to the exhumation. Of those about me, only little Paul has the
courage to assist me.

The Mole is a Mole no longer, but a greenish horror, putrid, hairless,
shrunk into a sort of fat, greasy rasher. The thing must have
undergone careful manipulation to be thus condensed into a small
volume, like a fowl in the hands of the cook, and, above all, to be so
completely deprived of its furry coat. Is this culinary procedure
undertaken in respect of the larvæ, which might be incommoded by the
fur? Or is it just a casual result, a mere loss of hair due to
putridity? I am not certain. But it is always the case that these
exhumations, from first to last, have revealed the furry game furless
and the feathered game featherless, except for the pinion- and
tail-feathers. Reptiles and fish, on the other hand, retain their
scales.

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

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

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

These grave-diggers, in truth, are remarkable fathers. They have
nothing of the happy-go-lucky paternal carelessness that is the
general rule among insects, which pester the mother for a moment with
their attentions and then leave her to care for the offspring! But
those who would be idlers in the other castes here labour valiantly,
now in the interest of their own family, now in that of another's,
without distinction. If a couple is in difficulties, helpers arrive,
attracted by the odour of carrion; anxious to serve a lady, they creep
under the body, work at it with back and claw, bury it and then go
their ways, leaving the master and mistress of the house to their
happiness.

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

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

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

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

White, naked, blind, possessing the customary attributes of life spent
in the dark, the larva, with its tapering outline, is slightly
reminiscent of the Ground-beetles'. The mandibles are black and
powerful and make excellent dissecting-scissors. The limbs are short,
but capable of a quick, toddling gait. The segments of the abdomen are
clad on the upper surface in a narrow red plate, armed with four
little spikes, whose office apparently is to furnish points of support
when the larva quits the natal dwelling and dives into the soil, there
to undergo the transformation. The thoracic segments are provided with
wider plates, but unarmed.

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

I recognize the Beetle's Gamasus, the Tick who so often soils the
ventral amethyst of our Geotrupes. No, life's prizes do not go to the
useful. Necrophori and Geotrupes devote themselves to the general
health; and these two corporations, so interesting in their hygienic
functions, so remarkable for their domestic morals, fall victims to
the vermin of poverty. Alas, of this discrepancy between the services
rendered and the harshness of life there are many other examples
outside the world of scavengers and undertakers!

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

Another rather curious fact now attracts my attention. All those who
climb up from underground are maimed, with limbs amputated at the
joints, some higher up, some lower down. I see one cripple who has
only one leg left entire. With this odd limb and the stumps of the
others, lamentably tattered, scaly with vermin, he rows, as it were,
over the sheet of dust. A comrade emerges, better off for legs, who
finishes the invalid and cleans out his abdomen. Thus do 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 Massagetæ and others, used
to kill off their old men to save them from senile misery. The fatal
blow on the hoary skull was in their eyes an act of filial piety. The
Necrophori have their share of these ancient barbarities. Full of days
and henceforth useless, dragging out a weary existence, they mutually
exterminate one another. Why prolong the agony of the impotent and the
imbecile?

The Massagetæ might plead, as an excuse for their atrocious custom, a
dearth of provisions, which is an evil counsellor; not so the
Necrophori, for, thanks to my generosity, victuals are more than
plentiful, both beneath the soil and on the surface. Famine plays no
part in this slaughter. What we see is an aberration due to
exhaustion, the morbid fury of a life on the point of extinction. As
is generally the case, work bestows a peaceable disposition on the
grave-digger, while inaction inspires him with perverted tastes.
Having nothing left to do, he breaks his kinsman's limbs and eats him
up, heedless of being maimed or eaten himself. It is the final
deliverance of verminous old age.

This murderous frenzy, breaking out late in life, is not peculiar to
the Necrophorus. I have described elsewhere the perversity of the
Osmia, so placid in the beginning. Feeling her ovaries exhausted, she
smashes her neighbours' cells and even her own; she scatters the dusty
honey, rips open the egg, eats it. The Mantis devours the lovers who
have played their parts; the mother Decticus willingly nibbles a thigh
of her decrepit husband; the merry Crickets, once the eggs are laid in
the ground, indulge in tragic domestic quarrels and with not the least
compunction slash open one another's bellies. When the cares of the
family are finished, the joys of life are finished likewise. The
insect then sometimes becomes depraved; and its disordered mechanism
ends in aberrations.

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

Even so do several nymphs spin round and round when disturbed, notably
that of _Ægosomus scabricornis_ which I have now before my eyes in
July. It is always a fresh surprise to see these mummies suddenly
throw off their immobility and gyrate on their own axis with a
mechanism whose secret deserves to be fathomed. The science of
rational mechanics might find something here to whet its finest
theories upon. The strength and litheness of a clown cannot compare
with those of this budding flesh, this hardly coagulated glair.

Once isolated in its cell, the larva of the Necrophorus becomes a
nymph in ten days or so. I lack the evidence furnished by direct
observation, but the story is completed of itself. The Necrophorus
must assume the adult form in the course of the summer; like the
Dung-beetle, he must enjoy in the autumn a few days of revelry free
from family cares. Then, when the cold weather draws near, he goes to
earth in his winter quarters, whence he emerges as soon as spring
arrives.




CHAPTER XII
THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS


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

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

In order to approach the conditions of the anecdote, I must have a
Mouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the removal would perhaps present
too much difficulty. To obtain one, I place my friends and neighbours
under requisition; they laugh at my whim but none the less proffer
their traps. Yet, the moment a very common thing is needed, it becomes
rare. Defying decency in his speech, after the manner of his
ancestors' Latin, the Provençal says, but even more crudely than in my
translation:

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

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

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

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

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

The point at which the Mouse lies is finally recognized as
unassailable. A male appears in the open. He explores the corpse, goes
round it, scratches a little at random. He goes back; and immediately
the dead body rocks. Is he advising his collaborators of what he has
discovered? Is he arranging the work with a view to their establishing
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
in a given direction, for, after advancing a little towards the edge
of the brick, the burden goes back again, returning to the point of
departure. In the absence of a concerted understanding, their efforts
of leverage are wasted. Nearly three hours are occupied by
oscillations which mutually annul one another. The Mouse does not
cross the little sand-hill heaped about her by the rakes of the
workers.

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

Now two males come out in search of information, each of his own
accord. Instead of stopping at the point already sounded, a point most
judiciously chosen, it seemed, on account of its proximity, which
would save laborious carting, they precipitately scour the whole area
of the cage, trying the soil on this side and on that and ploughing
superficial furrows in it. They get as far from the brick as the
limits of the enclosure permit.

They dig, by preference, against the base of the cover; here they make
several borings, without any reason, so far as I can see, the bed of
soil being everywhere equally assailable away from the brick; the
first point sounded is abandoned for a second, which is rejected in
its turn. A third and fourth are tried; then another. At the sixth
point the choice is made. In all these cases the excavation is by no
means a grave destined to receive the Mouse, but a mere trial boring,
of inconsiderable depth and of the diameter of the digger's body.

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

This time, after all those hesitations, the efforts are concerted; at
least, the load reaches the region sounded far more rapidly than I
expected. Then begins the burial, according to the usual method. It is
one o'clock. It has taken the Necrophori halfway round the clock to
ascertain the condition of the locality and to displace the Mouse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being three, one might say, they deemed themselves strong enough; they
needed no one else to lend them a hand. The objection does not hold
good. On many occasions and under conditions even more difficult than
those presented by a hard soil, I have again and again seen isolated
Necrophori wearing themselves out against my artifices; yet not once
did they leave their workshop to recruit helpers. Collaborators, it is
true, often arrive, but they are summoned by their sense of smell, not
by the first occupant. They are fortuitous helpers; they are never
called in. They are received without strife but also without
gratitude. They are not summoned; they are tolerated.

In the glazed shelter where I keep the cage I happened to catch one of
these chance assistants in the act. Passing that way in the night and
scenting dead flesh, he had entered where none of his kind had yet
penetrated of his own accord. I surprised him on the dome of the
cover. If the wire had not prevented him, he would have set to work
incontinently, in company with the rest. Had my captives invited this
one? Assuredly not. Heedless of others' efforts, he hastened up,
attracted by the odour of the Mole. So it was with those whose
obliging assistance is extolled. I repeat, in respect of their
imaginary prowess, what I have said elsewhere of the Sacred Beetle's:
it is a child's story, worthy to rank with any fairytale for the
amusement of the simple.

A hard soil, necessitating the removal of the body, is not the only
difficulty with which the Necrophori are acquainted. Frequently,
perhaps more often than not, the ground is covered with grass, above
all with couch-grass, whose tenacious rootlets form an inextricable
network below the surface. To dig in the interstices is possible, but
to drag the dead animal through them is another matter: the meshes of
the net are too close to give it passage. Will the grave-digger find
himself helpless against such an obstacle, which must be an extremely
common one? That could not be.

Exposed to this or that habitual impediment in the exercise of its
calling, the animal is always equipped accordingly; otherwise its
profession would be impracticable. No end is attained without the
necessary means and aptitudes. Besides that of the excavator, the
Necrophorus certainly possesses another art: the art of breaking the
cables, the roots, the stolons, the slender rhizomes which check the
body's descent into the grave. To the work of the shovel and the pick
must be added that of the shears. All this is perfectly logical and
may be clearly foreseen. Nevertheless, let us call in experiment, the
best of witnesses.

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

The burial is performed without a hitch in the course of an afternoon.
The raffia hammock, almost the equivalent of the natural network of
the couch-grass, scarcely disturbs the burying-process. Matters do not
proceed quite so quickly; and that is all. No attempt is made to shift
the Mole, who sinks into the ground where he lies. When the operation
is finished, I remove the trivet. The network is broken at the spot
where the corpse was lying. A few strips have been gnawed through; a
small number, only as many as were strictly necessary to permit the
passage of the body.

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

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

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

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

The Beetles proceed with the burial of the hinder part of the Mole;
they twitch and jerk it now in this direction, now in that. Nothing
comes of it; the thing refuses to give. A fresh sortie is made by one
of them, to find out what is happening overhead. The second strap is
perceived, is severed in turn; and henceforth the work goes on as well
as could be wished.

My compliments, perspicacious cable-cutters! But I must not
exaggerate. The Mole's straps were for you the little cords with which
you are so familiar in turfy soil. You broke them, as well as the
hammock of the previous experiment, just as you sever with the blades
of your shears any natural thread stretching across your catacombs. It
is an indispensable trick of your trade. If you had had to learn it by
experience, to think it out before practising it, your race would have
disappeared, killed by the hesitations of its apprenticeship, for the
spots prolific of Moles, Frogs, Lizards and other viands to your taste
are usually covered with grass.

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

Game does not abound to such a point that it can be despised if a few
efforts will obtain it. Before I see the thing happen, I am persuaded
that it will fall, that the Necrophori, often confronted with the
difficulties of a body not lying on the soil, must possess the
instinct to shake it to the ground. The fortuitous support of a few
bits of stubble, of a few interlaced twigs, so common in the fields,
cannot put them off. The drop of the suspended body, if placed too
high, must certainly form part of their instinctive 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
at most some four inches in height. In the branches I place a Mouse,
entangling the tail, the paws and the neck among the twigs to increase
the difficulty. The population of the cage now consists of fourteen
Necrophori and will remain the same until the close of my
investigations. Of course they do not all take part simultaneously in
the day's work: the majority remain underground, dozing or occupied in
setting their cellars in order. Sometimes only one, often two, three
or four, rarely more, busy themselves with the corpse which I offer
them. To-day, two hasten to the Mouse, who is soon perceived overhead
on the tuft of thyme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A difference of an inch in the position of the suspended animal
destroys the famous legend. Even so, many a time, the most elementary
sieve, handled with a little logic, is enough to winnow a confused
mass of statements and to release the good grain of truth.

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

What will they do now? Will they scrape at the foot of the gibbet in
order to overturn it? By no means; and the ingenuous observer who
looked for such tactics would be greatly disappointed. No attention is
paid to the base of the support. It is not vouchsafed even a stroke of
the 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, prove
that never, never in this world, do the Necrophori dig, or even give a
superficial scrape, at the foot of the gallows, unless the hanging
body touch the ground at that point. And, in the latter case, if the
twig should happen to fall, this is in no way an intentional result,
but a mere fortuitous effect of the burial already commenced.

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

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

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

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

In the afternoon, the cause of the check is at last recognized; not
very clearly, for the two obstinate gallow-robbers first attack the
Mouse's hind-legs, a little way below the strap. They strip them bare,
flay them and cut away the flesh about the foot. They have reached the
bone, when one of them finds the string of raffia beneath his
mandibles. This, to him, is a familiar thing, representing the
grass-thread so frequent in burials in turfy soil. Tenaciously the
shears gnaw at the bond; the fibrous fetter is broken; and the Mouse
falls, to be buried soon after.

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

Under the conditions devised for the Beetle, the use of the shears is
the indispensable complement of the use of the shovel; and the modicum
of discernment at his disposal is enough to inform him when it will be
well to employ the clippers. He cuts what embarrasses him, with no
more exercise of reason than he displays when lowering his dead Mouse
underground. So little does he grasp the relation of cause and effect
that he tries to break the bone of the leg before biting the raffia
which is knotted close beside him. The difficult task is attempted
before the extremely easy one.

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

But, if the bone be too hard, if the prize suspended be a Mole, an
adult Mouse or a Sparrow, the wire ligament opposes an insurmountable
obstacle to the attempts of the Necrophori, who, for nearly a week,
work at the hanging body, partly stripping it of fur or feather and
dishevelling it until it forms a lamentable object, and at last
abandon it when desiccation sets in. And yet a last resource remained,
one as rational as infallible: 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 gibbet
consists of a little fork, with the prongs widely opened and measuring
barely two-fifths of an inch in length. With a thread of hemp, less
easily attacked than a strip of raffia, I bind the hind-legs of an
adult Mouse together, a little above the heels; and I slip one of the
prongs in between. To bring the thing down one has only to slide it a
little way upwards; it is like a young Rabbit hanging in the window of
a poulterer's shop.

Five Necrophori come to inspect what I have prepared. After much
futile shaking, the tibiæ are attacked. This, it seems, is the method
usually employed when the corpse is caught by one of its limbs in some
narrow fork of a low-growing plant. While trying to saw through the
bone--a heavy job this time--one of the workers slips between the
shackled legs; in this position, he feels the furry touch of the Mouse
against his chine. No more is needed to arouse his propensity to
thrust with his back. With a few heaves of the lever the thing is
done: the Mouse rises a little, slides over the supporting peg and
falls to the ground.

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

More difficult to convince, I modify the experiment before drawing a
conclusion. I suspect that the Necrophorus, without in any way
foreseeing the consequences of his action, heaved his back merely
because he felt the animal's legs above him. With the system of
suspension adopted, the push of the back, employed in all cases of
difficulty, was brought to bear first upon the point of support; and
the fall resulted from this happy coincidence. That point, which has
to be slipped along the peg in order to unhook the object, ought
really to be placed at a short distance from the Mouse, so that the
Necrophori may no longer feel her directly on their backs when they
push.

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

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

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

Their defeat is not due to lack of strength. Like the Geotrupes, they
are vigorous excavators. When you grasp them firmly in your hand, they
slip into the interstices of the fingers and plough up your skin so as
to make you quickly loose your hold. With his head, a powerful
ploughshare, the Beetle might very easily push the ring off its short
support. He is not able to do so, because he does not think of it; he
does not think of it, because he is devoid of the faculty attributed
to him, in order to support their theories, by the dangerous
generosity of the evolutionists.

Divine reason, sun of the intellect, what a clumsy slap in thy august
countenance, when the glorifiers of the animal degrade thee with such
denseness!

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

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

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

A chance deliverance and not premeditated; for, if the happy event had
been the result of a mental combination, the other prisoners,
practically his equals in powers of perception, would all, from first
to last, have discovered by rational means the elbowed path leading to
the outer world; and the cage would promptly be deserted. The failure
of the great majority proves that the single fugitive was simply
digging at random. Circumstances favoured him; and that is all. We
must not put it to his credit that he succeeded where all the others
failed.

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

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

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

Even in the higher ranks of animality, examples of similar mental
obfuscation are not lacking. Audubon[5] tells us how, in his days,
wild Turkeys were caught in North America. In a clearing known to be
frequented by these birds, a great cage was constructed with stakes
driven into the ground. In the centre of the enclosure opened a short
tunnel, which dipped under the palisade and returned to the surface
outside the cage by a gentle slope, which was open to the sky. The
central opening, wide enough to give a bird free passage, occupied
only a portion of the enclosure, leaving around it, against the circle
of stakes, a wide unbroken zone. A few handfuls of maize were
scattered in the interior of the trap, as well as round about it, and
in particular along the sloping path, which passed under a 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 order to
enter, but did not think of looking for it in order to go out.

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

According to the famous American ornithologist, the Turkeys, lured by
the grains of maize, descended the insidious slope, entered the short
underground passage and beheld, at the end of it, plunder and the
light. A few steps farther and the gluttons emerged, one by one, from
beneath 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 the
prisoners paid any attention to the central hole by which he had
arrived. Gobbling uneasily, they passed again and again across the
bridge whose arch was yawning beside them; they circled round against
the palisade, treading a hundred times in their own footprints; they
thrust their necks, with their crimson wattles, through the bars; and
there, with their beaks in the open air, they fought and struggled
until they were exhausted.

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

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

Under rather more difficult conditions, the Necrophorus repeats the
ineptness of the Turkey. When he wishes to return to the daylight,
after resting in a short burrow against the rim of the cover, the
Beetle, seeing a little light filtering through the loose soil,
reascends the entrance-well, incapable of telling himself that he has
only to prolong the tunnel as far in the opposite direction 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 sign of reflection. Like the
rest, in spite of his legendary renown, he has no guide but the
unconscious promptings of instinct.




CHAPTER XIII
THE GIANT SCARITES


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

Of a handsome and commanding figure, slender and pinched in at the
waist, the Carabus is the glory of our collections, but only for the
sake of his appearance. He is a frenzied murderer; and that is all. We
will ask nothing more of him. The wisdom of antiquity represented
Hercules, the god of strength, with the head of an idiot. And indeed
merit is not great when limited to brute force. And this is the case
with the Carabus.

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

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

Three species compose the population: the common _Jardinière_, or
Golden Beetle, the usual inmate of our gardens; _Procrustes
coriaceus_, the sombre and powerful explorer of the grassy thickets at
the foot of walls; and the rare Purple Carabus, who trims the ebony of
his wing-cases with metallic violet. I feed them on Snails, after
partly removing the shell.

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

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

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

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

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

The beast of prey prowls round the peaceful creature and selects its
moment. It rushes forward, recoils, hesitates and returns to the
charge. And lo, the giant is overthrown! Incontinently the other
devours him, ransacking his belly. If this had happened in a higher
order of the animal world, it would make one's flesh creep to watch
the Carabus half immersed in the big Cockchafer and rooting out his
entrails.

I test the eviscerator with a more difficult quarry. This time the
victim is _Oryctes nasicornis_, the powerful Rhinoceros Beetle, an
invincible giant, one would think, under the shelter of his armour.
But the hunter knows the weak point of the horn-clad prey, the fine
skin protected by the wing-cases. By means of attacks which the
assailant renews as soon as they are repulsed by the assailed, the
Carabus contrives to raise the cuirass slightly and to slip his head
beneath it. From the moment that the pincers have made a gash in the
vulnerable skin, the Rhinoceros is lost. Soon there will be nothing
left of the colossus but a pitiful empty carcase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Distillers of corrosives, gunners throwing lyddite, bombers employing
dynamite: what can all these violent creatures, so well equipped for
battle, do beyond committing slaughter? Nothing. We find no art, no
industry, not even in the larva, which practices the adult's trade and
meditates its crimes while wandering under the stones. Nevertheless it
is to one of these dull-witted warriors that I am deliberately
proposing to apply to-day, prompted by the wish to solve a certain
question. Let me tell you what it is.

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

It is shamming dead, people will tell you; it is pretending, in order
to escape its enemy. Man is certainly unknown to it; we count for
nothing in its little world. What does it care for our hunting,
whether we be children or scientists? It does not fear the collector
with his long pin; but it realizes danger in general; and it dreads
its natural enemy, the insectivorous bird, which swallows it with a
single snap. To outwit the assailant, it lies upon its back, draws up
its legs and simulates death. The bird, or any other persecutor, will
despise it in this condition; and its life will be saved.

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

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

That Bear was a simpleton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I follow them, a hunter on the trail of a new species. At the end of
each track, by digging to no great depth, I unearth a magnificent
Carabus, whose very name is almost unknown to me. It is the Giant
Scarites (_S. gigas_, FAB.).

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

Another characteristic thrusts itself upon my notice. If I shake him
for a moment and then place him on the ground upon his back, he
remains a long time without stirring. No other insect has yet
displayed such persistent immobility, though I confess that my
investigations in this respect have been only superficial. The detail
is so thoroughly engraved on my memory that, forty years later, when I
want to experiment on the insects which are experts in the art of
simulating death, I at once think of the Scarites.

A friend sends me a dozen from Cette, from the very beach on which I
once passed a delightful morning in the company of this skilful mimic
of the dead. They reach me in perfect condition, mixed up in the same
package with some Pimeliæ (_P. bipunctata_, FAB.), their compatriots
in the sands beside the sea. Of these last, a pitiable crew, many have
been disembowelled, absolutely emptied; others have merely stumps
instead of legs; a few, but only a few, are unwounded.

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

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

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

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

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

I lodge my strangers partly under a wire-gauze cover and partly in
glass jars, all supplied with a layer of sand. Each of them without
delay digs himself a burrow. The insect bends his head a long way down
and, with the points of his mandibles, brought together to form a
pick-axe, he hews, digs and excavates with a will. The fore-legs,
spread out and armed with hooks, gather the dust and rubbish into a
load which is thrust backwards. In this way, a mound rises on the
threshold of the burrow. The dwelling grows deeper quickly and by a
gentle slope reaches the bottom of the jar.

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

This arrangement of the gallery, almost the whole of which runs just
under the glass, is very useful to me, enabling me to follow the
insect in the privacy of its home. If I wish to observe its
underground operations, all that I need do is to remove the opaque
sheath which I have been careful to put over the jar, in order to
spare the creature the annoyance of the light.

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

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

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

Head first, the Cicada dives into the abyss, down which the spoiler
drags her by successive jerks. She is drawn into the low-ceilinged
tunnel. Here the wings cease to flutter, for lack of space. She
reaches the knacker's cellar, at the end of the corridor. The Scarites
now works at her for some time with his pincers, in order to reduce
her to complete immobility, fearing lest she should escape; then he
returns to the mouth of the charnel-house.

It is not everything to possess plenty of game; the question next
arises how to consume it in peace. The door is therefore closed
against importunate callers, that is to say, the insect fills the
entrance to the tunnel with his mound of rubbish. Having taken this
precaution, he goes back again and sits down to his meal. He will not
reopen his hiding-place nor remake the pit at the entrance until
later, when the Cicada has been digested and hunger makes its
reappearance. Let us leave the glutton with his quarry.

The brief morning which I spent with him in his native place did not
enable me to watch him at his hunting, on the sands of the beach; but
the facts gathered in captivity are enough to tell us all about it.
They show us in the Scarites a bold hero who is not to be intimidated
by the biggest or strongest adversary.

We have seen him coming up from underground, falling on the
passers-by, seizing them at some distance from the burrow and dragging
them forcibly into his cut-throat den. The Rose-chafer, the Common
Cockchafer are but small deer for him. He dares to attack the Cicada,
he dares to dig his hooks into the corpulent Pine-chafer. He is a
fearless ruffian, ready for any crime.

Under natural conditions his audacity can be no less. On the contrary,
the familiar spots, freedom of movement, unlimited space and his
beloved salt air excite the warrior to yet greater feats of daring.

He has dug himself a refuge in the sand, with a wide, crumbling mouth.
This is not so that he may, like the Ant-lion, wait at the bottom of
his funnel for the passing of a victim which stumbles on the shifting
slope and rolls into the pit. The Scarites disdains these petty
poachers' methods, these fowlers' snares; he prefers a run across
country.

His long trails on the sand tell us of nocturnal rounds in search of
big game, often the Pimelia, sometimes the Half-spotted Scarab.[5] The
find is not consumed on the spot. To enjoy it at his ease, he needs
the peaceful darkness of the underground manor; and so the captive,
seized by one leg with the pincers, is forcibly dragged along the
ground.

[Footnote 5: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chaps. ii. and vii.--
_Translator's Note_.]

If no precautions were taken, the introduction of the victim into the
burrow would be impracticable, with a huge quarry offering a desperate
resistance. But the entrance to the tunnel is a wide crater, with
crumbling walls. However large he be, the captive, tugged from below,
enters and tumbles into the pit. The crumbling rubbish immediately
buries him and paralyses his movements. The thing is done. The bandit
now proceeds to close his door and empty his prey's belly.




CHAPTER XIV
THE SIMULATION OF DEATH


The first insect that we will put to the question is that audacious
disemboweller, the savage Scarites. To provoke his state of inertia is
a very simple matter: I handle him for a moment, rolling him between
my fingers; better still, I drop him on the table, twice or thrice in
succession, from a small height. When the shock due to the fall has
been administered and, if need be, repeated, I turn the insect on its
back.

This is enough: the prostrate Beetle no longer stirs, lies as though
dead. The legs are folded on the belly, the antennæ extended like the
arms of a cross, the pincers open. A watch beside me tells me the
exact minute of the beginning and the end of the experiment. Nothing
remains but to wait and especially to arm one's self with patience,
for the insect's immobility lasts long enough to become tedious to the
observer watching for something to happen.

The duration of the lifeless posture varies greatly on the same day,
under the same atmospheric conditions and with the same subject,
though I cannot fathom the causes which shorten or lengthen it. How to
investigate the external influences, so numerous and often so slight,
which intervene in such a case; above all, how to scrutinize the
insect's private impressions: these are impenetrable mysteries. Let us
confine ourselves to recording the results.

Immobility continues fairly often for as long as fifty minutes; in
certain cases, even, it lasts more than an hour. The most frequent
length of time averages twenty minutes. If nothing disturbs the
Beetle, if I cover him with a glass shade, protecting him from the
Flies, who are importunate visitors in the hot weather prevailing at
the time of my experiment, the inertia is complete: not a quiver of
the tarsi, nor of the palpi, nor of the antennæ. Here indeed is a
simulacrum of death, with all its inertia.

At last the apparently deceased comes back to life. The tarsi quiver,
those of the fore-legs first; the palpi and the antennæ move slowly to
and fro: this is the prelude to the awakening. Now the legs begin to
kick. The insect bends slightly at its pinched waist; it buttresses
itself on its head and back; it turns over. There it goes, jogging
away, ready to become an apparent corpse once more if I renew my shock
tactics.

Let us repeat the experiment immediately. The newly resuscitated
Beetle is for a second time lying motionless on his back. He prolongs
his make-believe of death longer than he did at first. When he wakes
up, I renew the test a third, a fourth, a fifth time, with no
intervals of repose. The duration of the motionless condition
increases each time. To quote the figures, the five consecutive
experiments, from the first to the last, have continued respectively
for 17, 20, 25, 33 and 50 minutes. Starting with a quarter of an hour,
the attitude of death ends by lasting nearly a whole hour.

Without being constant, similar facts recur repeatedly in my
experiments, the duration, of course, varying. They tell us that as a
general rule the Scarites lengthens the period of his lifeless posture
the oftener the experiment is repeated. Is this a matter of practice,
or is it an increase of cunning employed in the hope of finally tiring
a too persistent enemy? It would be premature to draw conclusions: the
cross-examination of the insect has not yet been thorough enough.

Let us wait. Besides, we need not imagine that it is possible to go on
like this until our patience is exhausted. Sooner or later, flurried
by my pestering, the Scarites refuses to sham dead. Scarcely is he
laid on his back after a fall, when he turns over and takes to his
heels, as though he judged a stratagem which succeeded so
indifferently to be henceforth useless.

If we were to stop here, it would certainly seem that the insect, a
cunning hoaxer, seeks, as a means of defence, to cheat those who
attack him. He counterfeits death; he repeats the process, becoming
more persistent in his fraud in proportion as the aggression is
repeated; he abandons his trickery when he deems it futile. But
hitherto we have subjected him only to a friendly
examination-in-chief. The time has come to put a string of searching
questions and to trick the trickster if there be really any deception.

The Beetle under experiment is lying on the table. He feels beneath
him a hard body which gives him no chance of digging. As he cannot
hope to take refuge underground, an easy task for his nimble and
vigorous tools, the Scarites lies low in his death-like pose, keeping
it up, if need be, for an hour. If he were reclining on the sand, the
loose soil with which he is so familiar, would he not regain his
activity more rapidly, would he not at least betray by a few twitches
his desire to escape into the basement?

I was expecting to see him do so; and I was mistaken. Whether I place
him on wood, glass, sand or garden mould, the Beetle in no way
modifies his tactics. On a surface readily excavated he continues his
immobility as long as on an unassailable surface.

This indifference to the nature of the support half opens the door to
doubt; what follows opens it wide. The patient is on the table before
me and I watch him closely. With his gleaming eyes, overshadowed by
his antennæ, he also sees me; he watches me; he observes me, if I may
so express myself. What can be the visual impression of the insect
when face to face with that monstrosity, man? How does the pigmy
measure the enormous monument that is the human body? Seen from the
depths of the infinitely little, the immense perhaps is nothing.

We will not go so far as that; we will admit that the insect watches
me, recognizes me as his persecutor. So long as I am here, he will
suspect me and refuse to budge. If he does decide to do so, it will be
after he has exhausted my patience. Let us therefore move away. Then,
since any trickery will be needless, he will hasten to take to his
legs again and make off.

I move ten paces farther from him, to the other end of the room. I
hide, I do not move a muscle, for fear of breaking the silence. Will
the insect pick itself up? No, my precautions are superfluous. Alone,
left to itself, perfectly quiet, it remains motionless for as long a
time as when I was standing close beside it.

Perhaps the clear-sighted Scarites has seen me in my corner, at the
other end of the room; perhaps a subtle scent has revealed my presence
to him. We will do more, then. I cover him with a bell-glass which
will save him from being worried by the Flies and I leave the room; I
go downstairs into the garden. There is no longer anything likely to
disturb him. Doors and windows are closed. Not a sound from without;
no cause for alarm indoors. What will happen in the midst of that
profound silence?

Nothing more and nothing less than usual. After twenty, forty minutes'
waiting out of doors, I come upstairs again and return to my insect. I
find him as I left him, lying motionless on his back.

This experiment, many times repeated with different subjects, throws a
vivid light upon the question. It expressly assures us that the
attitude of death is not the ruse of an insect in danger. Here there
is nothing to alarm the creature. Around him all is silence, solitude,
repose. When he persists in his immobility it cannot now be to deceive
an enemy. I have no doubt about it: there is something else involved.

Besides, why should he need special defensive artifices? I could
understand that a weak, pacific, ill-protected insect might resort to
ruses when in danger; but in him, the warlike bandit, so well
armoured, it is more than I can understand. No insect on his native
sea-shore has the strength to resist him. The most powerful of them,
the Sacred Beetle and the Pimelia, are easy-going creatures which, so
far from molesting him, are fine booty for his burrow.

Can he be threatened by the birds? It is very doubtful. As a Carabus,
he is saturated with acrid humours which must make his body a far from
pleasing mouthful. For the rest, he lives hidden from the light of day
in a burrow where no one sees him; he emerges only at night, when the
birds are no longer inspecting the beach. There are no beaks about for
him to fear.

And this butcher of the Pimeliæ and even occasionally of the Sacred
Beetles, this bully whom no danger threatens, is supposed to be such a
coward as to sham death on the slightest alarm! I take the liberty of
doubting this more and more.

I am confirmed in my doubts by the Smooth-skinned Scarites (_S.
lavigatus_, FAB.), a denizen of the same shores. The first insect is a
giant; the second, by comparison, is a dwarf. Otherwise he displays
the same shape, the same jet-black costume, the same armour, the same
habits of brigandage. Well, the Smooth-skinned Scarites, in spite of
his weakness and his smallness, is almost ignorant of the trick of
pretending to be dead. When molested for a moment and then turned on
his back, he at once picks himself up and flees. I can hardly obtain a
few seconds' immobility; once only, daunted by my obstinacy, the dwarf
remains motionless for a quarter of an hour.

How different from the giant, motionless the moment that he is thrown
upon his back, sometimes picking himself up only after an hour of
inaction! It is the reverse of what ought to happen, if the apparent
death were really a defensive ruse. The giant, confident in his
strength, should disdain this cowardly posture; the timid dwarf should
be quick to have recourse to it. And it is just the other way about.
What is there behind all this?

Let us try the influence of danger. With what natural enemy shall I
confront the big Scarites, motionless on his back? I know none. Let us
then create a make-believe assailant. The Flies put me on the track of
one.

I have spoken of their importunity during my investigations in the hot
season. If I do not employ a bell-glass or keep an assiduous watch,
rarely does the shrewish Dipteron fail to alight upon my patient and
explore him with her proboscis. We will let her have her way this
time.

Hardly has the Fly grazed this apparent corpse with her legs, when the
Scarites' tarsi quiver as though twitched by a slight electric shock.
If the visitor be merely passing, matters go no farther; but, if she
persist, particularly near the Beetle's mouth, moist with saliva and
disgorged secretions of food, the tormented Scarites promptly kicks,
turns over and makes off.

Perhaps he did not think it opportune to prolong his fraud in the face
of so contemptible an enemy. He resumes his activity because he has
recognized the absence of danger. Then let us call in another
interloper, one of formidable size and strength. I happen to have
handy a Great Capricorn, with powerful claws and mandibles. That the
long-horned insect is a peaceful creature I am well aware; but the
Scarites does not know it; on the sands of the shore he has never
encountered such a colossus as this, who is capable of impressing less
timid creatures than he. Fear of the unknown will merely aggravate the
situation.

Guided by the tip of my straw, the Capricorn sets his foot upon the
prostrate insect. The Scarites' tarsi begin to quiver immediately. If
the contact be prolonged or multiplied, or if it become aggressive,
the dead insect gets on its legs again and scuttles off, just as the
titillations of the Fly have already shown me. When danger is imminent
and all the more to be dreaded because its nature is unknown, the
trick of the simulation of death disappears and flight takes its
place.

The following experiment is not without value. I take some hard
substance and knock the foot of the table on which the insect is lying
on its back. The shock is very slight, not enough to shake the table
perceptibly. The whole thing is limited to the inner vibrations of a
resilient body which has received a blow. But it is quite enough to
disturb the insect's immobility. At each tap the tarsi are flexed and
quiver for a moment.

Lastly, let us try the effect of light. So far, the patient has been
treated in the shade of my cabinet, away from the direct sunlight. The
sun is shining full upon the window. What will the motionless insect
do if I carry it thither, from my table to the window, into the bright
light? That we can find out in a moment. Under the direct rays of the
sun, the Scarites immediately turns over and moves off.

This is enough. Patient, persecuted creature, you have half-betrayed
your insect. When the Fly tickles you, drains your moist lip, treats
you as a corpse whose juices she would like to suck; when the huge
Capricorn appears to your horrified gaze and puts a foot on your
belly, as though to take possession of his prey; when the table
quivers, that is to say, when, for you, the ground shakes, undermined
perhaps by some invader of your burrow; when a bright light surrounds
you, favouring the designs of your enemies and imperilling your safety
as an insect that loves the dark, then, in truth, it would be wiser
not to move, if really your chief resource, when danger threatens you,
is to simulate death.

On the contrary, at those critical moments, you give a start; you
move, you resume your normal attitude, you run away. Your fraud is
discovered; or, to put it more plainly, there is no trick. Your
inertia is not simulated; it is real. It is a condition of temporary
torpor into which you are plunged by your delicate nervous
organization. A mere nothing makes you fall into it; a mere nothing
withdraws you from it, above all a bath of light, that sovran stimulus
of activity.

In respect of prolonged immobility as the result of emotion, I find a
rival of the Giant Scarites in a large black Buprestis, with a
flour-speckled corselet, a lover of the blackthorn, the hawthorn and
the apricot-tree. His name is _Capnodis tenebrionis_, LIN. At times I
see him, with his legs closely folded and his antennæ lowered,
prolonging his motionless posture upon his back for more than an hour.
At other times the insect is bent upon escaping, apparently influenced
by atmospheric conditions of which I do not know the secret. One or
two minutes' immobility is as much as I can then obtain.

Let me recapitulate: in my various subjects the attitude of death is
of very variable duration, governed as it is by a host of unsuspected
circumstances. Let us take advantage of favourable opportunities,
which are fairly frequent. I subject the Cloudy Buprestis to the
different tests undergone by the Giant Scarites. The results are the
same. When you have seen the first, you have seen the second. There is
no need to linger over them.

I will only mention the promptness with which the Buprestis, lying
motionless in the shade, recovers his activity when I carry him away
from my table into the broad sunlight of the window. After a few
seconds of this bath of heat and light, the insect half-opens his
wing-cases, using them as levers, and turns over, ready to take flight
if my hand did not instantly snap him up. He is a passionate lover of
the light, a devotee of the sun, intoxicating himself in its rays upon
the bark of his blackthorn-trees on the hottest afternoons.

This love of tropical temperature suggests the following question:
what would happen if I were to chill the creature in its immobile
posture? I foresee a more prolonged inertia. The chill, of course,
must not be great, for it would be followed by the lethargy into which
insects capable of surviving the winter fall when benumbed by the
cold.

On the contrary, the Buprestis must as far as possible retain his full
vitality. The lowering of the temperature must be gentle, very
moderate and such that the insect, under similar climatic conditions,
would retain his powers of action in ordinary life. I have a
convenient refrigerator at my disposal. It is the water of my well,
whose temperature, in summer, is nearly twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit
below that of the surrounding air.

The Buprestis, in whom I have just produced inertia by means of a few
taps, is installed on his back in a little flask which I seal
hermetically and immerse in a bucket full of this cold water. To keep
the bath as cool as at first, I gradually renew it, taking care not to
shake the flask in which the patient is lying, in his attitude of
death.

The result rewards my pains. After five hours under water, the insect
is still motionless. Five hours, I say, five long hours; and I might
certainly say longer, if my exhausted patience had not put an end to
the experiment. But this is enough to banish any idea of fraud on the
insect's part. Here, beyond a doubt, the insect is not shamming dead.
He is actually somnolent, deprived of the power of movement by an
internal disturbance which my teasing produced at the outset and which
is prolonged beyond its usual limits by the surrounding coolness.

I try the effect of a slight decrease in temperature upon the Giant
Scarites by subjecting him to a similar sojourn in the cold water of
the well. The result does not respond to the hopes which the Buprestis
gave me. I do not succeed in obtaining more than fifty minutes'
inertia. I have often obtained as long periods of immobility without
resorting to the refrigerating artifice.

It might have been foreseen. The Buprestis, a lover of the burning
sunshine, is affected by the cold bath in a different degree from the
Scarites, who prowls about by night and spends his day in the
basement. A fall of a few degrees in temperature takes the chilly
insect by surprise and has no effect upon the one accustomed to the
coolness underground.

Other experiments on these lines tell me nothing more. I see the inert
condition persisting sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorter
period, according as the insect seeks the sunlight or avoids it. Let
us change our method.

I evaporate a few drops of sulphuric ether in a glass jar and put in a
Stercoraceous Geotrupes and a specimen of _Buprestis tenebrionis_, at
the same time. In a few moments both subjects are motionless,
anæsthetized by the etheric vapour. I take them out quickly and lay
them on their backs in the open air.

Their attitude is exactly that which they would have assumed under the
influence of a shock or any other cause of alarm. The Buprestis has
his legs symmetrically folded against his chest and belly; the
Geotrupes has his outspread, stretched in disorder, rigid and as
though attacked by catalepsy. You could not tell if they were dead or
alive.

They are not dead. In a minute or two, the Geotrupes' tarsi twitch,
the palpi quiver, the antennæ wave gently to and fro. Then the
fore-legs move; and a quarter of an hour has not elapsed before the
other legs are struggling. The activity of the insect made motionless
by the concussion of a shock would reawaken in precisely the same
fashion.

As for the Buprestis, he is in a state of inertia so profound that at
first I really believe him to be dead. He recovers during the night;
and next day I find him in possession of his usual activity. The ether
experiment, which I took care to stop at the moment when it produced
the desired effect, has not been fatal to him; but it has had much
more serious consequences for him than for the Geotrupes. The insect
more sensitive to the alarm due to concussion or to a fall of
temperature is also the more sensitive to the action of ether.

Thus the enormous difference which I observe in these two insects,
with regard to the inertia provoked by a shock or by handling them in
one's fingers, is explained by nice differences of impressionability.
Whereas the Buprestis remains motionless for nearly an hour, the
Geotrupes is struggling violently after a minute or two. And even then
I rarely attain this limit.

In what respect has the Geotrupes, to defend itself, less need of the
stratagem of simulated death than the Black Buprestis, well protected
by his massive build and his armour, which is so hard that it resists
the point of a pin and even of a needle? We should be perplexed by the
same question in respect of a multitude of insects, some of which
remain motionless while others do not; and we could not possibly
foresee what would happen from the genus of the subject, its form, or
its way of living.

_Buprestis tenebrionis_, for example, exhibits a persistent inertia.
Will it be the same, because of similarity of structure, with other
members of the same group? Not at all. My chance finds provide me with
the Brilliant Buprestis (_B. rutilans_, FAB.), and the Nine-spotted
Buprestis (_Ptosima novemmaculata_, FAB.). The first resists all my
attempts. The splendid creature grips my fingers, grips my tweezers
and insists on getting up the moment that I lay it on its back. The
second readily becomes immobile; but how brief is its attitude of
death! Four or five minutes at most.

A Melasoma-beetle, _Omocrates abbreviatus_, OLIV., whom I frequently
discover under the broken stones on the neighbouring hills, continues
motionless for over an hour. He rivals the Scarites. We must not
forget to add that very often the awakening takes place within a few
minutes.

Can he owe his long period of inertia to the fact that he is one of
the Tenebrionidæ, or Darkling Beetles? By no means, for here in the
same group is _Pimelia bipunctata_, who turns a somersault on his
round back and finds his feet the moment he has turned over; here is a
Cellar-beetle (_Blaps similis_, LATR.), who, unable to turn with his
flat back, his big belly and his welded wing-cases,[1] struggles
desperately after a minute or two of inertia.

[Footnote 1: The Cellar-beetle is one of the wingless
Beetles.--_Translator's Note_.]

The short-legged Beetles, trotting along with tiny steps, ought, one
would think, to make up in cunning, more fully than the others, for
their incapacity for rapid flight. The facts do not correspond with
this apparently well-founded forecast. I have consulted the genera
Chrysomela,[2] Blatta,[3] Silpha, Cleonus,[4] Bolboceras,[5] Cetonia,
Hoplia, Coccinella,[6] and so on. A few minutes or a few seconds are
nearly always long enough for the return to activity. Several of them
even obstinately refuse to sham death.

[Footnote 2: Golden-apple Beetles.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 3: Blackbeetles or Cockroaches.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 4: A genus of Weevils.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 5: A mushroom-eating Beetle. Cf. _The Life of the Fly_:
chap. xviii.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 6: Ladybirds.--_Translator's Note_.]

As much must be said of the Beetles well-equipped for pedestrian
escape. Some remain motionless for a few seconds; others, more
numerous still, behave in an ungovernable fashion. In short, there is
no guide to tell us in advance:

"This one will readily assume the posture of a dead insect; this one
will hesitate; that one will refuse."

There is nothing but shadowy probabilities, until experiment has given
its verdict. From this muddle shall we draw a conclusion which will
set our minds at rest? I hope so.




CHAPTER XV
SUICIDE OR HYPNOSIS?


You do not imitate the unfamiliar; you do not counterfeit a thing of
which you know nothing: that is obvious. The simulation of death,
therefore, implies a certain knowledge of death.

Well, has the insect, or rather, has any kind of animal, a
presentiment that its life cannot last for ever? Does the perturbing
problem of an end occur to its dense brain? I have associated a great
deal with animals, I have lived on intimate terms with them and I have
never observed anything to justify me in saying yes. The animal, with
its humbler destiny, is spared that apprehension of the hour of death
which constitutes at once our torment and our greatness.

Like the child still in the limbo of unconsciousness, it enjoys the
present without taking thought of the future; free from the bitterness
of a prospective ending, it lives in the blissful calm of ignorance.
It is ours alone to foresee the briefness of our days; it is ours
alone anxiously to question the grave regarding the last sleep.

Moreover, this glimpse of the inevitable destruction calls for a
certain maturity of mind and, for that reason, is rather late in
developing. I had a touching example of it this very week.

A pretty little Kitten, the joy of all the household, after languidly
dragging itself about for a couple of days, died in the night. Next
morning the children found it lying stark in its basket. General
affliction. Anna, especially, a little girl of four, considered with a
pensive glance the little friend with which she had so often played.
She petted it, called it, offered it a drop of milk in a cup:

"Kitty won't play," said the child. "She doesn't want my breakfast any
more. She's asleep. I've never seen her sleep like this before. When
will she wake up?"

This simplicity in the presence of death's harsh problem wrung my
heart. Hastily I led the girl away from the sight and had the dead
Kitten secretly buried. As, from this time onward, it no longer
appeared by the table at meal-times, the grief-stricken child at last
understood that she had seen her little friend sleeping the profound
slumber that knows no awaking. For the first time a vague idea of
death found its way into her mind.

Has the insect the signal honour of knowing what we do not know in our
early childhood, at a time when thought is already manifesting itself,
far superior, however feeble it be, to the dull understanding of the
animal? Has it the power to foresee an ending, an attribute which in
its case would be inconvenient and useless? Before deciding, let us
consult, not the abstruse theories of science, a doubtful guide, but
the Turkey, an eminently truthful one.

I recall one of the most vivid memories that remain to me from my
brief sojourn at the Royal College of Rodez. So they called it then;
to-day they call it a grammar-school; what improvement as the world
grows older!

The thrice-blessed Thursday had come; our bit of translation was done,
our dozen Greek roots had been learnt by heart; and we trooped down to
the far end of the valley, so many bands of madcaps. With our trousers
turned up to our knees, we exploited, artless fishermen that we were,
the peaceful waters of the river, the Aveyron. What we hoped to catch
was the Loach, no bigger than our little finger, but tempting, thanks
to his immobility on the sand amid the waterweeds. We fully expected
to transfix him with our trident, a fork.

This miraculous catch, the object of such shouts of triumph when it
succeeded, was very rarely vouchsafed to us: the Loach, the rascal,
saw the fork coming and with three strokes of his tail disappeared!

We found compensation in the apple-trees in the neighbouring pastures.
The apple has from all time been the urchin's delight, above all when
plucked from a tree which does not belong to him. Our pockets were
soon crammed with the forbidden fruit.

Another distraction awaited us. Flocks of Turkeys were not rare,
roaming at their own sweet will and gobbling up the Locusts around the
farms. If no watcher hove in sight, we had great sport. Each of us
would seize a Turkey, tuck her head under her wing, rock it in this
attitude for a moment and then place her on the ground, lying on her
side. The bird no longer budged. The whole flock of Turkeys was
subjected to our hypnotic handling; and the meadow assumed the aspect
of a battle-field strewn with the dead and dying.

And now look out for the farmer's wife! The loud gobbling of the
harassed birds had told her of our wicked pranks. She would run up
armed with a whip. But we had good legs in those days! And we had a
good laugh too, behind the hedges, which favoured our retreat!

O delightful days when we put the Turkeys to sleep, can I recover the
skill which I then possessed? To-day it is no longer the playful trick
of a schoolboy; it is a matter of serious research. I happen to have
the very subject that I need: a Turkey-hen, doomed soon to be the
victim of our Christmas merry-making. I repeat with her the method of
manipulation which I employed so successfully on the banks of the
Aveyron. I tuck her head well under her wing and, molding it in this
attitude with both hands, I rock the bird gently up and down for a
couple of minutes.

The strange effect is produced; my childhood's manoeuvres obtained no
better result. Laid on the ground, on her side and left to herself, my
patient is a lifeless bundle. One would think her dead, if a slight
rise and fall of the plumage did not reveal the breathing. She looks
really like a dead bird which, in a last convulsion, had drawn its
chilled feet, with their shrivelled toes, under its belly. The
spectacle has a tragic air; and I feel overcome by a certain anxiety
when I gaze upon the results of my evil spells. Poor Turkey! What if
she were never to wake again!

We need not be afraid: she is waking; she stands up, staggering a
little, it is true, with drooping tail and a shamefaced expression.
That soon passes off; not a trace of it remains. In a few moments the
bird is once more what it was before the experiment.

This torpor, the mean between true sleep and death, is of variable
duration. When repeatedly provoked in my Turkey-hen, with suitable
intervals of repose, immobility lasts sometimes for half an hour and
sometimes for a few minutes. Here, as in the insect, it would be very
difficult to analyse the causes of these differences. With the
Guinea-fowl I succeed even better. The torpor lasts so long that I
become alarmed by the bird's condition. The plumage reveals no trace
of breathing. I ask myself, anxiously, whether the bird is not
actually dead. I push it a little way along the ground with my foot.
The patient does not stir. I do it again. And lo, the Guinea-fowl
frees her head, stands up, regains her balance and scurries off! Her
state of lethargy has lasted more than half an hour.

Now for the Goose. I have none. The gardener next door trusts me with
his. She is brought to my house, which she fills with her trumpeting
as she waddles about. Shortly afterwards there is absolute silence:
the web-footed Amazon is lying on the ground, with her head tucked
under her wing. Her immobility is as profound and as prolonged as that
of the Turkey and the Guinea-fowl.

It is the Hen's turn now and the Duck's. They too succumb, but, so it
seems to me, less persistently. Can it be that my hypnotic tricks are
less efficacious with small birds than with large ones? To judge by
the Pigeon, this may well be so. He yields to my art only to the
extent of two minutes' sleep. A still smaller bird, a Greenfinch, is
even more refractory: all that I obtain from him is a few seconds'
drowsiness.

It would appear, then, that, in proportion as the activity is
concentrated in a body of less volume, the torpor has less hold. The
insect has already shown us this. The Giant Scarites does not stir for
an hour, while the Smooth-skinned Scarites, a pigmy, wearies my
persistence in turning him over; the large Cloudy Buprestis submits to
my manoeuvres for a long period, whereas the Glittering Buprestis, a
pigmy again, obstinately refuses to do so.

We will leave on one side, as insufficiently investigated, the
influence of the bodily mass and remember only this fact, that it is
possible, by a very simple artifice, to reduce a bird to a condition
of apparent death. Do my Goose, my Turkey and the others resort to
trickery with the object of deceiving their tormentor? It is certain
that none of them thinks of shamming dead; they are actually immersed
in a deep torpor; in a word, they are hypnotized.

These facts have long been known; they are perhaps the first in date
in the science of hypnosis or artificial sleep. How did we, the little
Rodez schoolboys, learn the secret of the Turkey's slumber? It was
certainly not in our books. Coming from no one knows where,
indestructible as everything that enters into children's games, it was
handed down, from time immemorial, from one initiate to another.

Things are just the same to-day in my village of Sérignan, where there
are numbers of youthful adepts in the art of putting poultry to sleep.
Science often has very humble beginnings. There is nothing to tell us
that the mischief of a pack of idle urchins is not the starting-point
of our knowledge of hypnosis.

I have just been practising on insects tricks which to all appearances
are as puerile as those which we practised on the Turkeys in the days
when the farmer's wife used to run after us cracking her whip. Do not
laugh: a serious problem looms behind this artlessness.

My insects' condition bears a strange resemblance to that of my
poultry. Both present the image of death, inertia, the contraction of
convulsed limbs. In both again the immobility is dispelled before its
time by the agency of a stimulus, by sound in the case of the bird, by
light in that of the insect. Silence, darkness and tranquillity
prolong it. Its duration varies greatly in different species and
appears to increase with corpulence.

Among ourselves, who are very unequal subjects for induced sleep, the
hypnotist is obliged to pick and choose. He succeeds with one and not
with another. Similarly, among the insects, a selection is necessary,
for they do not all of them, by a long way, respond to the
experimenter's attempts. My best subjects have been the Giant Scarites
and the Cloudy Buprestis; but how many others have resisted quite
indomitably, or remained motionless for only a few seconds!

The insect's return to the active state presents certain peculiarities
which are well worthy of attention. The key to the problem lies here.
Let us return for a moment to the patients who have been subjected to
the ordeal of ether. These are really hypnotized. They do not remain
motionless by way of a ruse, there is no doubt upon that point; they
are actually on the threshold of death; and, if I did not take them in
good time out of the flask in which a few drops of ether have been
evaporated, they would never recover from the torpor whose last stage
is death.

Now what symptoms herald their return to activity? We know the
symptoms: the tarsi tremble, the palpi quiver, the antennæ wave to and
fro. A man emerging from a deep sleep stretches his limbs, yawns and
rubs his eyes. The insect awaking from the etheric sleep likewise has
its own fashion of marking its recovery of consciousness: it flutters
its tiny digits and the more mobile of its organs.

Let us now consider an insect which, upset by a shock, perturbed by
some sort of excitement, is believed to be shamming dead, lying on its
back. The return to activity is announced exactly in the same fashion
and in the same order as after the stupefying effect of ether. First
the tarsi quiver; then the palpi and antennæ wave feebly to and fro.

If the creature were really shamming, what need would it have of these
minute preliminaries to the awakening? Once the danger has
disappeared, or is deemed to have done so, why does the insect not
swiftly get upon its feet, to make off as quickly as possible, instead
of dallying with untimely pretences? I am quite sure that, once the
Bear was gone, the comrade who had shammed dead under the animal's
nose did not think of wasting time in stretching himself or rubbing
his eyes. He jumped up at once and took to his heels.

And the insect is supposed to carry its cunning to the length of
counterfeiting resuscitation down to the least details! No, no and
again no; it would be madness. Those quiverings of the tarsi, those
awakening movements of the palpi and antennæ are the obvious proof of
a genuine torpor, now coming to an end, a torpor similar to that
induced by ether but less intense; they show that the insect struck
motionless by my artifice is not shamming dead, as the vulgar idiom
has it and as the fashionable theories repeat. It is really
hypnotized.

A shock which disturbs its nerve-centres, an abrupt fright which
seizes upon it reduce it to a state of somnolence like that of the
bird which is swung for a second or two with its head under its wing.
A sudden terror sometimes deprives us human beings of the power of
movement, sometimes kills us. Why should not the insect's organism, so
delicate and subtle, give way beneath the grip of fear and momentarily
succumb? If the emotion be slight, the insect shrinks into itself for
an instant, quickly recovers and makes off; if it be profound,
hypnosis supervenes, with its prolonged immobility.

The insect, which knows nothing of death and therefore cannot
counterfeit it, knows nothing either of suicide, that desperate means
of cutting short excessive misery. No authentic example has ever been
given, to my knowledge, of an animal of any kind robbing itself of its
own life. That those most richly endowed with the capacity of
affection sometimes allow themselves to die of grief I grant you; but
there is a great difference between this and stabbing one's self or
cutting one's throat.

Yet the recollection occurs to me of the Scorpion's suicide, sworn to
by some, denied by others. What truth is there in the story of the
Scorpion who, surrounded by a circle of fire, puts an end to his
suffering by stabbing himself with his poisoned sting? Let us see for
ourselves:

Circumstances favour me. I am at this moment rearing, in large earthen
pans, with a bed of sand and with potsherds for shelter, a hideous
menagerie which hardly comes up to my expectations as regards the
study of morals.[1] I will profit by it in another way. It consists of
some twenty-four specimens of _Buthus occitanus_, the large White
Scorpion of the south of France. The odious animal abounds, always
isolated, under the flat stones of the neighbouring hills, in the
sandy spots which enjoy the most sunlight. It has a detestable
reputation.

[Footnote 1: For the habits of the White or Languedocian Scorpion, cf.
_The Life and Love of the Insect_: chaps. xvii. and
xviii.--_Translator's Note_.]

On the effects of its sting I personally have nothing to say, having
always avoided, by a little caution, the danger to which my relations
with the formidable captives in my study might have exposed me.
Knowing nothing of it myself, I get people to tell me of it,
wood-cutters in particular, who from time to time fall victims to
their imprudence. One of them tells me the following story:

"After having my dinner, I was dozing for a moment among my faggots,
when I was roused by a sharp pain. It was like the prick of a red-hot
needle. I clapped my hand to the place. Sure enough, there was
something moving! A Scorpion had crept under my trousers and stung me
in the lower part of the calf. The ugly beast was full as long as my
finger. Like that, sir, like that!"

And, adding gesture to speech, the worthy man extended his great
fore-finger. This size did not surprise me: while insect-hunting, I
have seen Scorpions as large.

"I wanted to go on with my work," he continued, "but I came out in a
cold sweat; and my leg swelled up so you could see it swelling. It got
as big as that, sir, as big as that."

More mimicry. Our friend spreads his two hands round his leg, at a
distance, so as to denote the girth of a small barrel:

"Yes, like that, sir, like that; I had great trouble to get home,
though it was only half a mile away. The swelling crept up and up.
Next day it had got so high."

A gesture indicates the height.

"Yes, sir, for three days I couldn't stand up. I bore it as well as I
could, with my leg stretched out on a chair. Soda-compresses did the
trick; and there you are, sir, there you are."

Another woodcutter, he adds, was also stung in the lower part of the
leg. He was binding faggots together at some distance and had not the
strength to regain his home. He collapsed by the side of the road.
Some men passing by carried him on their shoulders:

"_À la cabro morto, moussu, à la cabro morto!_"

The story of the rustic narrator, more versed in mimicry than in
speech, does not seem to me exaggerated. A White Scorpion's sting is a
very serious accident for a human being. When stung by his own kind,
the Scorpion himself quickly succumbs. Here I have something better
than the evidence of strangers: I have my own observations.

I take two healthy specimens from my menagerie and place them together
at the bottom of a glass jar on a layer of sand. Excited with the tip
of a straw which brings them face to face again whenever they draw
back, the two harassed creatures decide on mortal combat. Each no
doubt attributes to the other the annoyances of which I myself am the
cause. The claws, those weapons of defence, are displayed in a
semicircle and open to keep the adversary at a distance; the tails, in
sudden jerks, are flung forward above the back; the poison-phials
clash together; a tiny drop, limpid as water, beads the point of the
sting.

The fight does not last long. One of the Scorpions receives the full
force of the other's poisoned weapon. It is all over: in a few minutes
the wounded one succumbs. The victor very calmly proceeds to gnaw the
fore-part of the victim's cephalothorax, or, in less crabbed terms,
the bit at which we look for a head and find only the entrance to a
belly. The mouthfuls are small, but long-drawn-out. For four or five
days, almost without a break, the cannibal nibbles at his murdered
comrade. To eat the vanquished, that's good warfare, the only sort
excusable. What I do not understand, nor shall until we tin the meat
on the battle-field for food, is our wars between nations.

We now have authentic information: the Scorpion's sting is fatal,
promptly fatal, to the Scorpion himself. Let us come to the matter of
suicide, such as it has been described to us. When surrounded by a
circle of live embers, the animal, so we are told, stabs itself with
its sting and finds an end of its torment in voluntary death. This
would be very fine on the creature's part if it were true. We shall
see.

In the centre of a ring of burning charcoal, I place the largest
specimen from my menagerie. The bellows increase the glow. At the
first smart of the heat, the animal moves backwards within the circle
of fire. It collides by inadvertence with the burning barrier. Now
follows a disorderly retreat, in every direction, at random, renewing
the agonizing contact. At each attempt to escape, the burning is
repeated more severely than before. The animal becomes frantic. It
darts forward and scorches itself. In a desperate frenzy, it
brandishes its weapon, crooks it, straightens it, lays it down flat
and raises it again, all with such disorderly haste that I am quite
unable to follow its movements accurately.

The moment ought to have come for the Scorpion to release himself from
his torture with a blow of the stiletto. And indeed, with a sudden
spasm, the long-suffering creature becomes motionless, lies at
full-length, flat upon the ground. There is not a movement; the
inertia is complete. Is the Scorpion dead? It really looks like it.
Perhaps he has pinked himself with a thrust of his sting that escaped
me in the turmoil of the last efforts. If he has actually stabbed
himself, if he has resorted to suicide, then he is dead beyond a
doubt: we have just seen how quickly he succumbs to his own venom.

In my uncertainty, I pick up the apparently dead body with the tip of
my forceps and lay it on a bed of cool sand. An hour later, the
alleged corpse returns to life, as lusty as before the ordeal. I
repeat the process with a second and third specimen. The results are
the same. After the frantic plunges of the desperate victim, we have
the same sudden inertia, with the creature sprawling flat as though
struck by lightning, and the same return to life on the cool sand.

It seems probable that those who invented the story of the Scorpion
committing suicide were deceived by this sudden swoon, this paralysing
spasm, into which the high temperature of the enclosure throws the
exasperated beast. Too quickly convinced, they left the victim to burn
to death. Had they been less credulous and withdrawn the animal in
good time from its circle of fire, they would have seen the apparently
dead Scorpion return to life and thus assert its profound ignorance of
suicide.

Apart from man, no living thing knows the last resource of a voluntary
end, because none has a knowledge of death. As for us, to feel that we
have the power to escape from the miseries of life is a noble
prerogative, upon which it is good to meditate, as a sign of our
elevation above the commonalty of the animal world; but in point of
fact it becomes cowardice if from the possibility we pass to action.

He who proposes to go to that length should at least repeat to himself
what Confucius, the great philosopher of the yellow race, said
five-and-twenty centuries ago. Having surprised a stranger in the
woods fixing to the branch of a tree a rope wherewith to hang himself,
the Chinese sage addressed him in words the gist of which was as
follows:

"However great your misfortunes, the greatest of all would be to yield
to despair. All the rest can be repaired; this one is irreparable. Do
not believe that all is lost for you and try to convince yourself of a
truth which has been proved indisputable by the experience of the
centuries. And that truth is this: so long as a man has life, there is
no need for him to despair. He may pass from the greatest misery to
the greatest joy, from the greatest misfortune to the highest
felicity. Take courage and, as though you were this very day beginning
to recognize the value of life, strive at every moment to make the
most of it."

This humdrum Chinese philosophy is not without merit. It suggests the
moralizing of the fabulist:

"_... Qu'on me rende impotent,
Cul-de-jatte, goutteux, manchot, pourvu qu'en somme
Je vive, c'est assez: je suis plus que content._"[2]

[Footnote 2: "... So powerless let me lie,
              Gout-ridden, legless, armless; if only, after all,
              I live, it is enough: more than content am I."]

Yes, yes, La Fontaine and Kung the philosopher are right: life is a
serious matter, which it will not do to throw away into the first bush
by the roadside like a useless garment. We must look upon it not as a
pleasure, nor yet as a punishment, but as a duty of which we have to
acquit ourselves as well as we can until we are given leave to depart.

To anticipate this leave is cowardly and foolish. The power to
disappear at will through death's trap-door does not justify us in
deserting our post; but it opens to us certain vistas which are
absolutely unknown to the animal.

We alone know how life's pageant closes, we alone can foresee our end,
we alone profess devotion to the dead. Of these high matters none
other has any suspicion. When would-be scientists proclaim aloud, when
they declare that a wretched insect knows the trick of simulating
death, we will ask them to look more closely and not to confound the
hypnosis due to terror with the pretence of a condition unknown to the
animal world.

Ours alone is the clear vision of an end, ours alone the glorious
instinct of the beyond. Here, filling its modest part, speaks the
voice of entomology, saying:

"Have confidence; never did an instinct fail to keep its promises."




CHAPTER XVI
THE CRIOCERES


I am a stubborn disciple of St. Thomas the Apostle and, before I agree
to anything, I want to see and touch it, not once, but twice, thrice,
an indefinite number of times, until my incredulity bows beneath the
weight of evidence. Well, the Rhynchites[1] have told us that the
build does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decide
the trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. I
question three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At the
proper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them,
whenever I want to ask them for information.

[Footnote 1: A genus of Weevils, the essays upon whom will appear in a
later volume to be entitled _The Life of Weevil_.--_Translator's
Note_.]

The first is the Crioceris of the Lily, or Lily-beetle. Since Latin
words offend our modesty let us just once mention her scientific name,
_Crioceris merdigera_, LIN., without translating it, or, above all,
repeating it. Decency forbids. I have never been able to understand
why natural history need inflict upon a lovely flower or an engaging
animal an odious name.

As a matter of fact, our Crioceris, so ill-treated by the
nomenclators, is a sumptuous creature. She is nicely shaped, neither
too large nor too small, and a beautiful coral red, with jet-black
head and legs. Everybody knows her who in the spring has ever glanced
at the lily, when its stem is beginning to show in the centre of the
rosette of leaves. A Beetle, of less than the average size and
coloured sealing-wax red, is perched up on the plant. Your hand goes
out to seize her. Forthwith, paralysed with fright, she drops to the
ground.

Let us wait a few days and return to the lily, which is gradually
growing taller and beginning to show its buds, gathered together in a
bundle. The red insect is still there. Further, the leaves, which are
seriously bitten into, are reduced to tatters and soiled with little
heaps of greenish ordure. It looks as if some witchcraft had mashed up
the leaves and then splashed the mess all over the place.

Well, this filth moves, travels slowly along. Let us overcome our
repugnance and poke the heaps with a straw. We uncover, indeed we
unclothe an ugly, pot-bellied, pale-orange larva. It is the grub of
the Crioceris.

The origin of the garment of which we have just stripped it would be
unmentionable, save in the world of the insect, that manufacturer
devoid of shame. This doublet is, in fact, obtained from the
creature's excretions. Instead of evacuating downwards, on the
superannuated principle, the Crioceris' larva evacuates upwards and
receives upon its back the waste products of the intestine, materials
which move from back to front as each fresh pat is dabbed upon the
others. Réaumur has complacently described how the quilt moves forward
from the tail to the head by wriggling along inclined planes, making
so many dips in the undulating back. There is no need to return to
this stercoral mechanism after the master has done with it.

We now know the reasons that procured the Lily-beetle an ignominious
title, confined to the official records: the grub makes itself an
overcoat of its excrements.

Once the garment is completed so as to cover the whole of the
creature's dorsal surface, the clothing-factory does not cease work on
that score. At the back a fresh hem is added from moment to moment;
but the overlapping superfluity in front drops off of its own weight
at the same time. The coat of dung is under continual repair, being
renovated and lengthened at one end as it wears and grows shorter at
the other.

Sometimes also the stuff is too thick and the heap capsizes. The
denuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obliging
intestine repairs the disaster without delay.

Whether by reason of the clipping that results from the excessive
length of a piece which is always on the loom, or of accidents that
cause a part or the whole of the load to fall off, the grub of the
Crioceris leaves accumulations of dirt in its track, till the lily,
the symbol of purity, becomes a very cess-pool. When the leaves have
been browsed, the stem next loses its cuticle, thanks to the nibbling
of the grub, and is reduced to a ragged distaff. The flowers even,
which have opened by now, are not spared: their beautiful ivory
chalices are changed into latrines.

The perpetrator of the misdeed embarks on his career of defilement
early. I wanted to see him start, to watch him lay the first course of
his excremental masonry. Does he serve an apprenticeship? Does he work
badly at first, then a little better and then well? I now know all
about it: there is no noviciate, there are no clumsy attempts; the
workmanship is perfect from the outset, the product ejected spreads
over the hinder part. Let me tell you what I saw.

The eggs are laid in May, on the under surface of the leaves, in short
trails averaging from three to six. They are cylindrical, rounded at
both ends, of a bright orange-red, glossy and varnished with a
glutinous wash which makes them stick to the leaves throughout their
length. The hatching takes ten days. The shell of the egg, now a
little wrinkled, but still of a bright orange colour, retains its
position, so that the group of eggs, apart from its slightly withered
appearance, remains just as it was.

The young larva measures a millimetre and a half[2] in length. The
head and legs are black, the rest of the body a dull amber-red. On the
first segment of the thorax is a brown sash, interrupted in the
middle; lastly, there is a small black speck on each side, behind the
third segment. This is the initial costume. Presently orange-red will
take the place of the pale amber. The tiny creature, which is
exceedingly fat, sticks to the leaf with its short legs and also with
its hind-quarters, which act as a lever and push the round belly
forwards. The motion reminds you of a cripple sitting in a bowl.

[Footnote 2: .959 inch.--_Translator's Note_.]

The grubs emerging from any one group of eggs at once begin to browse,
each beside the empty skin of its egg. Here, singly, they nibble and
dig themselves a little pit in the thickness of the leaf, while
sparing the cuticle of the opposite surface. This leaves a translucent
floor, a support which enables them to consume the walls of the
excavation without risking a fall.

Seeking for better pasture, they move lazily on. I see them scattered
at random; a few of them are grouped in the same trench; but I never
see them browsing economically abreast as Réaumur relates. There is no
order, no understanding between messmates, contemporaries though they
be and all sprung from the same row of eggs. Nor is any heed paid to
economy: the lily is so generous!

Meanwhile, the paunch swells and the intestine labours. Here we are! I
see the first bit of the overcoat evacuated. As is natural in extreme
infancy, it is liquid and there is not much of it. The scanty flow is
used all the same and is laid methodically, right at the far end of
the back. Let the little grub be. In less than a day, piece by piece,
it will have made itself a suit.

The artist is a master from the first attempt. If its baby-flannel is
so good to start with, what will the future ulster be, when the stuff,
brought to perfection, is of much better quality? Let us proceed; we
know what we want to know concerning the talents of this manufacturer
of excremental broadcloth.

What is the purpose of this nasty great-coat? Does the grub employ it
to keep itself cool, to protect itself against the attacks of the sun?
It is possible: a tender skin need not be afraid of blistering under
such a soothing poultice. Is it the grub's object to disgust its
enemies? This again is possible: who would venture to set tooth to
such a heap of filth? Or can it be simply a caprice of fashion, an
outlandish fancy? I will not say no. We have had the crinoline, that
senseless bulwark of steel hoops; we still have the extravagant
stove-pipe hat, which tries to mould our heads in its stiff sheath.
Let us be indulgent to the evacuator nor disparage his eccentric
wardrobe. We have eccentricities of our own.

To feel our way a little in this delicate question, we will question
the near kinsmen of the Lily-beetle. In my acre or two of pebbles I
have planted a bed of asparagus. The crop, from the culinary point of
view, will never repay me for my trouble: I am rewarded in another
fashion. On the scanty shoots which I allow to display themselves
freely in plumes of delicate green, two Crioceres abound in the
spring: the field species (_C. campestris_, LIN.) and the
twelve-spotted species (_C. duodecimpunctata_, LIN.). A splendid
windfall, far better than any bundle of asparagus.

The first has a tricolor costume which is not without merit. Blue
wing-cases, braided with white on the outer edge and each adorned with
three white dots; a red corselet, with a blue disk in the centre. Its
eggs are olive-green and cylindrical and, instead of lying flat,
grouped in short lines, after the manner of the lily-dweller's, occur
singly and stand on end on the leaves of the asparagus-plant, on the
twigs, on the flower-buds, more or less everywhere, without any fixed
order.

Though living in the open air on the leaves of its plant and thus
exposed to all the various perils that may threaten the Lily-grub, the
larva of the Field Crioceris knows nothing whatever of the art of
sheltering itself beneath a layer of ordure. It goes through life
naked and always perfectly clean.

It is of a bright greenish yellow, fairly fat behind and thinner in
front. Its principal organ of locomotion is the end of the intestine,
which protrudes, curves like a flexible finger, clasps the twig and
supports the creature while pushing it forward. The true legs, which
are short and placed too far in front with regard to the length of the
body, would find it very difficult by themselves to drag the heavy
mass that comes after. Their assistant, the anal finger, is remarkably
strong. With no support, the larva turns over, head downwards, and
remains suspended when shifting from one sprig to another. This
Jack-in-the-bowl is a rope-dancer, a consummate acrobat, performing
its evolutions amid the slender sprigs without fear of a fall.

Its attitude in repose is curious. The heavy stern rests on the two
hind-legs and especially on the crooked finger, the end of the
intestine. The fore-part is lifted in a graceful curve, the little
black head is raised and the creature looks rather like the crouching
Sphinx of antiquity. This pose is common at times of slumber and
blissful digestion in the sun.

An easy prey is this naked, plump, defenceless grub, snoozing in the
heat of a blazing day. Various Gnats, of humble size, but very likely
terribly treacherous, haunt the foliage of the asparagus. The larva of
the Crioceris, motionless in its sphinx-like attitude, does not appear
to be on its guard against them, even when they come buzzing above its
rump. Can they be as harmless as their peaceful frolics seem to
proclaim? It is extremely doubtful: the Fly rabble are not there
merely to imbibe the scanty exudations of the plant. Experts in
mischief, they have no doubt hastened hither with another object.

And, in truth, on the greater number of the Crioceris-larvæ we find,
adhering firmly to the skin, certain white specks, very small and of a
china-white. Can these be the sowing of a bandit, the spawn of a
Midge?

I collect the grubs marked with these white specks and rear them in
captivity. A month later, about the middle of June, they shrivel,
wrinkle and turn brown. All that is left of them is a dry skin which
tears from end to end, half uncovering a Fly-pupa. A few days later,
the parasite emerges.

It is a small, greyish Fly, fiercely bristling with sparse hairs, half
the size of the House-fly, whom it resembles slightly. It belongs to
the Tachina group, who, in their larval form, so often inhabit the
bodies of caterpillars.

The white spots sprinkled over the larva of the Crioceris were the
eggs of the hateful Fly. The vermin born of those eggs have perforated
the victim's paunch. By subtle wounds, which cause little pain and are
almost immediately healed, they have penetrated the body, reaching the
humours in which the entrails are bathed. At first the larva invaded
is not aware of its danger; it continues to perform its rope-dancer's
gymnastics, to fill its belly and to take its siestas in the sun, as
though nothing serious had occurred.

Reared in a glass tube and often examined under the lens, my
parasite-ridden larvæ betray no uneasiness. The fact is that the
Tachina's children display an infernal judgment in their first
actions. Until the moment when they are ready for the transformation,
their portion of game has to hold out, must be kept fresh and alive.
They therefore gorge themselves with the reserves intended for future
use, the fats, the savings which the Crioceris hoards in view of the
remodelling whence the perfect insect will emerge; they consume what
is not essential to the life of the moment and are very careful not to
touch the organs which are indispensable at the present time. If these
received a bite, the host would die and so would they. Towards the end
of their growth, prudence and discretion being no longer essential,
they make a complete clearance of the victim, leaving only the skin,
which will serve them for a shelter.

One satisfaction is vouchsafed me in these horrible orgies: I see that
the Tachina in her turn is subjected to severe reductions. How many
were there on the larva's back? Perhaps eight, ten or more. One Midge,
never more than one, comes out of the victim's skin, for the morsel is
too small to provide food for many. What has become of the others? Has
there been an internecine battle inside the poor wretch's body? Have
they eaten one another up, leaving only the strongest to survive, or
the one most favoured by the chances of the fight? Or has one of them,
earlier developed than the rest, found himself master of the
stronghold and have the others preferred to die outside rather than
enter a grub already occupied, where famine would be rife if the
messmates numbered even two? I am all for mutual extermination.
Kinsman's flesh or stranger's flesh must be all one to the fangs of
the vermin swarming in the Crioceris' belly.

Fierce though the competition is among these bandits, the Beetle's
race does not threaten to die out. I review the innumerable troop on
my asparagus-bed. A good half of them have Tachina-eggs plainly
visible as tiny white specks on their green skins. The blemished larvæ
tell me of a paunch already or on the point of being invaded. On the
other hand, it is doubtful whether those which are unscathed will all
remain in that condition. The malefactor is incessantly prowling
around the green plumes, watching for a favourable opportunity. Many
larvæ free from white spots to-day will show them to-morrow or some
other day, so long as the Fly's season lasts.

I estimate that the vast majority of the troop will end by being
infested. My rearing-experiments tell me much on this point. If I do
not make a careful selection when I am stocking my wire-gauze-covers,
if I go to work at random in picking the branches colonized with
larvæ, I obtain very few adult Crioceres; nearly all of them are
resolved into a cloud of Midges.

If it were possible for us to wage war effectually upon an insect, I
should advise asparagus-growers to have recourse to the Tachina,
though I should cherish no illusions touching the results of the
expedient. The exclusive tastes of the insect auxiliary draw us into a
vicious circle: the remedy allays the evil, but the evil is
inseparable from the remedy. To rid ourselves of the ravages of the
asparagus-beds, we should need a great many Tachinæ; and to obtain a
great many Tachinæ we should first of all need a great many ravagers.
Nature's equilibrium balances things as a whole. Whenever Crioceres
abound, the Midges that reduce them arrive in numbers; when Crioceres
become rare, the Midges decrease, but are always ready to return in
masses and repress a surplus of the others during a return of
prosperity.

Under its thick mantle of ordure the grub of the Lily-beetle escapes
the troubles so fatal to its cousin of the asparagus. Strip it of its
overcoat: you will never find the terrible white specks upon its skin.
The method of preservation is most effective.

Would it not be possible to find a defensive system of equal value
without resorting to detestable filth? Yes, of course: the insect need
only house itself under a covering where there would be nothing to
fear from the Fly's eggs. This is what the Twelve-spotted Crioceris
does, occupying the same quarters as the Field Crioceris, from whom
she differs in size, being rather larger, and still more in her
costume, which is rusty red all over, with twelve black spots
distributed symmetrically on the wing-cases.

Her eggs, which are a deep olive-green and cylindrical, pointed at one
pole and squared off at the other, closely resemble those of the Field
Crioceris and, like these, usually stand up on the supporting surface,
to which they are fastened by the square end. It would be easy to
confuse the two if we had not the position which they occupy to guide
us. The Field Crioceris fastens her eggs to the leaves and the thin
sprays; the other plants them exclusively on the still green fruit of
the asparagus, globules the size of a pea.

The grubs have to open a tiny passage for themselves and to make their
own way into the fruit, of which they eat the pulp. Each globule
harbours one larva, no more, or the ration would be insufficient.
Often, however, I see two, three or four eggs on the same fruit. The
first grub hatched is the one favoured by luck. He becomes the owner
of the pill, an intolerant owner capable of wringing the neck of any
who should come and sit down at table beside him. Always and
everywhere this pitiless competition!

The grub of the Twelve-spotted Crioceris is a dull white, with an
interrupted black scarf on the first segment of the thorax. This
sedentary creature has none of the talents of the acrobat grazing on
the swaying foliage of the asparagus; it cannot take a grip with its
posterior, turned into a prehensile finger. What use would it have for
such a prerogative, loving repose as it does and destined to put on
fat in its cell, without roaming in quest of food? In the same group
each species has its own gifts, according to the kind of life that
awaits it.

It is not long before the occupied fruit falls to the ground. Day by
day, it loses its green colour as the pulp is consumed. It becomes, at
last, a pretty, diaphanous opal sphere, while the berries which have
not been injured ripen on the plant and acquire a rich scarlet hue.

When there is nothing left to eat inside the skin of its pill, the
grub makes a hole in it and goes underground. The Tachinæ have spared
it. Its opal box, the hard rind of the berry, has ensured its safety
just as well as a filthy overcoat would have done and perhaps even
better.




CHAPTER XVII
THE CRIOCERES (_continued_)


The Crioceris has found safety inside its opal globe. Safety? Ah, but
what an unfortunate expression I have used! Is there any one in the
world who can flatter himself that he has escaped the spoiler?

In the middle of July, at the time when the Twelve-spotted Crioceris
comes up from under the ground in the adult form, my rearing-jars
yield me swarms of a very small Gall-fly, a slender, graceful,
blue-black Chalcid, without any visible boring-tool. Has the puny
creature a name? Have the nomenclators catalogued it? I do not know,
nor do I much care; the main thing is to learn that the covering of
the asparagus-berry, which becomes an opal globe when the grub has
emptied it, has failed to save the recluse. The Tachina-midge drains
her victim by herself; this other, tinier creature feasts in company.
Twenty or more of them batten on the grub together.

When everything seems to foretell a quiet life, a pigmy among pigmies
appears, charged with the express duty of exterminating an insect
which is protected first by the casket of the berry and next by the
shell, the underground work of the grub. To eat the Twelve-spotted
Crioceris is its mission in life, its special function. When and how
does it deliver its attack? I do not know.

At any rate, proud of her vocation and finding life sweet, the Chalcid
curls her antennæ into a crook and waves them to and fro: she rubs her
tarsi together, a sign of satisfaction; she dusts her belly. I can
hardly see her with the naked eye; and yet she is an agent of the
universal extermination, a wheel in the implacable machine which
crushes life as in a wine-press.

The tyranny of the belly turns the world into a robber's cave. Eating
means killing. Distilled in the alembic of the stomach, the life
destroyed by slaughter becomes so much fresh life. Everything is
melted down again, everything has a fresh beginning in death's
insatiable furnace.

Man, from the alimentary point of view, is the chief brigand,
consuming everything that lives or might live. Here is a mouthful of
bread, the sacred food. It represents a certain number of grains of
wheat which asked only to sprout, to turn green in the sun, to shoot
up into tall stalks crowned with ears. They died that we might live.
Here are some eggs. Left undisturbed with the Hen, they would have
emitted the Chickens' gentle cheep. They died that we might live. Here
is beef, mutton, poultry. Horror, it smells of blood, it is eloquent
of murder! If we gave it a thought, we should not dare to sit down to
table, that altar of cruel sacrifices.

How many lives does the Swallow, to mention only the most peaceable,
harvest in the course of a single day! From morning to evening he
gulps down Crane-flies, Gnats and Midges joyously dancing in the
sunbeams. Quick as lightning he passes; and the dancers are decimated.
They perish; then their melancholy remnants fall from the nest
containing the young brood, in the form of guano which becomes the
turf's inheritance. And so it is with all and everything, with large
and small, from end to end of the animal progression. A perpetual
massacre perpetuates the flux of life.

Appalled by these butcheries, the thinker begins to dream of a state
of affairs which would free us from the horrors of the maw. This ideal
of innocence, as our poor nature vaguely sees it, is not an
impossibility; it is partly realized for all of us, men and animals.

Breathing is the most imperious of needs. We live by the air before we
live by bread; and this happens of itself, without painful struggles,
without costly labour, almost without our knowledge. We do not set
out, armed for war, to conquer the air by rapine, violence, cunning,
barter and desperate labour; the supreme element of life enters our
bodies of its own accord; it penetrates us and quickens us. Each of us
has his generous share of it without giving the matter a thought.

To crown perfection, it is free. And this will last indefinitely until
an ever ingenious Treasury invents distributing-taps and pneumatic
receivers from which the air will be doled out to us at so much a
piston-stroke. Let us hope that we shall be spared this particular
item of scientific progress, for that, woe betide us, would be the end
of all things: the tax would kill the tax-payer!

Chemistry, in its lighter moods, promises us, in the future, pills
containing the concentrated essence of food. These cunning compounds,
the product of our laboratories, would not end our longing to possess
a stomach no more burdensome than our lungs and to feed even as we
breathe.

The plant partly knows this secret: it draws its carbon quietly from
the air, in which each leaf is impregnated with the wherewithal to
grow tall and green. But the vegetable is inactive; hence its innocent
life. Action calls for strongly flavoured spices, won by fighting. The
animal acts; therefore it kills. The highest phase, perhaps, of a
self-conscious intelligence, man, deserving nothing better, shares
with the brute the tyranny of the belly as the irresistible motive of
action.

But I have wandered too far afield. A living speck, swarming in the
paunch of a grub, tells us of the brigandage of life. How well it
understands its trade as an exterminator! In vain does the
Crioceris-larva take refuge in an unassailable casket: its executioner
makes herself so small that she is able to reach it.

Adopt such precautions as you please, you pitiable grubs, pose on your
sprigs in the attitude of a threatening Sphinx, take refuge in the
mysteries of a box, arm yourself with a cuirass of dung: you will none
the less pay your tribute in the pitiless conflict; there will always
be operators who, varying in cunning, in size, in implements, will
inoculate you with their deadly germs.

Not even the lily-dweller, with her dirty ways, is safe. Her grub is
as often the prey of another Tachina, larger than that of the Field
Crioceris. The parasite, I am convinced, does not sow her eggs upon
the victim so long as the latter is wrapped in its repulsive
great-coat; but a moment's imprudence gives her a favourable
opportunity.

When the time comes for the grub to bury itself in the ground, there
to undergo the transformation, it lays aside its mantle, with the
object perhaps of easing itself when it descends from the top of the
plant, or else with the object of taking a bath in that kindly
sunlight whereof it has hitherto tasted so little under its moist
coverlet. This naked journey over the leaves, the last joy of its
larval life, is fatal to the traveller. Up comes the Tachina, who,
finding a clean skin, all sleek with fat, loses no time in dabbing her
eggs upon it.

A census of the intact and of the injured larvæ provides us with
particulars which agree with what we foresaw from the nature of their
respective lives. The most exposed to parasites is the Field
Crioceris, whose larva lives in the open air, without any sort of
protection. Next comes the Twelve-spotted Crioceris, who is
established in the asparagus-berry from her early infancy. The most
favoured is the Lily-beetle, who, while a grub, makes an ulster of her
excretions.

For the second time, we are here confronted by three insects which
look as if they had all come out of one mould, so much are they alike
in shape. If the costumes were not different and the sizes dissimilar,
we should not know how to tell one from another. And this pronounced
resemblance in figure is accompanied by a no less pronounced lack of
resemblance in instinct.

The evacuator that soils its back cannot have inspired the hermit
living in cleanly retirement inside its globe; the occupant of the
asparagus-berry did not advise the third to live in the open and
wander like an acrobat through the leafage. None of the three has
initiated the customs of the other two. All this seems to me as clear
as daylight. If they have issued from the same stock, how have they
acquired such dissimilar talents?

Furthermore, have these talents developed by degrees? The Lily-beetle
is prepared to tell us. Her grub, let us suppose, once conceived the
notion, when tormented by the Tachina, of making the stercoral slit
open above. By accident, with no definite purpose in view, it emptied
the contents of its intestine over its back. The natty Fly hesitated
in the presence of this filth. The grub, in its cunning, recognized,
as time went on, the benefit to be derived from its poultice; and what
at first was an unpremeditated pollution became a prudent custom.

As success followed upon success, with the aid of the centuries, of
course, for these inventions always take centuries, the dung overcoat
was extended from the hinder end to the fore-part, right down to the
forehead. Finding itself the gainer by this invention, setting the
parasite at defiance under its coverlet, the grub made a strict law of
what was an accident; and the Crioceris faithfully handed down the
repulsive great-coat to her offspring.

So far this is not so bad. But things now begin to become complicated.
If the insect was really the inventor of its defensive methods, if it
discovered for itself the advantage of hiding under its ordure, I look
to its ingenuity to keep up the tricks until the precise moment has
come for burying itself. But, on the contrary, it undresses itself
some time beforehand; it wanders about naked, taking the air on the
leaves, at a time when its fair round belly is more than ever likely
to tempt the Fly. It completely forgets, on its last day, the prudence
which it acquired by the long apprenticeship of the centuries.

This sudden change of purpose, this heedlessness in the face of danger
tells me that the insect forgets nothing, because it has learnt
nothing, because it has invented nothing. When the instincts were
being distributed, it received as its share the overcoat, of whose
methods it is ignorant, though it benefits by its advantages. It has
not acquired it by successive stages, followed by a sudden halt at the
most dangerous moment, the moment most calculated to inspire it with
distrust; it is no more and no less gifted than it was in the
beginning and is unable in any way to alter its tactics against the
Tachina and its other enemies.

Nevertheless, we must not be in a hurry to attribute to the garment of
filth the exclusive function of protecting the grub against the
parasite. It is difficult to see in what respect the Lily-grub is more
deserving than the Asparagus-grub, which possesses no defensive arts.
Perhaps it is less fruitful and, to make up for the poverty of the
ovaries, boasts an ingenuity which safeguards the race. Nor is there
anything to tell us that the soft coverlet is not at the same time a
shelter which screens a too sensitive skin from the sun. And, if it
were a mere fal-lal, a furbelow of larval coquetry, even that would
not surprise me. The insect has tastes which we cannot judge by our
own. Let us end with a doubt and proceed.

May is not over when the grub, now fully-grown, leaves the lily and
buries itself at the foot of the plant, at no great depth. Working
with its head and rump, it forces back the earth and makes itself a
round recess, the size of a pea. To turn the cell into a hollow pill
which will not be liable to collapse, all that remains for it to do is
to drench the wall with a glue which soon sets and grips the sand.

To observe this work of consolidation, I unearth some unfinished cells
and make an opening which enables me to watch the grub at work. The
hermit is at the window in a moment. A stream of froth pours from his
mouth like beaten-up white of egg. He slavers, spits profusely; he
makes his product effervescence and lays it on the edge of the breach.
With a few spurts of froth the opening is plugged.

I collect other grubs at the moment of their interment and install
them in glass tubes with a few tiny bits of paper which will serve
them as a prop. There is no sand, no building-material other than the
creature's spittle and my very few shreds of paper. Under these
conditions can the pill-shaped cell be constructed?

Yes, it can; and without much difficulty. Supporting itself partly on
the glass, partly on the paper, the larva begins to slaver all around
it, to froth copiously. After a spell of some hours, it has
disappeared within a solid shell. This is white as snow and highly
porous; it might almost be a globule of whipped albumen. Thus, to
stick together the sand in its pill-shaped nest, the larva employs a
frothy albuminous substance.

Let us now dissect the builder. Around the oesophagus, which is fairly
long and soft, are no salivary glands, no silk-tubes. The frothy
cement is therefore neither silk nor saliva. One organ forces itself
upon our attention: it is the crop, which is very capacious, and
dilated with irregular protuberances that put it out of shape. It is
filled with a colourless, viscous fluid. This is certainly the raw
material of the frothy spittle, the glue that binds the grains of sand
together and consolidates them into a spherical whole.

When the preparations for the metamorphosis are at hand, the stomachic
pouch, having no longer to do duty as a digestive laboratory, serves
the insect as a factory, or a warehouse for different purposes. Here
the Sitares store up their uric waste products; here the Capricorns
collect the chalky paste which becomes the stone lid for the entrance
to the cell; here caterpillars keep in reserve the gums and powders
with which they strengthen the cocoon; hence the Hymenoptera draw the
lacquer which they employ to upholster their silken edifice. And now
we find the Lily-beetle using it as a store for frothy cement.[1] What
an obliging organ is this digestive pouch!

[Footnote 1: This subject is continued in the essay on the Foamy
Cicadella. Cf. _The Life of the Grasshopper_: chap. xx.--_Translator's
Note_.]

The two Asparagus-beetles are likewise proficient dribblers, worthy
rivals of their kinswoman of the lily in the matter of building. In
all three cases the underground shell has the same shape and the same
structure.

When, after a subterranean visit of two months' duration, the
Lily-beetle returns to the surface in her adult form, a botanical
problem remains to be solved before the history of the insect is
completed. We are now at the height of summer. The lilies have had
their day. A dry, leafless stick, surmounted by a few tattered
capsules, is all that is left of the magnificent plant of the spring.
Only the onion-like bulb remains a little way down. There, postponing
the process of vegetation, it waits for the steady rains of the
autumn, which will renew its strength and make it burgeon into a sheaf
of leaves.

How does the Lily-beetle live during the summer, before the return of
the green foliage dear to its race? Does it fast during the extreme
heat? If abstinence is its rule of life in this season of vegetable
dearth, why does it emerge from underground, why does it abandon its
shell, where it could sleep so peacefully, without the necessity of
eating? Can it be need of food that drives it from the substratum and
sends it to the sunlight so soon as the wing-cases have assumed their
vermilion hue? It is very likely. For the rest, let us look into the
matter.

On the ruined stems of my white lilies I find a portion covered with a
scrap of green skin. I set it before the prisoners in my jars, who
emerged from their sandy bed a day or two ago. They attack it with an
appetite which is extremely conclusive; the green morsel is stripped
bare to the wood. Soon I have nothing left, in the way of their
regulation diet, to offer my famished captives. I know that all the
lilies, native or exotic, the Turk's cap lily, or Martagon, the lily
of Chalcedon, the tiger lily and many others, are to their taste; I do
not forget that the crown imperial fritillary and the Persian
fritillary are equally welcome; but most of these delicate plants have
refused the hospitality of my two acres of pebbles and those which it
is more or less possible for me to grow are now as tattered as the
common lily. There is not a patch of green left on them.

In botany the lily gives its name to the family of the Liliaceæ, of
which it is the leading representative. Those who feed upon the lily
ought also, in the absence of anything better, to accept the other
plants of the same group. This is my opinion at first; it is not that
of the Crioceris, who knows more than I do about the virtues of
plants.

The family of the Liliaceæ is subdivided into three tribes: the
lilies, the daffodils and the asparaguses. Not any of the daffodil
tribe suit my famishing prisoners, who allow themselves to die of
inanition on the leaves of the following genera, the only varieties
with which the modest resources of my garden have allowed me to
experiment: asphodel, funkia, or niobe, agapanthus, or African lily,
tritelia, hemerocallis, or day lily, tritoma, garlic, ornithogalum, or
star of Bethlehem, squill, hyacinth, muscari, or grape-hyacinth. I
record, for whom it may concern, this profound contempt of the
Crioceris for the daffodils. An insect's opinion is not to be
despised: it tells us that we should obtain a more natural arrangement
by separating the daffodils farther from the lilies.

In the first of the three tribes, the classic white lily, the plant
preferred by the insect, takes the chief place; next come the other
lilies and the fritillaries, a diet almost as much sought after; and
lastly the tulips, which the season is too far advanced to allow me to
submit for the approval of the Crioceris.

The third tribe had a great surprise in store for me. The red
Crioceris fed, though with a very scornful tooth, on the foliage of
the asparagus, the favourite dish of the Field Crioceris and the
Twelve-spotted Crioceris. On the other hand, she feasted rapturously
on the lily of the valley (_Convallaria maialis_) and on Solomon's
seal (_Polygonatum vulgare_), both of which are so different from the
lily to any eye untrained in the niceties of botanical analysis.

She did more: she browsed, with every appearance of a contented
stomach, on a prickly creeper, _Smilax aspera_, which tangles itself
in the hedges with its corkscrew tendrils and produces, in the autumn,
graceful clusters of small red berries, which are used for Christmas
decorations. The fully-developed leaves are too hard for her, too
tough; she wants the tender tips of the nascent foliage. When I take
this precaution, I can feed her on the intractable vine as readily as
on the lily.

The fact that the smilax is accepted gives me confidence in the
prickly butcher's-broom (_Ruscus aculeatus_), another shrub of sturdy
constitution, admitted to the family rejoicings at Christmas because
of its handsome green leaves and its red berries, which are like big
coral beads. In order not to discourage the consumer with leaves that
are too hard, I select some young seedlings, newly sprouted and still
bearing the round berry, the nutritive gourd, hanging at their base.
My precautions lead to nothing: the insect obstinately refuses the
butcher's-broom, on which I thought that I might rely after the smilax
had been accepted.

We have our botany; the Crioceris has hers, which is subtler in its
appreciation of affinities. Her domain comprises two very natural
groups, that of the lily and that of the smilax, which, with the
advance of science, has become the family of the Smilaceæ. In these
two groups she recognizes certain genera--the more numerous--as her
own; she refuses the others, which ought perhaps to be revised before
being finally classified.

An exclusive taste for the asparagus, one of the foremost
representatives of the Smilaceæ, characterizes the two other
Crioceres, those eager exploiters of the cultivated asparagus. I find
them also pretty often on the needle-leaved asparagus (_A.
acutifolius_), a forbidding-looking shrub with long, flexible stems
bearing many branches, which the Provençal vine-grower uses, under the
name of _roumiéu_, as a filter before the tap of the wine-vat, to
prevent the refuse of the grapes from choking up the vent-hole. Apart
from these two plants, the two Crioceres refuse absolutely everything,
even when in July they come up from the earth with the famishing
stomachs which the long fast of the metamorphosis has given them. On
the same wild asparagus, disdainful of the rest, lives a fourth
Crioceris (_C. paracenthesia_), the smallest of the group. I do not
know enough of her habits to say anything more about her.

These botanical details tell us that the Crioceres, which hatch early,
in the middle of summer, have no reason to fear famine. If the
Lily-beetle can no longer find her favourite plant, she can browse
upon Solomon's seal and smilax, not to mention the lily of the valley
and, I dare say, a few others of the same family. The other three are
more favoured. Their food-plant remains erect, green and well provided
with leaves until the end of autumn. The wild asparagus even,
undaunted by the extreme cold, maintains a sturdy existence all the
year round. Belated resources, moreover, are superfluous. After a
brief period of summer freedom, the various Crioceres seek their
winter quarters and go to earth under the dead leaves.




CHAPTER XVIII
THE CLYTHRÆ


The Lily-beetle dresses herself: with her ordure she makes herself a
cosy gown, an infamous garment, it is true, but an excellent
protection against parasites and sunstroke. The weaver of fæcal cloth
has hardly any imitators. The Hermit-crab dresses himself: he selects
to fit him, from the discarded wardrobe of the Sea-snail, an empty
shell, damaged by the waves; he slips his poor abdomen, which is
incapable of hardening, inside it and leaves outside his great fists
of unequal size, clad in stone boxing-gloves. This is yet another
example rarely followed.

With a few exceptions, all the more remarkable because they are so
rare, the animal, in fact, is not burdened by the need of clothing
itself. Endowed, without having to manufacture a thing, with all that
it wants, it knows nothing of the art of adding defensive extras to
its natural covering.

The bird has no need to take thought of its plumage, the furry beast
of its coat, the reptile of its scales, the Snail of his shell, the
Ground-beetle of his jerkin. They display no ingenuity with the object
of securing protection from the inclemencies of the atmosphere. Hair,
down, scales, mother-of-pearl and other items of the animal's apparel:
these are all produced of their own accord, on an automatic loom.

Man, for his part, is naked; and the severities of the climate oblige
him to wear an artificial skin to protect his own. This poverty has
given rise to one of our most attractive industries.

He invented clothing who, shivering with cold, first thought of
flaying the Bear and covering his shoulders with the brute's hide. In
a distant future this primitive cloak was gradually to be replaced by
cloth, the product of our industry. But under a mild sky the
traditional fig-leaf, the screen of modesty, was for a long while
sufficient. Among peoples remote from civilization, it still suffices
in our day, together with its ornamental complement, the fish-bone
through the cartilage of the nose, the red feather in the hair, the
string round the loins. We must not forget the smear of rancid butter,
which serves to keep off the Mosquito and reminds us of the unguent
employed by the grub that dreads the Tachina.

In the first rank of the animals protected against the bite of the
atmosphere without the intervention of a handicraft are those which go
clad in hair, dressed free of cost in fleeces, furs or pelts. Some of
these natural coats are magnificent, surpassing our downiest velvets
in softness.

Despite the progress of weaving, man is still jealous of them. To-day,
as in the ages when he sheltered under a rock, he values furs greatly
for the winter. At all seasons he holds them in high esteem as
ornamental accessories; he glories in sewing on his attire a shred of
some wretched flayed beast. The ermine of kings and judges, the white
rabbit-tails with which the university graduate adorns his left
shoulder on solemn occasions carry us back in thought to the age of
the cave-dwellers.

Moreover, the fleecy animals still clothe us in a less primitive
fashion. Our woollens are made of hairs interlaced. Ever since the
beginning, without hoping to find anything better, man has clothed
himself at the expense of the hairy orders of creation.

The bird, a more active producer of heat, whose maintenance is a more
delicate matter, covers itself with feathers, which overlap evenly,
and puts round its body a thick cushion of air on a bed of down. It
has on its tail a pot of cosmetic, a bottle of hair-oil, a fatty gland
from which the beak obtains an ointment wherewith it preens the
feathers one by one and renders them impermeable to moisture. A great
expender of energy by reason of the exigencies of flight, it is
essentially, chilly creature that it is, better-adapted than any other
to the retention of heat.

For the slow-moving reptile the scales suffice, preserving it from
hurtful contacts, but playing hardly any part as a bulwark against
changes of temperature.

In its liquid environment, which is far more constant than the air,
the fish requires no more. Without effort on its part, without violent
expenditure of motor force, the swimmer is borne up by the mere
pressure of the water. A bath whose temperature varies but little
enables it to live in ignorance of excessive cold or heat.

In the same way, the mollusc, for the most part a denizen of the seas,
leads a blissful life in its shell, which is a defensive fortress
rather than a garment. Lastly the crustacean confines itself to making
a suit of armour out of its mineral skin.

In all these, from the hairy to the crustaceous, the real coat, the
coat turned out by a special industry, does not exist. Hair, fur,
feather, scale, shell, stony armour require no intervention of the
wearer; they are natural products, not the artificial creations of the
animal. To find clothiers able to place upon their backs that which
their organization refuses them, we must descend from man to certain
insects.

Ridiculous attire, of which we are so proud, made from the slaver of a
caterpillar or the fleece of a silly sheep: among its inventors the
first and foremost is the Crioceris-larva, with its jacket of dung! In
the art of clothing itself, it preceded the Eskimo, who scrapes the
bowels of the seal to make himself a suit of dittos; it forestalled
our ancestor the troglodyte, who borrowed the fur-coat of his
contemporary the Cave-bear. We had not got beyond the fig-leaf, when
the Crioceris already excelled in the manufacture of homespun, both
providing the raw material and piecing it together.

For reasons of economy and easy acquisition, its disgusting method,
but with very elegant modifications, suits the clan of the Clythræ and
Cryptocephali, those pretty and magnificently coloured Beetles. Their
larva, a naked little grub, makes itself a long, narrow pot, in which
it lives just like the Snail in his shell. As a coat and as a dwelling
the timid creature makes use of a jar, better still, of a graceful
vase, the product of its industry.

Once inside, it never comes out. If anything alarms it, with a sudden
recoil it withdraws completely into its urn, the opening of which is
closed with the disk formed by the flat top of the head. When quiet is
restored, it ventures to put out its head and the three segments with
legs to them, but is very careful to keep the rest, which is more
delicate and fastened to the back, inside.

With tiny steps, weighted by the burden, it makes its way along,
lifting its earthenware container behind it in a slanting position. It
makes one think of Diogenes, dragging his house, a terra-cotta tub,
about with him. The thing is rather unwieldy, because of the weight,
and is liable to heel over, owing to the excessive height of the
centre of gravity. It makes progress all the same, tilting like a
busby rakishly cocked over one ear. One of our Land-snails, the
Bulimus, whose shell is continued into a turret, moves almost in the
same fashion, tumbling repeatedly as he goes.

The Clythra's is a shapely jar and does credit to the insect's art of
pottery. It is firm to the touch, of earthy appearance and smooth as
stucco inside, while the outside is relieved by delicate diagonal,
symmetrical ribs, which are the traces of successive enlargements. The
back part is slightly dilated and is rounded off at the end with two
slight bumps. These two terminal projections, with the central furrow
which divides them, and the ribs marking additions, which match on
either side, are evidence of work done in two parts, in which the
artist has followed the rules of symmetry, the first condition of the
beautiful.

The front part is of rather smaller diameter and is cut off on a
slant, which enables the jar to be lifted and supported on the larva's
back as it moves. Lastly, the mouth is circular, with a blunt edge.

Any one finding one of these jars for the first time, among the stones
at the foot of an oak, and wondering what its origin could be, would
be greatly puzzled. Is it the stone of some unknown fruit, emptied of
its kernel by the patient tooth of the Field-mouse? Is it the capsule
of a plant, from which the lid has dropped, allowing the seeds to
fall? It has all the accuracy, all the elegance of the masterpieces of
the vegetable kingdom.

After learning the origin of the object, he would be no less doubtful
as to the nature of the materials, or rather of their cement. Water
will not soften, will not disintegrate the shell. This must be so,
else the first shower of rain would reduce the grub's garment to pulp.
Fire does not affect it greatly either. When exposed to the flame of a
candle, the jar, without changing shape, loses its brown colour and
assumes the tint of burnt ferruginous earth. The groundwork of the
material therefore is of a mineral nature. It remains for us to
discover what the cement can be that gives the earthy element its
brown colour, holds it together and makes it solid.

The grub is ever on its guard. At the least flurry, it shrinks into
its shell and does not budge for a long time. Let us be as patient as
the grub. We shall surely, some day or other, manage to surprise it at
work. And indeed I do. It suddenly backs into its jar, disappearing
inside entirely. In a moment it reappears, carrying a brown pellet in
its mandibles. It kneads the pellet and works it up with a little
earth gathered on the threshold of its dwelling; it softens the
mixture as required and then spreads it artistically in a thin strip
on the edge of the sheath.

The legs take no part in the job. Only the mandibles and the palpi
work, acting as tub, trowel, beater and roller in one.

Once more the grub backs into its shell: once more it returns,
bringing a second clod, which is prepared and used in the same manner.
Five or six times over, it repeats the process, until the whole
circumference of the mouth has been increased by the addition of a
rim.

The potter's compound, as we have seen, consists of two ingredients.
One of these, the first earth that comes to hand, is collected on the
threshold of the workshop; the other is fetched from inside the pot,
for, each time that the grub returns, I see it carrying a brown pellet
in its teeth. What does it keep in the back-shop? Though we can
scarcely find out by direct observation, we can at least guess.

Observe that the jar is absolutely closed behind, without the smallest
waste-pipe by which the physiological needs from which the grub is
certainly not immune can be relieved. The grub is boxed in and never
stirs out of doors. What becomes of its excretions? Well, they are
evacuated at the bottom of the pot. By a gentle movement of the rump,
the product is spread upon the walls, strengthening the coat and
giving it a velvet lining.

It is better than a lining; it is a precious store of putty. When the
grub wants to repair its shell or to enlarge it to fit its figure,
which increases daily, it proceeds to clean out its cess-pool. It
turns round and, with the tips of its mandibles, collects singly, from
the back, the brown pellets which it has only to work up with a little
earth to make a ceramic paste of the highest quality.

Observe also that the grub's pottery is shaped like the legs of our
peg-top trousers and is wider inside than at the opening. This
excessive girth has its obvious use. It enables the animal to bend and
turn when the contents of the cess-pit are needed for a fresh course
of masonry.

A garment should be neither too short nor too tight. It is not enough
to add a piece which lengthens it as the body grows longer; we must
also see that it has sufficient fulness not to hamper the wearer and
to give him liberty of movement.

The Snail and all the molluscs with turbinate shells increase the
diameter of their corkscrew staircase by degrees, so that the last
whorl is always an exact measure of their actual condition. The lower
whorls, those of childhood, when they become too narrow, are not
abandoned, it is true; they become lumber-rooms in which the organs of
least importance to active life find shelter, drawn out into a slender
appendage. The essential portion of the animal is lodged in the upper
story, which increases in capacity.

The big Broken Bulimus, that lover of crumbling walls and limestone
rocks leaning in the sun, sacrifices the graces of symmetry to
utility. When the lower spirals are no longer wide enough, he abandons
them altogether and moves higher up, into the spacious staircase of
recent formation. He closes the occupied part with a stout
partition-wall at the back; then, dashing against the sharp stones, he
chips off the superfluous portion, the hovel not fit to live in. The
broken shell loses its accurate form in the process, but gains in
lightness.

The Clythra does not employ the Bulimus' method. It also disdains that
of our dressmakers, who split the overtight garment and let in a piece
of suitable width between the edges of the opening. To break the jar
when it becomes too small would be a wilful waste of material; to
split it lengthwise and increase its capacity by inserting a strip
would be an imprudent expedient, which would expose the occupant to
danger during the slow work of repair. The hermit of the jar can do
better than that. It knows how to enlarge its gown while leaving it,
except for its fulness, as it was before.

Its paradoxical method is this: of the lining it makes cloth, bringing
to the outside what was inside. Little by little, as the need makes
itself felt, the grub scrapes and strips the interior of its cell.
Reduced to a soft paste by means of a little putty furnished by the
intestine, the scrapings are applied over the whole of the outer
surface, down to the far end, which the grub, thanks to its perfect
flexibility, is able to reach without taking too much trouble or
leaving its house.

This turning of the coat is accomplished with a delicate precision
which preserves the symmetrical arrangement of the ornamental ridges;
lastly, it increases the capacity by a gradual transfer of the
material from the inside to the outside. This method of renewing the
old coat is so accurate that nothing is thrown aside, nothing treated
as useless, not even the baby-wear, which remains encrusted in the
keystone at the original top of the structure.

If fresh materials were not added, obviously the jar would gain in
size at the cost of thickness. The shell would become too thin, by
dint of being turned in order to make space, and would sooner or later
lack the requisite solidity. The grub guards against that. It has in
front of it as much earth as it can wish for; it keeps putty in a
back-shop; and the factory which produces it never slacks work. There
is nothing to prevent it from thickening the structure at will and
adding as much material as it thinks proper to the inner scrapings
from the shell.

Invariably clad in a garment that is an exact fit, neither too loose
nor too tight, the grub, when the cold weather comes, closes the mouth
of its earthenware jar with a lid of the same mixed compound, a paste
of earth and stercoral cement. It then turns round and makes its
preparations for the metamorphosis, with its head at the back of the
pot and its stern near the entrance, which will not be opened again.
It reaches the adult stage in April and May, when the ilex becomes
covered with tender shoots, and emerges from its shell by breaking
open the hinder end. Now come the days of revelry on the leafage, in
the mild morning sun.

The Clythra's jar is a piece of work entailing no little delicacy of
execution. I can quite well see how the grub lengthens and enlarges
it; but I cannot imagine how it begins it. If it has nothing to serve
as a mould and a base, how does it set to work to assemble the first
layers of paste into a neatly-shaped cup?

Our potters have their lathe, the tray which keeps the work rotating
and implements to determine its outline. Could the Clythra, an
exceptional ceramic artist, work without a base and without a guide?
It strikes me as an insurmountable difficulty. I know the insect to be
capable of many remarkable industrial feats; but, before admitting
that the jar can be based on nothing, we should have to see the
new-born artist at work. Perhaps it has resources bequeathed to it by
its mother; perhaps the egg presents peculiarities which will solve
the riddle. Let us rear the insect, collect its eggs; then the pottery
will tell us the secret of its beginnings.

I install three species of Clythræ under wire-gauze covers, each with
a bed of sand and a bottle of water containing a few young
ilex-shoots, which I renew as and when they fade. All three species
are common on the holm-oak: they are the Long-legged Clythra (_C.
longipes_, FAB.), the Four-spotted Clythra (_C. quadripunctata_,
LIN.), and the Taxicorn Clythra (_C. taxicornis_, FAB.).

I set up a second menagerie with some Cryptocephali, who are closely
related to the Clythræ. The inmates are the Ilex Cryptocephalus (_C.
ilicis_, OLIV.), the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus (_C. bipunctatus_,
LIN.) and the Golden Cryptocephalus (_C. hypochoeridis_, LIN.), who
wears a resplendent costume. For the first two I provide sprigs of
ilex; for the third, the heads of a centaury (_Centaurea aspera_),
which is the favourite plant of this living gem.

There is nothing striking in the habits of my captives, who spend the
morning very quietly, the first five browsing on their oak-leaves and
the sixth on her centaury-blooms. When the sun grows hot, they fly
from the bunch of leaves in the centre to the wire trellis and back
from the trellis to the leaves, or wander about the top of the cage in
a state of great excitement.

Every moment couples are formed. They pester each other, pair without
preliminaries, part without regrets and begin elsewhere all over
again. Life is sweet; and there are enough for all to choose from.
Several are persistent. Mounted on the back of the patient female, who
lowers her head and seems untouched by the passionate storm, they
shake her violently. Thus do the amorous insects declare their flame
and win the consent of the hesitating fair.

The attitude of the couple now tells us the use of a certain organic
detail peculiar to the Clythra. In several species, though not in all,
the males' fore-legs are of inordinate length. What is the object of
these extravagant arms, these curious grappling-irons out of all
proportion to the insect's size? The Grasshoppers and Locusts prolong
their hind-legs into levers to assist them in leaping. There is
nothing of the sort here: it is the fore-legs which are exaggerated;
and their excessive length has nothing to do with locomotion. The
insect, whether resting or walking, seems even to be embarrassed by
these outrageous stilts, which it bends awkwardly and tucks away as
best it can, not knowing exactly what to do with them.

But wait for the pairing; and the extravagant becomes reasonable. The
couple take up their pose in the form of a T. The male, standing
perpendicularly, or nearly, represents the cross-piece and the female
the shaft of the letter, lying on its side. To steady his attitude,
which is so contrary to the usual position in pairing, the male flings
out his long grappling-hooks, two sheet-anchors which grip the
female's shoulders, the fore-edge of her corselet, or even her head.

At this moment, the only moment that counts in the adult insect's
life, it is a good thing indeed to possess long arms, long hands, like
_Clythra longimana_ and _C. longipes_, as the scientific nomenclature
calls them. Although their names are silent on the subject, the
Taxicorn Clythra and the Six-spotted Clythra (_C. sexmaculata_, FAB.)
and many others also have recourse to the same means of equilibrium:
their fore-legs are utterly exaggerated.

Is the difficulty of pairing in a transversal position the explanation
of the long grappling-irons thrown out to a distance? We will not be
too certain, for here is the Four-spotted Clythra, who would flatly
contradict us. The male has fore-legs of modest dimensions, in
conformity with the usual rules; he places himself crosswise like the
others and nevertheless achieves his ends without hindrance. He finds
it enough to modify slightly the gymnastics of his embrace. The same
may be said of the different Cryptocephali, who all have stumpy limbs.
Wherever we look, we find special resources, known to some and unknown
to others.




CHAPTER XIX
THE CLYTHRÆ: THE EGG


Let us leave the long-armed and short-armed to pursue their amorous
contests as they please and come to the egg, the main object of my
insect-rearing. The Taxicorn Clythra is the first in the field; I see
her at working during the last days of May. A most singular and
disconcerting batch of eggs is hers! Is it really a group of eggs? I
hesitate until I surprise the mother using her hind-legs to finish
extracting the strange germ which issues slowly and perhaps
laboriously from her oviduct.

It is indeed the Taxicorn Clythra's batch. Assembled in bundles of one
to three dozen and each fastened by a slender transparent thread
slightly longer than itself, the eggs form a sort of inverted umbel,
which dangles sometimes from the trelliswork of the cover, sometimes
from the leaves of the twigs that provide the grub with food. The
bunch of grains quivers at the least breath.

We know the egg-cluster of the Hemerobius, the object of so many
mistakes to the untrained observer. The little Lace-winged Fly with
the gold eggs sets up on a leaf a group of long, tiny columns as fine
as a spider's thread, each bearing an egg as a capital. The whole
resembles pretty closely a tuft of some long-stemmed mildew. Remember
also the Eumenes' hanging egg,[1] which swings at the end of a thread,
thus protecting the grub when it takes its first mouthfuls of the heap
of dangerous game. The Taxicorn Clythra provides us with a third
example of eggs fitted with suspension-threads, but so far nothing has
given me an inkling of the function or the use of this string. Though
the mother's intentions escape me, I can at least describe her work in
some detail.

[Footnote 1: Cf. _The Mason-wasps_: chap. i.--_Translator's Note_.]

The eggs are smooth, coffee-coloured and shaped like a thimble. If you
hold them to the light, you see in the thickness of their skin five
circular zones, darker than the rest and producing almost the same
effect as the hoops of a barrel. The end attached to the
suspension-thread is slightly conical; the other is lopped off
abruptly and the section is hollowed into a circular mouth. A good
lens shows us inside this, a little below the rim, a fine white
membrane, as smooth as the skin of a drum.

In addition, from the edge of the orifice there rises a wide
membranous tab, whitish and delicate, which might be taken for a
raised lid. Nevertheless there is no raising of a lid after the eggs
are laid. I have seen the egg leave the oviduct; it is then what it
will be later, but lighter in colour. No matter: I cannot believe that
so complicated a machine can make its way, with all sail set, through
the maternal straits. I imagine that the lid-like appendage remains
lowered, closing the mouth, until the moment when the egg sees the
light. Then and not till then does it rise.

Guided by the rather less complex structure of the eggs of the other
Clythræ and of the Cryptocephali, I think of trying to take the
strange germ to pieces; and I succeed after a fashion. Under the
coffee-coloured sheath, which forms a little five-hooped barrel, is a
white membrane. This is what we see through the mouth and what I
compared with the skin of a drum. I recognize it as the regulation
tunic, the usual envelope of any insect's egg. The rest, the little
brown barrel, broached at one end and bearing a raised lid, must
therefore be an accessory integument, a sort of exceptional shell, of
which I do not as yet know any other example.

The Long-legged Clythra and the Four-spotted Clythra know nothing of
packing their eggs in long-stemmed bundles. In June, from the height
of the branches in which they are grazing, both of them carelessly
allow their eggs to drop to the ground, one by one, here and there, at
random and at long intervals, without giving the least thought to
their installation. They might be little grains of excrement, unworthy
of interest and ejected at hazard. The egg-factory and the
dung-factory scatter their products with the same indifference.

Nevertheless, let us bring the lens to bear upon the minute particle
so contumeliously treated. It is a miracle of elegance. In both
species of Clythræ the eggs have the form of truncated ellipsoids,
measuring about a millimetre in length.[2] The Long-legged Clythra's
are a very dark brown and remind one of a thimble, a comparison which
is the more exact inasmuch as they are dented with quadrangular pits,
arranged in spiral series which cross one another with exquisite
precision.

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

Those of the Four-spotted Clythra are pale in colour. They are covered
with convex scales, overlapping in diagonal rows, ending in a point at
the lower extremity, which is free and more or less askew. This
collection of scales has rather the appearance of a hop-cone. Surely a
very curious egg, ill-adapted to gliding gently through the narrow
passages of the ovaries. I feel sure that it does not bristle in this
fashion when it descends the delicate natal sheath; it is near the end
of the oviduct that it receives its coat of scales.

In the case of the three Cryptocephali reared in my cages, the eggs
are laid later; their season is the end of June and July. As in the
Clythræ, there is the same lack of maternal care, the same hap-hazard
dropping of the seeds from the centaury-blossoms and the ilex-twigs.
The general form of the egg is still that of a truncated ellipsoid.
The ornaments vary. In the eggs of the Golden Cryptocephalus and the
Ilex Cryptocephalus they consist of eight flattened, wavy ribs,
winding corkscrew-wise; in those of the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus
they take the form of spiral rows of pits.

What can this envelope be, so remarkable for its elegance, with its
spiral mouldings, its thimble-pits and its hop-scales? A few little
accidental facts put me on the right track. To begin with, I acquire
the certainty that the egg does not descend from the ovaries as I find
it on the ground. Its ornamentation, incompatible with a gentle
gliding movement, had already told me as much; I now have a clear
proof.

Mingled with the normal eggs of both the Golden Cryptocephalus and the
Long-legged Clythra, I find others which differ in no respect from the
usual run of insects' eggs. The eggs are perfectly smooth, with a
soft, pale-yellow shell. As the cage contains no other insects than
the Clythra under consideration or the Cryptocephalus, I cannot be
mistaken as to the origin of my finds.

Moreover, if any doubts remained, they would be dispelled by the
following evidence: in addition to the bare, yellow eggs there are
some whose base is set in a tiny brown, pitted cup, obviously the work
of either the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus or the Long-legged Clythra,
according to the cage, but unfinished work, which half-clothed the
egg, as it left the ovaries, and then, when the dress-material ran
short, or something went wrong with the machinery, allowed it to cross
the outer threshold in the likeness of an acorn fixed in its cup.

Nothing could be prettier than this yellow egg, standing in its
artistic egg-cup. Nor could anything tell us more conclusively where
the jewel is manufactured. It is in the cloaca, the chamber common to
the oviduct and the intestine, that the bird wraps its egg in a
calcareous shell, often decorating it with magnificent hues:
olive-green for the Nightingale, sky-blue for the Wheatear, soft pink
for the Icterine Warbler. It is in the cloaca also that the Clythra
and the Cryptocephalus produce the elegant armour of their eggs.

It remains to decide upon the material employed. From its horny
appearance there is reason to believe that the little barrel of the
Taxicorn Clythra and the scales of the Four-spotted Clythra are the
products of a special secretion; and, now that it is too late, I much
regret that I neglected to look for the apparatus yielding this
secretion in the neighbourhood of the cloaca. As for the thing so
prettily wrought by the Long-legged Clythra and the Cryptocephali, let
us admit without false shame that it is made of fæcal matter.

The proof is furnished by certain specimens, by no means rare in the
Golden Cryptocephalus, in which the customary brown is replaced by an
unmistakable green, the sign of a vegetable pulp. In course of time,
these green eggs turn brown and become like the others, no doubt by
reason of an oxidization which alters the natural qualities of the
digestive product still further. The egg, entering the cloaca in a
soft and utterly naked state, receives an artistic coat of the
intestinal dross, even as the Hen's egg is covered by a shell formed
of the chalky secretions.

_Materiem superabat opus, nam Mulciber illic
Æquora celerat_,

said Ovid, in his description of the Palace of the Sun. The poet had
precious metals and gems wherewith to build his imaginary marvel. What
has the Clythra wherewith to achieve its ideal jewel? It has the
shameful material whose name is banished from decent speech. And which
is the Mulciber, the Vulcan, the artist-engraver that engraves the
covering of the egg so prettily? It is the terminal sewer. The cloaca
rolls the material, flutes it, twists it into spirals, decks it with
chains of little pits and makes it up into a scaly suit of armour,
showing how nature laughs at our paltry standards of value and how
well able she is to convert the sordid into the beautiful.

In the bird, the egg-shell is a temporary defensive cell which at
hatching-time is broken and abandoned and is henceforth useless. Made
of horny matter or stercoral paste, the shell of the Clythra and the
Cryptocephalus is, on the contrary, a permanent refuge, which the
insect will never leave so long as it remains a larva. Here the grub
is born with a ready-made garment, of rare elegance and an exact fit,
a garment which it only has to enlarge, little by little, in the
original manner described above. The shell, shaped like a little
barrel or thimble, is open in front. There is nothing therefore to
break, nothing to cast aside at the moment of hatching, except perhaps
the actual envelope of the egg. Directly this membrane is burst, the
tiny creature is free, with a handsome carved jacket, a legacy from
its mother.

Let us indulge in a crazy dream and imagine young birds which keep the
egg-shell intact, save for an opening through which they pass their
head, and which, all their lives long, remain clad in this shell, on
condition that they themselves enlarge it as they grow. This absurd
dream is realized by our grub: it is dressed in the shell of its egg,
expanded by degrees as the grub itself grows bigger.

In July all my collection of eggs are hatched, each isolated in a
large cup covered with a slip of glass which will moderate the
evaporation. What an interesting family! My vermin are swarming amid
the miscellaneous vegetable refuse with which I have furnished the
premises. They all move along with tiny steps, dragging their shells,
which they carry lifted on a slant; they come halfway out and suddenly
pop in again; they tumble over if they merely attempt to scale a sprig
of moss, pick themselves up again, forge ahead and cast about at
random.

Hunger, we can no longer doubt, is the cause of this agitation. What
shall I give my famished nurselings? They are vegetarians: there can
be no doubt whatever about that; but this is not enough to settle the
bill of fare. What would happen under the natural conditions? Rearing
the insects in cages, I find the eggs scattered at random on the
ground. The mother drops them carelessly, here and there, from the top
of the bough where she is refreshing herself by soberly notching some
tender leaf. The Taxicorn Clythra fits a long stalk to her eggs and
fixes them in clusters on the foliage. While I cannot yet make up my
mind, in the absence of direct observation, whether the new-born larva
cuts the suspension-thread itself, or whether the thread is broken
merely as a result of drying up, sooner or later these eggs are lying
on the ground, like the others.

The same thing must happen outside my cages: the eggs of the Clythræ
and the Cryptocephali are scattered over the ground beneath the tree
or plant on which the adult feeds.

Now what do we find under the shelter of the oak? Turf, dead leaves,
more or less pickled by decay, dry twigs cased in lichens, broken
stones with cushions of moss and, lastly, mould, the final residue of
vegetable matters wrought upon by time. Under the tufts of the
centaury on which the Golden Cryptocephalus browses lies a black bed
of the miscellaneous refuse of the plant.

I try a little of everything, but nothing answers my expectations very
positively. I observe, nevertheless, that a few disdainful mouthfuls
are taken, a little bit here, a little bit there, enough to tell me
the nature of the first layers which the grub adds to its natal
sheath. With the exception of the Taxicorn Clythra, whose egg, with
its suspension-stalk, seems to denote rather special habits, I see my
several charges begin to prolong their shell with a brown paste,
similar in appearance to that with whose manufacture and employment we
are already familiar.

Discouraged by a food which does not suit them and perhaps also tried
by a season of exceptional drouth, my young potters soon relinquish
their task; they die after adding a shallow rim to their pots.

Only the Long-legged Clythra thrives and repays me amply for my
troublesome nursing. I provide it with chips of old bark taken from
the first tree to hand, the oak, the olive, the fig-tree and many
others. I soften them by steeping them for a short time in water. The
cork-like crusts, however, are not what my boarders eat. The actual
food, the butter on the bread, is on the surface. There is a little
here of all that the first beginnings of vegetable life add to old
tree-trunks, all that breaks up decrepit age to turn it into perpetual
youth.

There are tufts of moss, hardly a twelfth of an inch in height, which
were sleeping droughtily under the merciless sun of the dog-days, but
which a bath in a glass of water awakens at once. They now display
their ring of green leaflets, brightened up and restored to life for a
few hours. There are leprous efflorescences, with their white or
yellow dust; tiny lichens radiating in ash-grey straps and covered
with glaucous, white-edged shields, great round eyes that seem to gaze
from the depths of the limbo in which dead matter comes to life again.
There are collemas, which, after a shower, become dark and bloated and
shake like jellies; sphærias, whose pustules stand out like ebony
teats, full of myriads of tiny sacs, each containing eight pretty
seeds. A glance through the microscope at the contents of one of these
teats, a speck only just visible to the eye, reveals an astounding
world: an infinity of procreative wealth in an atom. Ah, what a
beautiful thing life is, even on a chip of rotten bark no bigger than
a finger-nail! What a garden! What a treasure-house!

This is the best pasture put to the test. My Clythræ graze upon it,
gathering in dense herds at the most luxuriant spots. One would take
this heap for pinches of some brown, modelled seed or other, the
snapdragon's, for instance; but these particular seeds push and sway;
if one of them moves the least bit, the shells all clash together.
Others wander about, in search of a good place, staggering and
tumbling under the weight of the overcoat; they wander at random
through that great and spacious world, the bottom of my cup.

Not a fortnight has elapsed before a strip, built up on the rim, has
doubled the length of the Long-legged Clythra's shell, in order to
maintain the capacity of the earthenware jar in proportion to the size
of the grub, which has been growing from day to day. The recent
portion, the work of the larva, is very plainly distinguishable from
the original shell, the product of the mother; it is smooth over its
whole extent, whereas the rest is ornamented with tiny holes arranged
in spiral rows.

Planed away inside as it becomes too tight, the jar grows wider and at
the same time longer. The dust taken from it, once more kneaded into
mortar, is reapplied outside, more or less everywhere, and forms a
rubble under which the original beauties end by disappearing. The
neatly-pitted masterpiece is swamped by a layer of brown plasterwork;
not always entirely, however, even when the structure reaches its
final dimensions. If we pass an attentive lens between the two humps
at the lower end, we very often see, encrusted in the earthy mass, the
remains of the shell of the egg. This is the potter's mark. The
arrangement of the spiral ridges, the number and the shape of the pits
enable us almost to read the name of the maker, Clythra or
Cryptocephalus.

From the very first I could not imagine the worker in ceramic paste
designing its own pottery by drafting the first outlines. My doubts
were justified. The grubs of the Clythra and the Cryptocephalus
possess a maternal legacy in the shape of a shell, a garment which
they have only to enlarge. They are born the owners of a layette which
becomes the groundwork of their trousseau. They increase it, without,
however, imitating its artistic elegance. A more vigorous age discards
the laces in which the mother delights to clothe the new-born child.




INDEX


A

Acarus, 33, 44

Adder, 294, 296

_Ægosomus scabricornis_, 317

_Ammophila hirsuta_ (Hairy Ammophila), 96, 304

Andrena, 55, 85

Anoxia, 266

Ant, 294

_Anthaxia nitidula_, 216

Anthidium (_see also_ the varieties below), 180, 236, 280

_Anthidium bellicosum_, 180

_Anthidium scapulare_, 179

Anthophora (_see also_ the varieties below), 28, 30-34, 37, 39-41,
43-45, 53-61, 63-71, 73-75, 77-82, 84, 88, 90, 93, 97, 100, 103-105,
107-110, 114, 126, 128, 131, 139, 151, 163, 176, 179

_Anthophora parietina_, 28, 86, 90

_Anthophora personata_ (_see_ Masked Anthophora), 86

_Anthophora pilipes_ (_see_ Hairy-footed Anthophora), 29, 64, 84, 86,
106

_Anthophora retusa_, 86

Anthrax (_see A. sinuata_), 30, 37, 158, 199

_Anthrax sinuata_, 30, 35

Anthrenus (_see also A. musæorum_), 33, 44

_Anthrenus musæorum_, 33

Ant-lion, 13, 366, 368

Asparagus-beetle, Asparagus-grub (_see also_ Field Crioceris,
Twelve-spotted Crioceris), 436, 439

Audubon, John James, 348, 350

Azure Hoplia, 274


B

Bacon-beetle (_see_ Dermestes), 294

Banded Epeira, 284

Bear (_see also_ Cave-bear), 359-360, 400, 447

Beauregard, Dr., 161-162

Bee (_see also_ Bumble-bee, Hive-bee, Mason-bee and the varieties),
28-30, 34, 45, 53-54, 56-57, 59, 60-65, 67, 70-71, 77, 79, 82, 85, 86,
88-90, 92, 97, 99, 101, 105, 106-108, 110, 128, 141-142, 144, 154,
163, 176, 178, 278, 298

Bee-louse, 85

Beetle, _passim_, 7, 28, 31

Beetle's Gamasus, 314

_Belle_ (_see_ Spurge Hawk-moth), 283

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Jacques Henri, 235

Bison Onitis, 245, 262

Blackbeetle, 388

Blackbeetle of the Sun (_see_ Sacred Beetle)

Black-bellied Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Black-bellied Tarantula, 267

Black Buprestis (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 386

Blatta (_see_ Blackbeetle), 388

Blister-beetle (_see also_ Cantharides, Cerocoma, Mylabris, Zonitis),
154, 161, 164

Bluebottle, 95-96, 100

Bolbites (_see also B. onitoides_), 243, 268

_Bolbites onitoides_, 242

Bolboceras, 388

Bombardier Beetle, 358

Brachinus (_see_ Bombardier Beetle), 358

Brillat-Savarin (Anthelme), 2

Brilliant Buprestis, 387

Broken Bulimus, 456

Bronze Buprestis, 212

Bulimus (_see also_ Broken Bulimus), 451

Bumble-bee, 71

Buprestis (_see also_ the varieties below), 186, 188, 212, 214-217,
219, 221, 224, 234, 274, 292-293, 381-382, 384, 386

_Buprestis ænea_ (_see_ Bronze Buprestis), 212

_Buprestis octoguttata_ (_see_ Eight-spotted Buprestis), 215

_Buprestis tenebrionis_ (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 385, 387

Burnt Zonitis, 179-181

Burying-beetle, 296, 306, 314, 337

_Buthus occitanus_ (_see_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402

Butterfly, 100, 102, 177, 274


C

Calicurgus (_see_ Ringed Calicurgus), 267

_Calliphora vomitoria_ (_see_ Bluebottle), 95

_Calosoma sycophanta_, 356-357

Camel, 269

Cantharides, 164, 166, 169-170, 290

_Canthon bispinus_, 261

_Capnodis tenebrionis_ (_see_ Cloudy Buprestis), 381

Capricorn (_see also_ the varieties below), 186-189, 193, 195-199,
203-204, 209, 220, 237, 380, 439

Capricorn of the Cherry-tree (_see Cerambyx cerdo_), 207-208, 210-211

Capricorn of the Oak (_see_ Capricorn), 209-211

Carabus (_see also_ Golden Carabus, Purple Carabus), 274, 353,
355-357, 363-364, 376

Carrion-beetle (_see_ Silpha), 294

Cat, 307

Cave-bear, 450

Cellar-beetle, 294, 297, 387-388

Cerambyx (_see_ the varieties below), 188, 191, 194, 197, 199, 201,
204, 205, 210, 212, 216

_Cerambyx cerdo_, 207-208

_Cerambyx miles_ (_see_ Capricorn), 187

Cerceris, 304

Cerocoma (_see also_ Schaeffer's Cerocoma, Schreber's Cerocoma),
160-161, 163, 169-170, 182-183

Cetonia (_see also_ Golden Cetonia, _C. floricola_), 101, 189, 266,
274, 291, 388

_Cetonia aurata_ (_see_ Golden Cetonia), 101

_Cetonia floricola_, 291

Chalcid (_see also_ Gall-fly), 428-429

Chalicodoma (_see_ Mason-bee), 136, 179

Chicken, 430

Chinese Carp, 306

_Chrysobothrys chrysostigma_, 217

Chrysomela (_see_ Golden Apple-beetle), 274, 388

Cicada, 292, 366-368

Clairville, 298, 319, 325

Cleonus, 388

Clerus (_see also_ the varieties below), 33

_Clerus alvearius_, 33

_Clerus apiarius_, 33

Cloudy Buprestis, 382, 397, 399

Clythra (_see also_ the varieties below), 451-452, 456, 458-462, 465,
468-471, 473, 475, 477

_Clythra longimana_, 462, 467

_Clythra longipes_ (Long-legged Clythra), 459, 462, 466, 468-469, 474,
476

_Clythra quadripunctata_ (_see_ Four-spotted Clythra), 459

_Clythra sexmaculata_ (_see_ Six-spotted Clythra), 462

_Clythra taxicornis_ (_see_ Taxicorn Clythra), 460

Clytus (see the varieties below), 218

_Clytus arietis_, 218

_Clytus arvicola_, 218

_Clytus tropicus_, 218

Coccinella (Ladybird), 388

Cockchafer (_see also_ Common Cockchafer, Pine-chafer), 355

Cockroach (_see_ Blackbeetle), 388

Coelioxys, 94, 95

Common Cockchafer, 368

Common Wasp, 71

Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de, Abbé de Mureaux, 185, 194

Confucius, 408

Copris (_see also_ Lunary Copris, Spanish Copris), 237, 243, 258, 262,
266, 269, 289, 310, 347

Cotton-bee (_see also Anthidium scapulare_), 180, 270

Cow, 243, 269

Crane-fly, 430

Cricket (_see also_ Italian Cricket), 237, 275, 279, 316

_Criocephalus ferus_, 217

Crioceris (_see also_ the varieties below), 411-414, 418, 420-421,
423-424, 428, 432, 435, 441-442, 444-445, 450

_Crioceris campestris_ (_see_ Field Crioceris), 418

_Crioceris duodecimpunctata_ (_see_ Twelve-spotted Crioceris), 418

_Crioceris merdigera_ (_see_ Lily-beetle), 411

_Crioceris paracenthesia_, 444

Cryptocephalus (_see also_ the varieties below), 451, 460, 462, 465,
467, 468-469, 471, 477

_Cryptocephalus bipunctatus_ (Two-spotted Cryptocephalus), 460,
467-468, 473

_Cryptocephalus ilicis_ (_see_ Ilex Cryptocephalus), 460

Cyclostome, 8


D

_Darboun_ (_see_ Mole), 302

Decticus (_see also_ White-faced Decticus), 237, 281-282, 316

Dermestes, 294-295, 297

Diogenes, 451

Dog, 195, 251

Donkey, 320

_Drilus maroccanus_, 8, 9

Drone-fly, 95-96, 100

Duck, 396

Dufour, Jean Marie Léon, 55, 85, 106

Dung-beetle, 239-240, 242, 245, 249-253, 263, 268-274, 288, 317, 325,
347


E

Eight-spotted Buprestis, 215

Epeira (_see_ Banded Epeira), 284

Ephippiger of the Vines, 282

_Eristalis tenax_ (_see_ Drone-fly), 95

Eumenes, 464


F

Fabre, Émile, the author's son, 145-146

Fabre, Mlle. Anna, the author's daughter, 391

Fabre, Paul, the author's son, 303, 309

Field Crioceris, 418, 425, 433, 442

Field-mouse, 296, 304, 452

Flamingo, 293

Fly (_see also_ House-fly), 12, 30, 95, 101-102, 177, 199, 294, 360,
371, 375, 378-380, 420, 423, 425, 435-436

Foamy Cicadella, 439

Four-spotted Clythra, 459, 462, 466-467, 469

Four-spotted Mylabris, 162, 164, 173

Frog, 296, 299, 300, 332, 334, 337


G

Gall-fly, 428

Geer, Baron Karl de, 87

Geotrupes (_see also_ Mimic Geotrupes, Stercoraceous Geotrupes), 237,
245, 291-292, 314, 344, 347, 386

Giant Scarites, 362, 381-382, 384, 396, 398

Gleditsch, Johann Gottlieb, 299, 334, 337

Glow-worm, 1, 3, 4, 7-8, 10, 12-27

Gnat, 195, 269, 420, 430

Godart, Jean Baptiste, 87

Golden Apple-beetle, 388

Golden Beetle, 353, 355

Golden Carabus, 355

Golden Cetonia, 101

Golden Cryptocephalus, 460, 467-468, 470, 473

Golden Rose-chafer (_see_ Golden Cetonia), 101

Goldfish (_see_ Chinese Carp), 306

Goose, 396-397

Grasshopper (_see also_ Green Grasshopper), 154, 280, 282, 461

Great Capricorn (_see_ Capricorn), 379

Great Peacock Moth, 356

Great Water-beetle, 278

Greenfinch, 360, 396

Green Grasshopper, 237, 357

Grey Worm (_see_ Turnip Moth), 96

Griffiths, A. B., 292

Gromphas (Lacordaire's Gromphas), 244, 247, 256

Ground-beetle (_see_ Carabus), 293, 313, 447

Guinea-fowl, 395-396

Gymnopleurus, 289, 347


H

Hairy-footed Anthophora, 64, 106

Half-spotted Scarab, 369

Halictus, 176

Heliocantharus (_see_ Sacred Beetle), 271

_Helix aspersa_, 12

_Helix explanata_, 362

_Helix variabilis_, 3-4

Hemerobius (_see_ Lace-winged Fly), 463

Hen, 251, 257, 396, 470

Hermit-crab, 446

Hive-bee, 71, 100

Hoplia (_see also_ Azure Hoplia), 274, 388

Hornet, 68

Horse, 269

House-fly, 420

Humming-bird, 274, 293

Hunting Wasp, 7, 96, 252, 275, 278, 280, 304

Hydrophilus (_see_ Great Water-beetle), 278-279


I

Icterine Warbler, 469

Ilex Cryptocephalus, 460, 467

Italian Cricket, 236


J

Job, 187

Judulien, Brother, 238


K

Kingfisher, 293

Kitten, 391

Kung (_see_ Confucius), 409


L

Lace-winged Fly, 464

Lacordaire, Jean Théodore, 244, 298

La Fontaine, Jean de, 409

Lamb, 155

Lamellicorn, 129

Lampyris, _L. noctiluca_ (_see_ Glow-worm), 1-3, 5-6, 8-9, 11-12, 15

Land-snail (_see_ Bulimus, Helix, Snail), 451

Languedocian Scorpion, 402

Lark, 25

Latreille's Osmia, 179

Leaf-cutter (_see_ Megachile), 180, 236

Lily-beetle, 411, 413, 418, 424, 434, 436, 439, 440, 445-446

Lizard, 292, 294, 296, 332, 345

Llama, 269

Loach, 392-393

Locust, 154, 161, 282, 360, 393, 461

Louse, 59, 85, 106, 128, 144, 320

Lunary Copris, 240, 262

Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267


M

Macleay (William Sharp), 271

Maistre, Xavier de, 236, 238

Malachius, 100

Mantis (_see_ Praying Mantis), 145-146, 149, 150-154, 160-161, 163,
316

Masked Anthophora, 86

Mason-bee (_see also_ Anthophora and the varieties below), 72, 75, 86,
93, 104, 136

Mason-bee of the Sheds, 136

Mason-bee of the Walls, 136

Megachile (_see also M. sericans_), 187, 236, 269

_Megachile sericans_, 180

Megatherium, 269

Megathopa (_see also_ the varieties below), 242, 268

_Megathopa bicolor_, 241

_Megathopa intermedia_, 241

Melecta, 94-95

_Melecta armata_, 36

Meloe (_see_ Oil-beetle and the varieties below), 56, 84-86, 88-89,
91, 93-97, 99-101, 103-108, 128, 134-135, 141-143, 157

_Meloe cicatricosus_, 86, 104, 106, 128, 149

_Meloe proscarabæus_, 87

Meloid (_see also_ Blister-beetle, Cantharides, Cerocoma, Mylabris,
Zonitis), 135, 141, 144-146, 149, 154, 157-158, 160-163, 165-166, 174,
179, 183

Melosoma (_Omocrates abbreviatus_), 387

Miall, Bernard, viii

Midge, 420, 422-424, 430

Mimic Geotrupes, 273, 291

Mite, 103

Mole, 252, 294-297, 301, 304-310, 313, 319, 328-332, 335-337, 341,
345-346

Mosquito, 447

Mouse (_see also_ Field-mouse, Shrew-mouse), 298, 306, 314, 319-326,
333-334, 338-343

Mylabris (_see also_ Four-spotted Mylabris, Twelve-spotted Mylabris),
160, 171, 173, 176


N

Narbonne Lycosa (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Necrophorus (_see_ Burying-beetle, _N. vestigator_), 251, 296-299,
301, 303-308, 310-311, 313-317, 319, 321, 324-329, 331-332, 335,
337-338, 341-343, 345-347

_Necrophorus vestigator_, 301

Newport, George, 56, 85-87, 89, 91-92, 105-106, 108, 130, 133

Nightingale, 469

Nine-spotted Buprestis, 213, 387


O

Odynerus, 28

Oil-beetle, 56, 84-93, 101, 105-106, 109, 130, 132-135, 144, 146, 148,
151, 154-155, 173-174, 176-177, 182-183, 203

Onitis (_see also_ the varieties below), 242, 245, 264, 289

_Onitis bison_ (_see_ Bison Onitis), 245, 262

_Onitis Olivieri_ (Olivier's Onitis), 250

Onthophagus (_see also_ Oval Onthophagus), 252, 261, 273, 289

_Onthophagus ovatus_ (_see_ Oval Onthophagus), 252

Oryctes, _O. nasicornis_ (_see_ Rhinoceros Beetle), 266, 355

Osmia (_see also_ the varieties below), 32-34, 36-37, 56, 65, 108,
136, 138, 179, 186, 316

_Osmia Latreillii_ (_see_ Latreille's Osmia), 136

_Osmia tricornis_ (_see_ Three-horned Osmia), 31, 64, 136

_Osmia tridentata_ (_see_ Three-pronged Osmia), 136

Oval Onthophagus, 263

Ovid, 470

Owl (_see also_ Virginian Owl), 251

Ox, 240, 268-269, 355


P

Peacock, 293

Peacock Moth (_see_ Great Peacock Moth), 356

_Pediculus apis_ (_see_ Bee-louse), 85

Pelopæus, 203, 266

Pepsis, 267

Phanæus (_see_ the varieties below), 240, 258, 290, 292

_Phanæus festivus_, 264

_Phanæus Milon_, 249, 252, 254-256, 264-265

_Phanæus splendidulus_ (Splendid Phanæus), 239, 265, 268, 273, 289

Pigeon (_see also_ Wood-pigeon), 396

Pimelia (_P. bipunctata_), 363-364, 369, 376-377, 387

Pine-chafer, 355, 357, 368

Pompilus (_see_ Ringed Calicurgus), 267, 304

Praying Mantis, 155, 162, 236

_Procrustes coriaceus_, 353-354, 357

_Ptosima novemmaculata_ (_see_ Nine-spotted Buprestis), 213, 387

Purple Carabus, 353


R

Rabbit, 252, 341

Rat (Brown Rat, _see_ Sewer-rat), 312-313

Réaumur, René Antoine Ferchault de, 283, 320, 413, 416

Resin-bee (_see Anthidium bellicosum_), 180

Rhinoceros Beetle, 355-357

Rhynchites, 411

Ringed Calicurgus, 267

Rose-chafer (_see_ Cetonia, Golden Cetonia), 368

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 235

Rove-beetle (_see_ Staphylinus), 295


S

Sacred Beetle, 237, 241-242, 250-251, 258, 260, 262, 266, 269, 271,
288, 290-291, 325, 347, 376-377

Saperda (_see_ the varieties below), 212

_Saperda carcharias_ (_see_ Shagreen Saperda), 211

Saperda of the Poplar, 211

_Saperda scalaris_ (_see_ Scalary Saperda), 211

Saprinus, 295

Sapyga (_see_ Spotted Sapyga), 155

Saw-fly (_see_ Sirex), 223

Scalary Saperda, 211

Scarab (_see_ Half-spotted Scarab, Sacred Beetle), 271

Scarabæus (_see_ Sacred Beetle), 289

Scarites (_see_ Giant Scarites, Smooth-skinned Scarites), 363,
365-368, 370, 372-373, 375, 378-380, 387

Schaeffer's Cerocoma, 160, 162-165

Schreber's Cerocoma, 161

Scolia, 155, 203, 266

Scorpion (_see also_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402-405, 407-408

Sea-snail, 446

Sewer-rat, 304

Shagreen Saperda, 211

Sheep, 243, 269

Shell-bearing Slug (_see_ Testacella), 354

Shrew-mouse, 296, 304

Silky Leaf-cutter (_see Megachile sericans_), 180

Silpha, 294-295, 297, 388

Sirex (_see also_ the varieties below), 223, 226-231, 234

_Sirex augur_, 223

_Sirex gigas_, 231

_Sirex juvencus_, 231

Sisyphus, 261-262, 347

Sitaris (_see also S. humeralis_), 31, 36-37, 39, 40, 43, 50-61,
63-67, 74-82, 85-88, 97-98, 105-107, 109-110, 114, 116, 118-120,
127-135, 138, 141-144, 146, 148, 151, 154, 157, 171, 173-174, 176-178,
182, 203, 439

_Sitaris humeralis_, 30, 58

Six-spotted Clythra, 462

Slug (_see also_ Testacella), 354

Smooth-skinned Scarites, 377, 396

Snail (_see also_ Bulimus, Helix), 3-6, 10-12, 14-15, 48, 353-355,
362, 447, 455

Snake, 304

Spanish Copris, 239, 241

Sparrow, 314, 341, 343, 360

Sphex (_see also_ White-banded Sphex, Yellow-winged Sphex), 203, 267,
278-279, 304

Spider, 30-31, 39, 44, 101-102, 177, 284-286

Spotted Sapyga, 155

Spurge Hawk-moth, 282, 287-288

Stag-beetle, 364

Staphylinus, 295

Stercoraceous Geotrupes, 273, 291, 385

_Stromatium strepens_, 218

Swallow, 430


T

Tachina, 421-424, 426, 428, 433, 435-436, 448

Tachytes (_see also T. tarsina_), 145-146, 149, 151-152, 154-155,
160-162, 164

_Tachytes tarsina_, 161

Tarantula (_see_ Black-bellied Tarantula), 267

Taxicorn Clythra, 460, 462-464, 469, 473-474

Teixeira de Mattos, Alexander, 7, 28, 30, 55, 189, 237, 266

Testacella, 354

Thomas the Apostle, Saint, 411

Three-horned Osmia, 64

Three-pronged Osmia, 233

Tick (_see also_ Beetle's Gamasus), 314

Triungulin of the Andrenæ, Triungulinus (_see T. andrenetarum_), 56

_Triungulinus andrenetarum_, 85

Turkey, 348-350, 393-398

Turnip Moth, 96

Twelve-spotted Crioceris, 418, 425-426, 428-429, 434

Twelve-spotted Mylabris, 162, 164, 173-174, 178


U

Unarmed Zonitis, 181


V

Valéry-Mayer, Professor, 250

_Vespa crabro_ (_see_ Hornet), 68

Virginian Owl, 350


W

Warbler (_see_ Icterine Warbler), 469

Wasp (_see also_ Common Wasp, Hunting Wasp and the other varieties),
7, 28, 69, 71, 145, 278, 298

Water-beetle (_see_ Great Water-beetle), 278

Weevil, 149, 157, 388, 411

Wheatear, 469

White-banded Sphex, 267

White-faced Decticus, 280, 357

White Scorpion (_see_ Languedocian Scorpion), 402, 404

Wolf, 155, 355

Wood-pigeon, 293


Y

Yellow-winged Sphex, 275


Z

Zonitis (_see also_ the varieties below), 138, 141-143, 148, 154,
164-165, 171, 179-180, 182-183

_Zonitis mutica_ (_see_ Unarmed Zonitis), 138, 164, 179, 181

_Zonitis præusta_ (_see_ Burnt Zonitis), 179