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THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT

CHAPTERS IN THE PSYCHOLOGY OF INSECTS


BY

J. H. FABRE




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER 1. THE HARMAS.

CHAPTER 2. THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER.

CHAPTER 3. THE EMPUSA.

CHAPTER 4. THE CAPRICORN.

CHAPTER 5. THE BURYING-BEETLES: THE BURIAL.

CHAPTER 6. THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS.

CHAPTER 7. THE BLUEBOTTLE.

CHAPTER 8. THE PINE-PROCESSIONARY.

CHAPTER 9. THE SPIDERS.

CHAPTER 10. THE BANDED EPEIRA.

CHAPTER 11. THE EUMENES.

CHAPTER 12. THE OSMIAE.

CHAPTER 13. THE GLOW-WORM.

CHAPTER 14. THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR.


INDEX.


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


ILLUSTRATIONS.


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


THE EMPUSA.


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


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


THE GREAT CAPRICORN: THE MALE AND THE FEMALE.


EXPERIMENTS.

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

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

EXPERIMENT 3. With a ligament of raphia, the Mole is fixed by the hind
feet to a twig planted vertically in the soil. The head and shoulders
touch the ground. By digging under these, the Necrophori at the same
time uproot the gibbet, which eventually falls, dragged over by the
weight of its burden.

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


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


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


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


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


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


OSMIA-NESTS IN A BRAMBLE TWIG.


OSMIA-NESTS INSIDE A REED.


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


OLD NESTS USED BY THE OSMIA IN LAYING HER EGGS.

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

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

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


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


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




THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT.



CHAPTER 1. THE HARMAS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eden, I said; and, from the point of view that interests me, the
expression is not out of place. This cursed ground, which no one would
have had at a gift to sow with a pinch of turnip-seed, is an earthly
paradise for the Bees and the Wasps. Its mighty growth of thistles and
centauries draws them all to me from everywhere around. Never, in my
insect-hunting memories, have I seen so large a population at a single
spot; all the trades have made it their rallying-point. Here come
hunters of every kind of game, builders in clay, weavers of cotton
goods, collectors of pieces cut from a leaf or the petals of a flower,
architects in paste-board, plasterers mixing mortar, carpenters boring
wood, miners digging underground galleries, workers handling
goldbeater's skin and many more.

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

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

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

The sand sheltered a different colony. Here, the Bembeces (A species of
Digger-wasps.--Translator's Note.) were sweeping the threshold of their
burrows, flinging a curve of dust behind them; the Languedocian Sphex
was dragging her Ephippigera (A species of Green
Grasshopper--Translator's Note.) by the antennae; a Stizus (A species
of Hunting-wasp.--Translator's Note.) was storing her preserves of
Cicadellae. (Froghoppers--Translator's Note.) To my sorrow, the masons
ended by evicting the sporting tribe; but, should I ever wish to recall
it, I have but to renew the mounds of sand: they will soon all be
there.

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

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

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

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

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

Laboratories are being founded at great expense, on our Atlantic and
Mediterranean coasts, where people cut up small sea-animals, of but
meagre interest to us; they spend a fortune on powerful microscopes,
delicate dissecting-instruments, engines of capture, boats,
fishing-crews, aquariums, to find out how the yolk of an Annelid's (A
red-blooded Worm.--Translator's Note.) egg is constructed, a question
whereof I have never yet been able to grasp the full importance; and
they scorn the little land-animal, which lives in constant touch with
us, which provides universal psychology with documents of inestimable
value, which too often threatens the public wealth by destroying our
crops. When shall we have an entomological laboratory for the study not
of the dead insect, steeped in alcohol, but of the living insect; a
laboratory having for its object the instinct, the habits, the manner
of living, the work, the struggles, the propagation of that little
world with which agriculture and philosophy have most seriously to
reckon? To know thoroughly the history of the destroyer of our vines
might perhaps be more important than to know how this or that
nerve-fibre of a Cirriped ends (Cirripeds are sea-animals with
hair-like legs, including the Barnacles and Acorn-shells.--Translator's
Note.); to establish by experiment the line of demarcation between
intellect and instinct; to prove, by comparing facts in the zoological
progression, whether human reason be an irreducible faculty or not: all
this ought surely to take precedence of the number of joints in a
Crustacean's antenna. These enormous questions would need an army of
workers; and we have not one. The fashion is all for the Mollusc and
the Zoophyte. (Zoophytes are plant-like sea-animals, including
Star-fishes, Jelly-fishes, Sea-anemones, and Sponges.--Translator's
Note.) The depths of the sea are explored with many drag-nets; the soil
which we tread is consistently disregarded. While waiting for the
fashion to change, I open my harmas laboratory of living entomology;
and this laboratory shall not cost the ratepayers one farthing.



CHAPTER 2. THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER.

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

This evening in the village they are celebrating the National Festival.
(The 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the
Bastille.--Translator's Note.) While the little boys and girls are
hopping round a bonfire whose gleams are reflected upon the
church-steeple, while the drum is pounded to mark the ascent of each
rocket, I am sitting alone in a dark corner, in the comparative
coolness that prevails at nine o'clock, harking to the concert of the
festival of the fields, the festival of the harvest, grander by far
than that which, at this moment, is being celebrated in the village
square with gunpowder, lighted torches, Chinese lanterns and, above
all, strong drink. It has the simplicity of beauty and the repose of
strength.

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

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

Even here, in my village, usually so peaceable, the festival will not
end, I am ready to wager, without the exchange of a few blows, that
compulsory seasoning of a day of merry-making. No pleasure, it appears,
can be fully relished without an added condiment of pain.

Let us listen and meditate far from the tumult. While the disembowelled
Cicada utters his protest, the festival up there in the plane-trees is
continued with a change of orchestra. It is now the time of the
nocturnal performers. Hard by the place of slaughter, in the green
bushes, a delicate ear perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers. It is the
sort of noise that a spinning-wheel makes, a very unobtrusive sound, a
vague rustle of dry membranes rubbed together. Above this dull bass
there rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost metallic
clicking. There you have the air and the recitative, intersected by
pauses. The rest is the accompaniment.

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

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

How often, at nightfall, by the last glimmers of daylight, have I not
come upon him as I wandered through my garden, hunting for ideas!
Something runs away, rolling over and over in front of me. Is it a dead
leaf blown along by the wind? No, it is the pretty little Toad
disturbed in the midst of his pilgrimage. He hurriedly takes shelter
under a stone, a clod of earth, a tuft of grass, recovers from his
excitement and loses no time in picking up his liquid note.

On this evening of national rejoicing, there are nearly a dozen of him
tinkling against one another around me. Most of them are crouching
among the rows of flower-pots that form a sort of lobby outside my
house. Each has his own note, always the same, lower in one case,
higher in another, a short, clear note, melodious and of exquisite
purity.

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

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

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

Now this sweet ringing of bells between hiding-place and hiding-place
is the matrimonial oratorio, the discreet summons which every Jack
issues to his Jill. The sequel to the concert may be guessed without
further enquiry; but what it would be impossible to foresee is the
strange finale of the wedding. Behold the father, in this case a real
paterfamilias, in the noblest sense of the word, coming out of his
retreat one day in an unrecognizable state. He is carrying the future,
tight-packed around his hind-legs; he is changing houses laden with a
cluster of eggs the size of peppercorns. His calves are girt, his
thighs are sheathed with the bulky burden; and it covers his back like
a beggar's wallet, completely deforming him.

Whither is he going, dragging himself along, incapable of jumping,
thanks to the weight of his load? He is going, the fond parent, where
the mother refuses to go; he is on his way to the nearest pond, whose
warm waters are indispensable to the tadpoles' hatching and existence.
When the eggs are nicely ripened around his legs under the humid
shelter of a stone, he braves the damp and the daylight, he the
passionate lover of dry land and darkness; he advances by short stages,
his lungs congested with fatigue. The pond is far away, perhaps; no
matter: the plucky pilgrim will find it.

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

Among the singers in the July gloaming, one alone, were he able to vary
his notes, could vie with the Toad's harmonious bells. This is the
little Scops-owl, that comely nocturnal bird of prey, with the round
gold eyes. He sports on his forehead two small feathered horns which
have won for him in the district the name of Machoto banarudo, the
Horned Owl. His song, which is rich enough to fill by itself the still
night air, is of a nerve-shattering monotony. With imperturbable and
measured regularity, for hours on end, "kew, kew," the bird spits out
its cantata to the moon.

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

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

The Green Grasshopper's clicking is too faint to be clearly perceived
amidst these clamourers; all that reaches me is the least ripple, just
noticeable when there is a moment's silence. He possesses as his
apparatus of sound only a modest drum and scraper, whereas they, more
highly privileged, have their bellows, the lungs, which send forth a
column of vibrating air. There is no comparison possible. Let us return
to the insects.

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

These then, limiting ourselves to select specimens, are the principal
participants in this musical evening: the Scops-owl, with his
languorous solos; the Toad, that tinkler of sonatas; the Italian
Cricket, who scrapes the first string of a violin; and the Green
Grasshopper, who seems to beat a tiny steel triangle.

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

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

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

Let us look a little farther ahead. A day will come, so everything
seems to tell us, when, after making progress upon progress, man will
succumb, destroyed by the excess of what he calls civilization. Too
eager to play the god, he cannot hope for the animal's placid
longevity; he will have disappeared when the little Toad is still
saying his litany, in company with the Grasshopper, the Scops-owl and
the others. They were singing on this planet before us; they will sing
after us, celebrating what can never change, the fiery glory of the
sun.

I will dwell no longer on this festival and will become once more the
naturalist, anxious to obtain information concerning the private life
of the insect. The Green Grasshopper (Locusta viridissima, Lin.) does
not appear to be common in my neighbourhood. Last year, intending to
make a study of this insect and finding my efforts to hunt it
fruitless, I was obliged to have recourse to the good offices of a
forest-ranger, who sent me a pair of couples from the Lagarde plateau,
that bleak district where the beech-tree begins its escalade of the
Ventoux.

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

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

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

At break of day I was pacing up and down outside my door, when
something fell from the nearest plane-tree with a shrill grating sound.
I ran up and saw a Grasshopper gutting the belly of a struggling
Cicada. In vain the victim buzzed and waved his limbs: the other did
not let go, dipping her head right into the entrails and rooting them
out by small mouthfuls.

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

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

The main thing is to retain one's hold of the prize, which is not
difficult in somnolent darkness. Any Cicada encountered by the fierce
Locustid on her nocturnal rounds is bound to die a lamentable death.
This explains those sudden agonized notes which grate through the woods
at late, unseasonable hours, when the cymbals have long been silent.
The murderess in her suit of apple-green has pounced on some sleeping
Cicada.

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

I do, in fact, with a view to varying the diet, decide to serve up some
very sweet fruits, slices of pear, grape-bits, bits of melon. All this
meets with delighted appreciation. The Green Grasshopper resembles the
English: she dotes on underdone meat seasoned with jelly. This perhaps
is why, on catching the Cicada, she first rips up his paunch, which
supplies a mixture of flesh and preserves.

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

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

Nevertheless, cannibalism is prevalent. True, I never witness in my
Grasshopper-cages the savagery which is so common in the Praying
Mantis, who harpoons her rivals and devours her lovers; but, if some
weakling succumb, the survivors hardly ever fail to profit by his
carcass as they would in the case of any ordinary prey. With no
scarcity of provisions as an excuse, they feast upon their defunct
companion. For the rest, all the sabre-bearing clan display, in varying
degrees, a propensity for filling their bellies with their maimed
comrades.

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

It is in the evening, after sunset, that the troop becomes lively. By
nine o'clock the animation is at its height. With sudden rushes they
clamber to the top of the dome, to descend as hurriedly and climb up
once more. They come and go tumultuously, run and hop around the
circular track and, without stopping, nibble at the good things on the
way.

The males are stridulating by themselves, here and there, teasing the
passing fair with their antennae. The future mothers stroll about
gravely, with their sabre half-raised. The agitation and feverish
excitement means that the great business of pairing is at hand. The
fact will escape no practised eye.

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

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

Next morning, early, the female carries, hanging at the bottom of her
ovipositor, a queer bladder-like arrangement, an opaline capsule, the
size of a large pea and roughly subdivided into a small number of
egg-shaped vesicles. When the insect walks, the thing scrapes along the
ground and becomes dirty with sticky grains of sand. The Grasshopper
then makes a banquet off this fertilizing capsule, drains it slowly of
its contents, and devours it bit by bit; for a long time she chews and
rechews the gummy morsel and ends by swallowing it all down. In less
than half a day, the milky burden has disappeared, consumed with zest
down to the last atom.

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



CHAPTER 3. THE EMPUSA.

The sea, life's first foster-mother, still preserves in her depths many
of those singular and incongruous shapes which were the earliest
attempts of the animal kingdom; the land, less fruitful, but with more
capacity for progress, has almost wholly lost the strange forms of
other days. The few that remain belong especially to the series of
primitive insects, insects exceedingly limited in their industrial
powers and subject to very summary metamorphoses, if to any at all. In
my district, in the front rank of those entomological anomalies which
remind us of the denizens of the old coal-forests, stand the Mantidae,
including the Praying Mantis, so curious in habits and structure. Here
also is the Empusa (E. pauperata, Latr.), the subject of this chapter.

Her larva is certainly the strangest creature among the terrestrial
fauna of Provence: a slim, swaying thing of so fantastic an appearance
that uninitiated fingers dare not lay hold of it. The children of my
neighbourhood, impressed by its startling shape, call it "the
Devilkin." In their imaginations, the queer little creature savours of
witchcraft. One comes across it, though always sparsely, in spring, up
to May; in autumn; and sometimes in winter, if the sun be strong. The
tough grasses of the waste-lands, the stunted bushes which catch the
sun and are sheltered from the wind by a few heaps of stones are the
chilly Empusa's favourite abode.

Let us give a rapid sketch of her. The abdomen, which always curls up
so as to join the back, spreads paddle wise and twists into a crook.
Pointed scales, a sort of foliaceous expansions arranged in three rows,
cover the lower surface, which becomes the upper surface because of the
crook aforesaid. The scaly crook is propped on four long, thin stilts,
on four legs armed with knee-pieces, that is to say, carrying at the
end of the thigh, where it joins the shin, a curved, projecting blade
not unlike that of a cleaver.

Above this base, this four-legged stool, rises, at a sudden angle, the
stiff corselet, disproportionately long and almost perpendicular. The
end of this bust, round and slender as a straw, carries the
hunting-trap, the grappling limbs, copied from those of the Mantis.
They consist of a terminal harpoon, sharper than a needle, and a cruel
vice, with the jaws toothed like a saw. The jaw formed by the arm
proper is hollowed into a groove and carries on either side five long
spikes, with smaller indentations in between. The jaw formed by the
forearm is similarly furrowed, but its double saw, which fits into the
groove of the upper arm when at rest, is formed of finer, closer and
more regular teeth. The magnifying-glass reveals a score of equal
points in each row. The machine only lacks size to be a fearful
implement of torture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the three winter months, nothing stirs. From time to time, on
fine days, I expose the cage to the sun's rays, in the window. Under
the influence of this heat-bath, the captives stretch their legs a
little, sway from side to side, make up their minds to move about, but
without displaying any awakening appetite. The rare Midges that fall to
my assiduous efforts do not appear to tempt them. It is a rule for them
to spend the cold season in a state of complete abstinence.

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

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

A few tender morsels, in the shape of very young Grasshoppers, are
readily accepted. Unfortunately, such windfalls do not often find their
way into my sweeping-net. Abstinence becomes obligatory until the
arrival of the first Butterflies. Henceforth, Pieris brassicae, the
White Cabbage Butterfly, will contribute the greater portion of the
victuals.

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

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

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

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

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

And this reversed position, which seems to us so trying, lasts for no
short while: it is prolonged, in my cages, for ten months without a
break. The Fly on the ceiling, it is true, occupies the same attitude;
but she has her moments of rest: she flies, she walks in a normal
posture, she spreads herself flat in the sun. Besides, her acrobatic
feats do not cover a long period. The Empusa, on the other hand,
maintains her curious equilibrium for ten months on end, without a
break. Hanging from the trellis-work, back downwards, she hunts, eats,
digests, dozes, casts her skin, undergoes her transformation, mates,
lays her eggs and dies. She clambered up there when she was still quite
young; she falls down, full of days, a corpse.

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

It reminds one of the Bats, who hang, head downwards, by their
hind-legs from the roof of their caves. A special formation of the toes
enables birds to sleep on one leg, which automatically and without
fatigue clutches the swaying bough. The Empusa shows me nothing akin to
their contrivance. The extremity of her walking-legs has the ordinary
structure: a double claw at the tip, a double steelyard-hook; and that
is all.

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

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

The Ammophila sleeps extended in space by virtue of her mighty jaws. It
takes an animal to think of a thing like that, which upsets all our
preconceived ideas of repose. Should the threatening storm burst,
should the stalk sway in the wind, the sleeper is not troubled by her
swinging hammock; at most, she presses her fore-legs for a moment
against the tossed mast. As soon as equilibrium is restored, the
favourite posture, that of the horizontal lever, is resumed, perhaps
the mandibles, like the bird's toes, possess the faculty of gripping
tighter in proportion to the rocking of the wind.

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

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

The transformation is effected about the middle of May, and the adult
Empusa makes her appearance. She is even more remarkable in figure and
attire than the Praying Mantis. Of her youthful eccentricities, she
retains the pointed mitre, the saw-like arm-guards, the long bust, the
knee-pieces, the three rows of scales on the lower surface of the
belly; but the abdomen is now no longer twisted into a crook and the
animal is comelier to look upon. Large pale-green wings, pink at the
shoulder and swift in flight in both sexes, cover the belly, which is
striped white and green underneath. The male, the dandy sex, adorns
himself with plumed antennae, like those of certain Moths, the Bombyx
tribe. In respect of size, he is almost the equal of his mate.

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

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

Big eaters are naturally quarrelsome. The Mantis, bloated with Locusts,
soon becomes irritated and shows fight. The Empusa, with her frugal
meals, does not indulge in hostile demonstrations. There is no strife
among neighbours nor any of those sudden unfurlings of the wings so
dear to the Mantis when she assumes the spectral attitude and puffs
like a startled Adder; never the least inclination for those cannibal
banquets whereat the sister who has been worsted in the fight is
devoured. Such atrocities or here unknown.

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

The two sexes live together in peace and mutual indifference until the
middle of July. Then the male, grown old and decrepit, takes counsel
with himself, hunts no more, becomes shaky in his walk, creeps down
from the lofty heights of the trellised dome and at last collapses on
the ground. His end comes by a natural death. And remember that the
other, the male of the Praying Mantis, ends in the stomach of his
gluttonous spouse.

The laying follows close upon the disappearance of the males.

One word more on comparative manners. The Mantis goes in for battle and
cannibalism; the Empusa is peaceable and respects her kind. To what
cause are these profound moral differences due, when the organic
structure is the same? Perhaps to the difference of diet. Frugality, in
fact, softens character, in animals as in men; gross feeding brutalizes
it. The gormandizer gorged with meat and strong drink, a fruitful
source of savage outbursts, could not possess the gentleness of the
ascetic who dips his bread into a cup of milk. The Mantis is that
gormandizer, the Empusa that ascetic.

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



CHAPTER 4. THE CAPRICORN.

My youthful meditations owe some happy moments to Condillac's 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. (Etienne Bonnot de Condillac, Abbé de Mureaux (1715-80), 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.) 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.

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 which some Buprestis-beetle has built,
Osmia-bees, working their paste of masticated leaves, have piled their
cells, one above the other; in the deserted chambers and vestibules,
Megachiles (Leaf-cutting Bees.--Translator's Note.) have arranged their
leafy jars; in the live wood, filled with juicy saps, the larvae 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, pupae 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 in a figure of speech; the Capricorn's grub literally eats
its way. ("Chafing and raging, he swalloweth the ground, neither doth
he make account when the noise of the trumpet soundeth."--Job 39, 23
(Douai version).--Translator's Note.) 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.

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 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 long. (.039 inch.--Translator's Note.) 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 grub of
the Capricorn 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.

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? It were 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 inquire 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
movement 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 drowsily 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 aught 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 insect 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 my 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 antennae, 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 I
have said elsewhere, the tool does not make the workman. 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 thick. (.078 to .117 inch.--Translator's Note.) Some free
themselves; others cannot. The less vibrant ones succumb, stopped by
the frail barrier. What would it be if they had to pass through a
thickness of oak?

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 exit-hole. 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 eighty to a hundred millimetres.
(3 to 4 inches.--Translator's Note.) The two axes of the cross-section
vary: the horizontal measures twenty-five to thirty millimetres (.975
to 1.17 inch.--Translator's Note.); the vertical measures only fifteen.
(.585 inch.--Translator's Note.) This greater dimension of the cell,
where the thickness of the perfect insect is concerned, leaves 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.

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.
(.039 inch.--Translator's Note.) 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.

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 insect 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 hatch, when
subjected to heat, blackens, proving the presence of an organic glue
cementing the mineral matter. The solution becomes muddy if oxalate of
ammonia be added; it then 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 separated 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 Pelopaei, the Scoliae 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.

When the exit-way is prepared and the cell upholstered in velvet and
closed with a threefold 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 grub, which
is very supple, turning easily in its narrow lodging and adopting
whatever position it pleases. The coming Capricorn will not enjoy the
same privileges. Stiffly 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 our 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 antennae 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 no little food for
reflection with its prescience. 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 it. 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 senseless creature fills us
with amazement! 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 5. 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 unfeathered bird from its nest. What will become of
these little bodies and of 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 of the corpse attracts the Fly, the genitrix of the odious
maggot. At the same time, the flattened Silpha, the glistening,
slow-trotting Horn-beetle, the Dermestes, powdered with snow upon the
abdomen, and the slender Staphylinus, all, whence coming no one knows,
hurry hither in squads, with never-wearied zeal, investigating, probing
and draining the infection.

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 Silphae, with wing-cases wide and dark, as
though in mourning, fly distraught, hiding in the cracks in the soil;
the Saprini, of polished ebony which mirrors the sunlight, jog hastily
off, deserting their workshop; the Dermestes, of whom one wears a
fawn-coloured tippet, spotted with white, seek to fly away, but, tipsy
with their 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.

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 putridity 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 resumed
by 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 antennae; his
breast is covered with nankeen; and across his wing-cases he wears a
double, scalloped scarf of vermilion. 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 gravedigger,
a sexton. While the others--Silphae, Dermestes, Horn-beetles--gorge
themselves with the exploited flesh, without, of course, forgetting the
interests of the family, he, a frugal eater, hardly touches his booty
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 larvae. He buries it
in order to establish his progeny therein.

This hoarder of dead bodies, with his stiff and almost heavy movements,
is astonishingly quick at storing away wreckage. In a shift of a few
hours, a comparatively enormous animal--a Mole, for
example--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 "Introduction to
Entomology," the only general treatise at my disposal:

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

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

"The following case," he continues, "recorded by Gledditsch, 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." ("Suites a
Buffon. Introduction a l'entomologie" volume 2 pages 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
an affirmation of serious import. I know of scarcely any better adapted
to the philosophical brutalities of my time. But are these two little
stories really true? Do they involve the consequences deduced from
them? Are not those who accept them as reliable testimony a little
over-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 hazard, without criticism, cannot establish a law.

I do not propose, O valiant grave-diggers, to belittle your merits;
such is far from being my intention. I have that in my notes, on the
other hand, which will do you more honour than the case 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 lessen your renown. However, it is not the
business of impartial history to maintain a given thesis; it follows
whither the facts lead it. 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, continued inquiry and a variety of
artifices. But how populate 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
course of the spring was as much as my searches yielded in the old
days. This time, if I do not resort to the ruses of the trapper, I
shall obtain them in no greater numbers; whereas I stand in need of at
least a dozen.

These ruses are very simple. To go in search of the layer-out of
bodies, who exists only here and there in the country-side, would be
almost always waste of time; the favourable month, April, would elapse
before my cage was suitably populated. 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 the detection of such a
delicacy.

I make an arrangement with a gardener in the neighbourhood, who, two or
three times a week, supplements the penury of my acre and a half of
stony ground, providing me with vegetables raised in a better soil. I
explain to him my urgent need of Moles, an indefinite number of moles.
Battling daily with trap and spade against the importunate excavator
who uproots his crops, he is in a better position than any one else to
procure for me that which 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 creature, 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 wonderful flannel-lined
waist-coat with the soft, velvety skins of the Moles, something good
for pains in the back. Very well. We settle the matter. The essential
thing is that the Darbouns shall 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 worthy man
who lent himself with such good grace to my strange requirements 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 portions of the orchard, amid the
rosemary-bushes, the arbutus-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 who had not the sacred fire in his veins. Only little Paul, of
all the household, lent me the aid of his nimble hand to seize the
fugitives. I have already stated that the entomologist has need of
simplicity of mind. In this important business of the Necrophori, my
assistants were a child and an illiterate.

Little Paul's visits alternating with mine, we had not long to wait.
The four winds of heaven bore forth in all directions the odour of 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 for a moment
stop 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 predatory Wasps;
he accepts it as hazard presents it to him. Among his finds there are
little creatures, such as the Shrew-mouse; animals of medium size, such
as the Field-mouse; and enormous beasts, such as the Mole, the
Sewer-rat and the Snake, any of which exceeds the powers of excavation
of a single grave-digger. In the majority of cases transportation is
impossible, so 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.

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

This obligatory place of sepulture may be in stony soil; 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 support the body at some inches from the soil. Slung by
the labourers' 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 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
the accomplishment of his labours. Exposed to fortuitous hazards, he
must be able to modify his tactics within the limits of his modest
perceptions. To saw, to break, to disentangle, to lift, to shake, to
displace: these are so many methods of procedure which are
indispensable to the grave-digger in a predicament. Deprived of these
resources, reduced to uniformity of method, the insect would be
incapable of pursuing the calling which has fallen to its lot.

We see at once how imprudent it would be to draw conclusions from an
isolated case in which rational coordination or premeditated intention
might appear to intervene. 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 be able to answer the question.

First of all, a word as to diet. A general scavenger, the
Burying-beetle refuses nothing in the way of cadaveric putridity. 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
Gold-fish, a red Chinese Carp, whose body, placed in one of my cages,
was instantly considered an excellent tit-bit and buried according to
the rules. Nor is butcher's meat despised. A mutton-cutlet, a strip of
beefsteak, in the right stage of maturity, disappeared beneath the
soil, receiving the same attention as those which were 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. Neither is there much trouble in
establishing the site of his industry. A capacious dish-cover of wire
gauze is sufficient, resting on an earthen pan filled to the brim with
fresh, heaped sand. 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 room with glazed windows, which in winter is the refuge of the
plants and in summer an entomological laboratory.

Now to work. The Mole lies in the centre of the enclosure. The soil,
easily shifted and homogeneous, realizes the best conditions for
comfortable work. Four Necrophori, three males and a female, are there
with the body. They remain invisible, hidden beneath the carcass, 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, emerges and goes the rounds
of 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 carcass oscillates, while a
cushion of sand, pushed outward from below, grows up all about it. The
Mole, by reason of his own weight and the efforts of the grave-diggers,
who are labouring at their task beneath him, gradually sinks, for lack
of support, into the undermined soil.

Presently the sand which has been pushed outward 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, when all is taken into account, a very simple operation. As the
diggers, underneath the corpse, deepen the cavity into which it sinks,
tugged and shaken by the sextons, the grave, without their
intervention, fills of itself by the mere downfall of the shaken soil.
Useful 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 and shaking the body, so as to
pack it into a lesser volume and cause it to pass when passage is
obstructed. We shall presently see that this art plays a part of the
greatest importance 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 complete their task.
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 retting-vat. I shall invite no one to be
present at 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 round, greasy mass. 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 fur. Is this culinary procedure undertaken in respect of the
larvae, 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 tail-feathers and the pinion-feathers of the wings.
Reptiles and fish, on the other hand, retain their scales.

Let us return to the unrecognizable thing which was once a Mole. The
tit-bit lies in a spacious crypt, with firm walls, a regular workshop,
worthy of being the bake-house of a Copris-beetle. Except for the fur,
which is lying in scattered flocks, it is intact. The grave-diggers
have not eaten into it; it is the patrimony of the sons, not the
provision of the parents, who, in order 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 at the surface.

This observation is not an isolated one. Whenever I am present at a
burial 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. Having lent 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 plague and pester the mother for a moment
with their attentions and thereupon leave her to care for the
offspring! But those who in the other races are unemployed in this case
labour valiantly, now in the interest of their own family, now for the
sake 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 householders to their happiness.

For some time longer these latter manipulate the morsel in concert,
stripping it of fur or feather, trussing it and allowing it to simmer
to the taste of the larvae. When all is in order, the couple go forth,
dissolving their partnership, and each, following his fancy,
recommences elsewhere, even if only as a mere auxiliary.

Twice and no oftener hitherto have I found the father preoccupied by
the future of his sons and labouring in order to leave them rich: it
happens with certain Dung-beetles 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 detail and, for that matter, familiar. It is a dry subject
and I shall deal with it briefly. About the end of May, I exhume a
Brown Rat, buried by the grave-diggers a fortnight earlier. Transformed
into a black, sticky jelly, the horrible dish provides me with fifteen
larvae, already, for the most part, of the normal size. A few adults,
connections, assuredly, of the brood, are also stirring amid the
infected mass. The period of hatching is over now; and food is
plentiful. Having nothing else to do, the foster-parents have sat down
to the feast with the nurselings.

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. Such precocity
amazes me. It would seem as though the liquefaction of carrion, deadly
to any other stomach, is in this case a food productive of especial
energy, which stimulates the organism and accelerates its growth, so
that the victuals 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 habitual attributes of life in
darkness, the larva, with its lanceolate outline, is slightly
reminiscent of the grub of the Ground-beetle. The mandibles are black
and powerful, making excellent scissors for dissection. The limbs are
short, but capable of a quick, toddling gait. The segments of the
abdomen are armoured on the upper surface with a narrow reddish plate,
armed with four tiny 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
putridity that 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 surface. 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 make the tour of
the sufferer and encamp on his back, refusing to relinquish their hold.

I recognize among them the Beetle's Gamasis, the Tick who so often
soils the ventral amethyst of our Geotrupes. No; the prizes of life do
not fall to the share of the useful. Necrophori and Geotrupes devote
themselves to works of general salubrity; and these two corporations,
so interesting in the accomplishment of their hygienic functions, so
remarkable for their domestic morality, are given over 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 persist until the end. During the first fortnight of June, the
family being sufficiently provided for, the sextons strike work and my
cages are deserted, so far as the surface is concerned, in spite of new
arrivals of Mice and Sparrows. From time to time some grave-digger
leaves the subsoil and comes crawling languidly in the fresh air.

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

History tells us that certain peoples, the Massagetae and others, used
to kill their aged folk in order to spare them the miseries of
senility. 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 Massagetae might invoke, 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 superabundant,
both beneath the soil and on the surface. Famine plays no part in this
slaughter. Here we have the aberration of 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 no longer anything to do, he
breaks his fellow's limbs, eats him up, heedless of being mutilated or
eaten up himself. This is the ultimate deliverance of verminous old
age.



CHAPTER 6. THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS.

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

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

In order to approximate to the conditions of the little story, I must
have a Mouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the work of removal would
perhaps present too much difficulty. To obtain the Mouse I place my
friends and neighbours under requisition; they laugh at my whim but
none the less proffer their traps. Yet, the moment a Mouse is needed,
that very common animal becomes rare. Braving decorum in his speech,
which follows the Latin of his ancestors, the Provençal says, but even
more crudely than in my translation: "If you look for dung, the Asses
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
gives the hospitality of a day to the beggar wandering over the face of
the fertile earth; from that municipal hostel whence one invariably
emerges verminous. O Réaumur, who used to invite marquises to see your
caterpillars change their skins, what would you have said of a future
disciple conversant with such wretchedness as this? Perhaps it is well
that we should not be ignorant of it, so that we may take compassion on
the sufferings of beasts.

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, of whom three are 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 promptly perceived. About seven o'clock
in the morning, three Necrophori hurry 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 sand accumulates about the body.

For a couple of hours the jerks continue without results. I profit by
the circumstance to investigate the manner in which the work is
performed. The bare brick allows me to see what the excavated soil
concealed from me. If 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, making a lever of his head and
the tip of his abdomen. If digging is required, he resumes the normal
position. So, turn and turn about, the sexton strives, now with his
claws 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 deepen the grave.

The point at which the Mouse lies is finally recognized as
unassailable. A male appears in the open. He explores the specimen,
goes the round of it, scratches a little at random. He goes back; and
immediately the body rocks. Is he advising his collaborators of what he
has discovered? Is he arranging matters 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 any 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 it by the rakes of the workers.

For the second time a male emerges and makes a round of exploration. A
bore is made in workable earth, close beside the brick. This is a trial
excavation, to reveal 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 they done the trick this time? No, for after a while
the Mouse recoils. 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 transportation, they precipitately scour the whole area
of the cage, sounding 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 a fourth are tried; then another and yet another. At the
sixth point the selection 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, its diameter being that of the
digger's body.

A return is made to the Mouse, who suddenly quivers, oscillates,
advances, recoils, first in one direction, then in another, until in
the end the little 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 displacement,
the work of invisible levers. The body seems to move of its own accord.

This time, after so many hesitations, their efforts are concerted; at
all events, 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. The Necrophori have allowed the hour-hand of the clock to
go half round the dial while verifying the condition of the surrounding
spots and displacing the Mouse.

In this experiment it appears at the outset 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
point at which the grave shall be made. In the lengthy experiment of
the brick, the two males alone explored the surroundings and set to
work to solve the difficulty. Confiding in their assistance, the
female, motionless beneath the Mouse, awaited the result of their
investigations. The tests which are to follow will confirm the merits
of these valiant auxiliaries.

In the second place, the point where the Mouse lay being recognized as
presenting an insurmountable resistance, there was no grave dug in
advance, a little farther off, in the light soil. All attempts were
limited, I repeat, to shallow soundings which informed 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. To excavate the soil, our
grave-diggers must feel the weight of their dead on 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 and a half 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
had rolled into a rut, powerless to withdraw his treasure from the
gulf, the wily Dung-beetle called together three or four of his
neighbours, who benevolently recovered the pellet, returning to their
labours after the work of salvage.

The exploit--so ill-interpreted--of the thieving pill-roller sets me on
my guard against that of the undertaker. Shall I be too exigent if I
enquire what precautions the observer adopted 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 appeal for help? Can one even be sure that the
one to disappear returns and forms one of the band? There is nothing to
indicate it; 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 most likely of all in the absence of exact
information.

Probability becomes certainty if we submit the case to the verification
of experiment. The test with the brick already gives us some
information. For six hours my three specimens exhausted themselves in
efforts before they got to the length of removing their booty and
placing it on practicable soil. In this long and heavy task helpful
neighbours would have been anything but unwelcome. Four other
Necrophori, buried here and there under a little sand, comrades and
acquaintances, helpers of the day before, were occupying the same cage;
and not one of those concerned thought of summoning them to give
assistance. 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 considered themselves sufficiently
strong; 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 stony soil, I have again and again
seen isolated Necrophori exhausting themselves in striving against my
artifices; yet not once did they leave their work to recruit helpers.
Collaborators, it is true, did often arrive, but they were convoked by
their sense of smell, not by the first possessor. They were fortuitous
helpers; they were never called in. They were welcomed without
disagreement, but also without gratitude. They were not summoned; they
were 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 free will. I surprised him on the
wire-gauze 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 him? Assuredly not. He had hastened thither attracted
by the odour of the Mole, heedless of the efforts of others. So it was
with those whose obliging assistance is extolled. I repeat, in respect
of their imaginary prowess, what I have said elsewhere of that of the
Sacred Beetles: the story is a childish one, worthy of ranking with any
fairy-tale written for the amusement of the simple.

A hard soil, necessitating the removal of the body, is not the only
difficulty familiar to the Necrophori. Often, 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 reduced to
impotence by such an impediment, which must be an extremely common one?
That could not be.

Exposed to this or that habitual obstacle in the exercise of his
calling, the animal is always equipped accordingly; otherwise his
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 foreseen with complete lucidity. Nevertheless, let us invoke
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 of strips of raphia, a fairly accurate imitation of the network
of couch-grass roots. The very irregular meshes are nowhere wide enough
to admit of the passage of the creature to be buried, which in this
case is a Mole. The trivet is planted with its three feet in the soil
of the cage; its top is level with the surface of the soil. A little
sand conceals the meshes. The Mole is placed in the centre; and my
squad of sextons is let loose upon the body.

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

Well done, my undertakers! I expected no less of your savoir-faire. You
have foiled the artifices of the experimenter by employing your
resources against natural obstacles. With mandibles for shears, you
have patiently cut my threads as you would have gnawed the cordage of
the grass-roots. This is meritorious, if not deserving of exceptional
glorification. The most limited of the insects which 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 with a lashing of raphia fore and aft to a light horizontal
cross-bar which rests on two firmly-planted forks. It is like a joint
of venison on a spit, though rather oddly 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 ascends to the surface, wanders over
the Mole, inspects him and ends by perceiving the hinder strap.
Tenaciously he gnaws and ravels it. 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 ligature.

The Beetles proceed to 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
discover what is happening overhead. The second ligature is perceived,
is severed in turn, and henceforth the work proceeds as well as could
be desired.

My compliments, perspicacious cable-cutters! But I must not exaggerate.
The lashings of the Mole were for you the little cords with which you
are so familiar in turfy soil. You have severed them, as well as the
hammock of the previous experiment, just as you sever with the blades
of your shears any natural filament which stretches across your
catacombs. It is, in your calling, an indispensable knack. 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 fertile in Moles, Frogs, Lizards and
other victuals to your taste are usually grass-covered.

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

Game does not abound to such a point that it can be disdained 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 by the
difficulties of a body which is 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 brambles, a thing so common in the
fields, should not be able to baffle them. The overthrow of the
suspended body, if placed too high, should 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 in order 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, somnolent, or occupied
in setting their cellars in order. Sometimes only one, often two, three
or four, rarely more, busy themselves with the dead creature which I
offer them. To-day two hasten to the Mouse, who is soon perceived
overhead in the tuft of thyme.

They gain the summit of the plant by way of the wire trellis 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 where at 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 entanglement of twigs. Yet
another shake; and the Mouse is down. The burial follows.

There is nothing new in this experiment; the find has been dealt with
just as though it lay upon 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 celebrated by Gledditsch.
The batrachian is not indispensable; a Mole will serve as well or even
better. With a ligament of raphia 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 gravediggers set to work beneath the part which lies upon the
ground, at the very foot of the stake; they dig a funnel-shaped hole,
into which the muzzle, the head and the neck of the mole sink little by
little. The gibbet becomes uprooted as they sink and eventually falls,
dragged over by the weight of its heavy burden. I am assisting at the
spectacle of the overturned stake, one of the most astonishing examples
of rational accomplishment which has ever been recorded to the credit
of the insect.

This, for one who is considering the problem of instinct, is an
exciting moment. But let us beware of forming conclusions as yet; we
might be in too great a hurry. Let us ask ourselves first whether the
fall of the stake was intentional or fortuitous. Did the Necrophori lay
it bare with the express intention of causing it to fall? Or did they,
on the contrary, dig at its base solely in order to bury that part 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 gibbet. Under these conditions
absolutely no attempt is made to overthrow the latter. Not the least
scrape of a claw is delivered at the foot of the gibbet. The entire
work of excavation is accomplished at a distance, under the body, whose
shoulders are lying on the ground. There--and there only--a hole is dug
to receive the free portion of the body, the part accessible to the
sextons.

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

Yet another shake of the sieve. The gibbet is oblique or vertical
indifferently; but the Mole, always fixed by a hinder limb 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 the latter do? 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, its fall is in nowise an intentional result, but
a mere fortuitous effect of the burial already commenced.

What, then, did the owner of the Frog of whom Gledditsch 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 the damp! We may fittingly
attribute more foresight to the preparer of dried Frogs and allow him
to hang the creature some inches from the ground. In this case all my
experiments emphatically assert that 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
animals flies from the light of investigation and founders in the
slough of error! I admire your simple faith, you masters who take
seriously the statements of chance-met observers, richer in imagination
than in veracity; I admire your credulous zeal, when, without
criticism, you build up your theories on such absurdities.

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

Very soon two Necrophori have discovered the tit-bit. They climb up the
miniature mast; they explore the body, dividing its fur by thrusts of
the head. It is recognized to be an excellent find. So to work. Here we
have again, but under far 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, when,
taking a grip of the latter and exerting a leverage with their backs,
they jerk and shake the body, which oscillates, twirls about, swings
away from the stake and relapses. 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 in the first place the two obstinate riflers of the
gallows attack the hind-legs of the Mouse, a little below the ligature.
They strip them bare, flay them and cut away the flesh about the heel.
They have reached the bone, when one of them finds the raphia beneath
his mandibles. This, to him, is a familiar thing, representing the
gramineous fibre so frequent in the case of burial in grass-covered
soil. Tenaciously the shears gnaw at the bond; the vegetable fetter is
severed and the Mouse falls, to be buried a little later.

If it were isolated, this severance of the suspending tie would be a
magnificent performance; but considered in connection with the sum of
the Beetle's customary labours it loses all far-reaching significance.
Before attacking the ligature, which was not concealed in any way, the
insect exerted itself for a whole morning in shaking the body, its
usual method. Finally, finding the cord, it severed it, as it would
have severed a ligament 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 the blades
of his shears will be useful. He cuts what embarrasses him with no more
exercise of reason than he displays when placing the corpse
underground. So little does he grasp the connection between cause and
effect that he strives to break the bone of the leg before gnawing at
the bast which is knotted close beside him. The difficult task is
attacked before the extremely simple.

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

But, if the bone be too hard, if the body suspended be that of a Mole,
an adult Mouse, or a Sparrow, the wire ligament opposes 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. A last resource, however,
remains, one as rational as infallible. It is to overthrow the stake.
Of course, not one dreams of doing so.

For the last time let us change our artifices. The top of the 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 raphia, I bind together, a little above
the heels, the hind-legs of an adult Mouse; and between the legs I slip
one of the prongs of the fork. To make the body fall it is enough to
slide it a little way upwards; it is like a young Rabbit hanging in the
front of a poulterer's shop.

Five Necrophori come to inspect my preparations. After a great deal of
futile shaking, the tibiae are attacked. This, it seems, is the method
usually employed when the body is retained 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 limbs. So situated, he feels against his back the furry touch
of the Mouse. Nothing 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 in order to make the tit-bit
fall it was necessary to unhook it by sliding it along the peg? Has it
really perceived the mechanism of suspension? 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 any prevision of
the consequences of his action, heaved his back simply because he felt
the legs of the creature 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 situated at a
short distance from the Mouse, so that the Necrophori shall no longer
feel her directly against their backs when they push.

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

My trick, simple though it be, is fully successful. For a long time the
body is repeatedly shaken, but in vain; the tibiae or tarsi, unduly
hard, refuse to yield to the patient saw. Sparrows and Mice grow dry
and shrivelled, unused, upon the gibbet. Sooner in one case, later in
another, my Necrophori abandon the insoluble problem in mechanics: to
push, ever so little, the movable support and so to unhook the coveted
carcass.

Curious reasoners, in faith! If they had had, but now, a lucid idea of
the mutual relations between the shackled limbs and the suspending peg;
if they had 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,
examine it from head to foot, without becoming aware of the movable
support, the cause of their misadventure. In vain do I prolong my
watch; never do I see a single one of them push it 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. Grasped in the closed hand, they insinuate
themselves through the interstices of the fingers and plough up your
skin in a fashion to make you very quickly loose your hold. With his
head, a robust 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 its thesis, by the
dangerous prodigality of transformism.

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

Let us now examine under another aspect the mental obscurity of the
Necrophori. 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, the Mole buried
and all in order in the cellar, they stray uneasily over the wire-gauze
of the dome; they clamber up, descend, ascend 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 again. The sky is
superb; 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, coming from afar, imperceptible to any
other sense than that of the Sexton-beetles. So my Necrophori are fain
to go their ways.

Can they? Nothing would be easier if a glimmer of reason were to aid
them. Through the wire network, over which they have so often strayed,
they have seen, outside, the free soil, the promised land which they
long 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 beneath the soil.

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, to prolong his excavation beneath the
barrier, to make an elbow in it and to bring it out on the other side,
a trifling task for these vigorous creatures. Of fourteen only one
succeeded 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, discover 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. Do not let us
make it a merit that he succeeded where all the others failed.

Let us also beware of attributing to the Necrophori an understanding
more limited than is usual in entomological psychology. I find the
ineptness of the undertaker in all the insects 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, no insect has
thought of circumventing the barrier by way of the base; none has
succeeded in gaining the exterior by means of a slanting tunnel, not
even though it were a miner by profession, as are the Dung-beetles par
excellence. Captives under the wire dome, but desirous of escape,
Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes, Copres, Gymnopleuri, Sisyphi, all see about
them the freedom of space, the joys of the open sunlight; and not one
thinks of going round under the rampart, a front which would present no
difficulty to their pick-axes.

Even in the higher ranks of animality, examples of similar mental
obfuscation are not lacking. Audubon relates how, in his days, the 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, large 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 return by it.

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 beaks in the open air, they remained until they were
exhausted.

Remember, inept fowl, the occurrences of a little while ago; think of
the tunnel which led you hither! If there be in that poor brain of
yours an atom of capacity, 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 of your exit, leaves you indifferent. To
recognize the use of this opening you would have to reflect a little,
to evolve 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 actions 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 open daylight,
after resting in a short burrow against the rim of the wire cover, the
Beetle, seeing a little light filtering down through the loose soil,
reascends by the path of entry, incapable of telling himself that it
would suffice to prolong the tunnel as far in the opposite direction
for him to reach the outer world beyond the wall and gain his freedom.
Here again is one in whom we shall seek in vain for any indication of
reflection. Like the rest, in spite of his legendary renown, he has no
guide but the unconscious promptings of instinct.



CHAPTER 7. THE BLUEBOTTLE.

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

The Bluebottle frequents our homes during autumn and a part of winter,
until the cold becomes severe; but her appearance in the fields dates
back much earlier. On the first fine day in February, we shall see her
warming herself, chillily, against the sunny walls. In April, I notice
her in considerable numbers on the laurustinus. It is here that she
seems to pair, while sipping the sugary exudations of the small white
flowers. The whole of the summer season is spent out of doors, in brief
flights from one refreshment-bar to the next. When autumn comes, with
its game, she makes her way into our houses and remains until the hard
frosts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are others; and these are the wounds. I cover the Linnet's head
with a paper hood which will prevent invasion through the beak and
eyes. I serve it, under the wire-gauze bell, to a third egg-layer. The
bird has been struck by a shot in the breast, but the sore is not
bleeding: no outer stain marks the injured spot. Moreover, I am careful
to arrange the feathers, to smooth them with a hair-pencil, so that the
bird looks quite smart and has every appearance of being untouched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bluebottle is the culprit here. Everybody knows it, and nobody
thinks seriously of shaking off her tyranny: not the retailer, nor the
wholesale dealer, nor the killer of the game. What is wanted to keep
the maggots out? Hardly anything: to slip each bird into a paper
sheath. If this precaution were taken at the start, before the Flies
arrive, any game would be safe and could be left indefinitely to attain
the degree of ripeness required by the epicure's palate.

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

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

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

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

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

What determined her, therefore, is not simply the smell, which can
easily be perceived even through the uncut paper, but, above all, the
crevice, which will provide an entrance for the vermin, hatched
outside, near the narrow passage. The maggots' mother has her own
logic, her prudent foresight. She knows how feeble her wee grubs will
be, how powerless to cut their way through an obstacle of any
resistance; and so, despite the temptation of the smell, she refrains
from laying, so long as she finds no entrance through which the
new-born worms can slip unaided.

I wanted to know whether the colour, the shininess, the degree of
hardness and other qualities of the obstacle would influence the
decision of a mother obliged to lay her eggs under exceptional
conditions. With this object in view, I employed small jars, each
baited with a bit of butcher's meat. The respective lids were made of
different-coloured paper, of oil-skin, or of some of that tin-foil,
with its gold or coppery sheen, which is used for sealing
liqueur-bottles. On not one of these covers did the mothers stop, with
any desire to deposit their eggs; but, from the moment that the knife
had made the narrow slit, all the lids were, sooner or later, visited
and all, sooner or later, received the white shower somewhere near the
gash. The look of the obstacle, therefore, does not count; dull or
brilliant, drab or coloured: these are details of no importance; the
thing that matters is that there should be a passage to allow the grubs
to enter.

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

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

Let us continue our investigation, varying the conditions. A large
test-tube, measuring nine inches high, is baited at the bottom with a
lump of butcher's meat. It is closed with wire-gauze, whose meshes, two
millimetres wide (.078 inch.--Translator's Note.), do not permit of the
Fly's passage. The Bluebottle comes to my apparatus, guided by scent
rather than sight. She hastens to the test-tube, whose contents are
veiled under an opaque cover, with the same alacrity as to the open
tube. The invisible attracts her quite as much as the visible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, when the fall does not exceed a certain depth, the budding worms
of the Flesh-fly are dropped without a qualm, as all our experiments
show. This principle has a practical application which is not without
its value in matters of domestic economy. It is as well that the
wonders of entomology should sometimes give us a hint of commonplace
utility.

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

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

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

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

Paper is equally successful in our strife against the Moths, those
plagues of our furs and clothes. To keep away these wholesale ravagers,
people generally use camphor, naphthalene, tobacco, bunches of
lavender, and other strong-scented remedies. Without wishing to malign
those preservatives, we are bound to admit that the means employed are
none too effective. The smell does very little to prevent the havoc of
the Moths.

I would therefore advise our housewives, instead of all this chemist's
stuff, to use newspapers of a suitable shape and size. Take whatever
you wish to protect--your furs, your flannel, or your clothes--and pack
each article carefully in a newspaper, joining the edges with a double
fold, well pinned. If this joining is properly done, the Moth will
never get inside. Since my advice has been taken and this method
employed in my household, the old damage has no longer been repeated.

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

This is a repetition of what the paper bag, with its dead bird, showed
me. The Flies refuse to lay on the sand, apparently for the same
reasons. The paper was considered an obstacle which the frail vermin
would not be able to overcome. With sand, the case is worse. Its
grittiness would hurt the new-born weaklings, its dryness would absorb
the moisture indispensable to their movements. Later, when preparing
for the metamorphosis, when their strength has come to them, the grubs
will dig the earth quite well and be able to descend: but, at the
start, that would be very dangerous for them. Knowing these
difficulties, the mothers, however greatly tempted by the smell,
abstain from breeding. As a matter of fact, after long waiting, fearing
lest some packets of eggs may have escaped my attention, I inspect the
contents of the jar from top to bottom. Meat and sand contain neither
larvae nor pupae: the whole is absolutely deserted.

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

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

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



CHAPTER 8. THE PINE-PROCESSIONARY.

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

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

They proceed in single file, in a continuous row, each touching with
its head the rear of the one in front of it. The complex twists and
turns described in his vagaries by the caterpillar leading the van are
scrupulously described by all the others. No Greek theoria winding its
way to the Eleusinian festivals was ever more orderly. Hence the name
of Processionary given to the gnawer of the pine.

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

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

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

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

It is equally useless to think of the sense of smell. Has the
Processional any olfactory powers or has he not? I do not know. Without
giving a positive answer to the question, I can at least declare that
his sense of smell is exceedingly dull and in no way suited to help him
find his way. This is proved, in my experiments, by a number of hungry
caterpillars that, after a long fast, pass close beside a pine-branch
without betraying any eagerness of showing a sign of stopping. It is
the sense of touch that tells them where they are. So long as their
lips do not chance to light upon the pasture-land, not one of them
settles there, though he be ravenous. They do not hasten to food which
they have scented from afar; they stop at a branch which they encounter
on their way.

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

Longer expeditions are made in the daytime, even in winter, if the
weather be fine. Our caterpillars then come down from the tree, venture
on the ground, march in procession for a distance of thirty yards or
so. The object of these sallies is not to look for food, for the native
pine-tree is far from being exhausted: the shorn branches hardly count
amid the vast leafage. Moreover, the caterpillars observe complete
abstinence till nightfall. The trippers have no other object than a
constitutional, a pilgrimage to the outskirts to see what these are
like, possibly an inspection of the locality where, later on, they mean
to bury themselves in the sand for their metamorphosis.

It goes without saying that, in these greater evolutions, the guiding
cord is not neglected. It is now more necessary than ever. All
contribute to it from the produce of their spinnerets, as is the
invariable rule whenever there is a progression. Not one takes a step
forward without fixing to the path the thread from his lips.

If the series forming the procession be at all long, the ribbon is
dilated sufficiently to make it easy to find; nevertheless, on the
homeward journey, it is not picked up without some hesitation. For
observe that the caterpillars when on the march never turn completely;
to wheel round on their tight-rope is a method utterly unknown to them.
In order therefore to regain the road already covered, they have to
describe a zigzag whose windings and extent are determined by the
leader's fancy. Hence come gropings and roamings which are sometimes
prolonged to the point of causing the herd to spend the night out of
doors. It is not a serious matter. They collect into a motionless
cluster. To-morrow the search will start afresh and will sooner or
later be successful. Oftener still the winding curve meets the
guide-thread at the first attempt. As soon as the first caterpillar has
the rail between his legs, all hesitation ceases; and the band makes
for the nest with hurried steps.

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

The enterprise takes a long time to complete. Every evening, when the
weather permits, the building has to be strengthened and enlarged. It
is indispensable, therefore, that the corporation of workers should not
be dissolved while the stormy season continues and the insects are
still in the caterpillar stage. But, without special arrangements, each
nocturnal expedition at grazing-time would be a cause of separation. At
that moment of appetite for food there is a return to individualism.
The caterpillars become more or less scattered, settling singly on the
branches around; each browses his pine-needle separately. How are they
to find one another afterwards and become a community again?

The several threads left on the road make this easy. With that guide,
every caterpillar, however far he may be, comes back to his companions
without ever missing the way. They come hurrying from a host of twigs,
from here, from there, from above, from below; and soon the scattered
legion reforms into a group. The silk thread is something more than a
road-making expedient: it is the social bond, the system that keeps the
members of the brotherhood indissolubly united.

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

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

Why cannot I read what passes under his black, shiny skull, so like a
drop of tar to look at? To judge by actions, there is here a modicum of
discernment which is able, after experimenting, to recognize excessive
roughnesses, over-slippery surfaces, dusty places that offer no
resistance and, above all, the threads left by other excursionists.
This is all or nearly all that my long acquaintance with the
Processionaries has taught me as to their mentality. Poor brains,
indeed; poor creatures, whose commonwealth has its safety hanging upon
a thread!

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

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

The suppression of the leader of the file produces nothing striking. If
the thing is done without creating a disturbance, the procession does
not alter its ways at all. The second caterpillar, promoted to captain,
knows the duties of his rank off-hand: he selects and leads, or rather
he hesitates and gropes.

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

These two experiments are only moderately interesting. I have thought
out another, one more fertile in possibilities. I propose to make the
caterpillars describe a close circuit, after the ribbons running from
it and liable to bring about a change of direction have been destroyed.
The locomotive engine pursues its invariable course so long as it is
not shunted on to a branch-line. If the Processionaries find the silken
rail always clear in front of them, with no switches anywhere, will
they continue on the same track, will they persist in following a road
that never comes to an end? What we have to do is to produce this
circuit, which is unknown under ordinary conditions, by artificial
means.

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

There is a yet greater difficulty: the leader refuses the ribbon laid
before him; the cut end makes him distrustful. Failing to see the
regular, uninterrupted road, he slants off to the right or left, he
escapes at a tangent. If I try to interfere and to bring him back to
the path of my choosing, he persists in his refusal, shrivels up, does
not budge, and soon the whole procession is in confusion. We will not
insist: the method is a poor one, very wasteful of effort for at best a
problematical success.

We ought to interfere as little as possible and obtain a natural closed
circuit. Can it be done? Yes. It lies in our power, without the least
meddling, to see a procession march along a perfect circular track. I
owe this result, which is eminently deserving of our attention, to pure
chance.

On the shelf with the layer of sand in which the nests are planted
stand some big palm-vases measuring nearly a yard and a half in
circumference at the top. The caterpillars often scale the sides and
climb up to the moulding which forms a cornice around the opening. This
place suits them for their processions, perhaps because of the absolute
firmness of the surface, where there is no fear of landslides, as on
the loose, sandy soil below; and also, perhaps, because of the
horizontal position, which is favourable to repose after the fatigue of
the ascent. It provides me with a circular track all ready-made. I have
nothing to do but wait for an occasion propitious to my plans. This
occasion is not long in coming.

On the 30th of January, 1896, a little before twelve o'clock in the
day, I discover a numerous troop making their way up and gradually
reaching the popular cornice. Slowly, in single file, the caterpillars
climb the great vase, mount the ledge and advance in regular
procession, while others are constantly arriving and continuing the
series. I wait for the string to close up, that is to say, for the
leader, who keeps following the circular moulding, to return to the
point from which he started. My object is achieved in a quarter of an
hour. The closed circuit is realized magnificently, in something very
nearly approaching a circle.

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

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

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

The old schoolmen were fond of quoting Buridan's Ass, that famous
Donkey who, when placed between two bundles of hay, starved to death
because he was unable to decide in favour of either by breaking the
equilibrium between two equal but opposite attractions. They slandered
the worthy animal. The Ass, who is no more foolish than any one else,
would reply to the logical snare by feasting off both bundles. Will my
caterpillars show a little of his mother wit? Will they, after many
attempts, be able to break the equilibrium of their closed circuit,
which keeps them on a road without a turning? Will they make up their
minds to swerve to this side or that, which is the only method of
reaching their bundle of hay, the green branch yonder, quite near, not
two feet off?

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

"The procession will go on turning for some time, for an hour, two
hours, perhaps; then the caterpillars will perceive their mistake. They
will abandon the deceptive road and make their descent somewhere or
other."

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

The circular procession begins, as I have said, on the 30th of January,
about midday, in splendid weather. The caterpillars march at an even
pace, each touching the stern of the one in front of him. The unbroken
chain eliminates the leader with his changes of direction; and all
follow mechanically, as faithful to their circle as are the hands of a
watch. The headless file has no liberty left, no will; it has become
mere clockwork. And this continues for hours and hours. My success goes
far beyond my wildest suspicions. I stand amazed at it, or rather I am
stupefied.

Meanwhile, the multiplied circuits change the original rail into a
superb ribbon a twelfth of an inch broad. I can easily see it
glittering on the red ground of the pot. The day is drawing to a close
and no alteration has yet taken place in the position of the trail. A
striking proof confirms this.

The trajectory is not a plane curve, but one which, at a certain point,
deviates and goes down a little way to the lower surface of the
cornice, returning to the top some eight inches farther. I marked these
two points of deviation in pencil on the vase at the outset. Well, all
that afternoon and, more conclusive still, on the following days, right
to the end of this mad dance, I see the string of caterpillars dip
under the ledge at the first point and come to the top again at the
second. Once the first thread is laid, the road to be pursued is
permanently established.

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

Grazing-time has arrived. The caterpillars have come crowding from all
the nests in the greenhouse to browse upon the pine-branches planted by
myself beside the silken purses. Those in the garden do the same, for
the temperature is mild. The others, lined up along the earthenware
cornice, would gladly take part in the feast; they are bound to have an
appetite after a ten hours' walk. The branch stands green and tempting
not a hand's-breadth away. To reach it they need but go down; and the
poor wretches, foolish slaves of their ribbon that they are, cannot
make up their minds to do so. I leave the famished ones at half-past
ten, persuaded that they will take counsel with their pillow and that
on the morrow things will have resumed their ordinary course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The result of this brief delay is a return to the old track. The
caterpillars embark on the silken trail and the circular march is
resumed, this time in the form of a ring with a gap in it. There is no
attempt, however, to strike a new course on the part of the guide whom
this gap has placed at the head. A chance of stepping outside the magic
circle has presented itself at last; and he does not know how to avail
himself of it.

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

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

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

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

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

The liberating accident, especially that of fatigue, occurs fairly
often. In the course of the same day, the moving circumference is cut
up several times into two or three sections; but continuity soon
returns and no change takes place. Things go on just the same. The bold
innovator who is to save the situation has not yet had his inspiration.

There is nothing new on the fourth day, after an icy night like the
previous one; nothing to tell except the following detail. Yesterday I
did not remove the trace left by the few caterpillars who made their
way to the inside of the vase. This trace, together with a junction
connecting it with the circular road, is discovered in the course of
the morning. Half the troop takes advantage of it to visit the earth in
the pot and climb the palm; the other half remains on the ledge and
continues to walk along the old rail. In the afternoon the band of
emigrants rejoins the others, the circuit is completed and things
return to their original condition.

We come to the fifth day. The night frost becomes more intense, without
however as yet reaching the greenhouse. It is followed by bright
sunshine in a calm and limpid sky. As soon as the sun's rays have
warmed the panes a little, the caterpillars, lying in heaps, wake up
and resume their evolutions on the ledge of the vase. This time the
fine order of the beginning is disturbed and a certain disorder becomes
manifest, apparently an omen of deliverance near at hand. The
scouting-path inside the vase, which was upholstered in silk yesterday
and the day before, is to-day followed to its origin on the rim by a
part of the band and is then deserted after a short loop. The other
caterpillars follow the usual ribbon. The result of this bifurcation is
two almost equal files, walking along the ledge in the same direction,
at a short distance from each other, sometimes meeting, separating
farther on, in every case with some lack of order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

These figures surprise me, though I am already familiar with the
abysmal stupidity of insects as a class whenever the least accident
occurs. I feel inclined to ask myself whether the Processionaries were
not kept up there so long by the difficulties and dangers of the
descent rather than by the lack of any gleam of intelligence in their
benighted minds. The facts, however, reply that the descent is as easy
as the ascent.

The caterpillar has a very supple back, well adapted for twisting round
projections or slipping underneath. He can walk with the same ease
vertically or horizontally, with his back down or up. Besides, he never
moves forward until he has fixed his thread to the ground. With this
support to his feet, he has no falls to fear, no matter what his
position.

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

It is out of the question then to suggest the dread of a false step on
the edge of the rim which is so nimbly turned at each point of
inflexion. The caterpillars in distress, starved, shelterless, chilled
with cold at night, cling obstinately to the silk ribbon covered
hundreds of times, because they lack the rudimentary glimmers of reason
which would advise them to abandon it.

Experience and reflection are not in their province. The ordeal of a
five hundred yards' march and three to four hundred turns teach them
nothing; and it takes casual circumstances to bring them back to the
nest. They would perish on their insidious ribbon if the disorder of
the nocturnal encampments and the halts due to fatigue did not cast a
few threads outside the circular path. Some three or four move along
these trails, laid without an object, stray a little way and, thanks to
their wanderings, prepare the descent, which is at last accomplished in
short strings favoured by chance.

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



CHAPTER 9. THE SPIDERS.

THE NARBONNE LYCOSA, OR BLACK-BELLIED TARANTULA.

THE BURROW.

Michelet has told us how, as a printer's apprentice in a cellar, he
established amicable relations with a Spider. (Jules Michelet
(1798-1874), author of "L'Oiseau" and "L'Insecte," in addition to the
historical works for which he is chiefly known. As a lad, he helped his
father, a printer by trade, in setting type.--Translator's Note.) At a
certain hour of the day, a ray of sunlight would glint through the
window of the gloomy workshop and light up the little compositor's
case. Then his eight-legged neighbour would come down from her web and
on the edge of the case take her share of the sunshine. The boy did not
interfere with her; he welcomed the trusting visitor as a friend and as
a pleasant diversion from the long monotony. When we lack the society
of our fellow-men, we take refuge in that of animals, without always
losing by the change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We may take it then that, when not in captivity, the Lycosa does not go
far afield to gather the wherewithal to build her parapet and that she
makes shift with what she finds upon her threshold. In these
conditions, the building-stones are soon exhausted and the masonry
ceases for lack of materials.

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

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

To find the hermit to inhabit it is merely the matter of a walk in the
neighbourhood. When removed from her own dwelling, which is turned
topsy-turvy by my trowel, and placed in possession of the den produced
by my art, the Lycosa at once disappears into that den. She does not
come out again, seeks nothing better elsewhere. A large wire-gauze
cover rests on the soil in the pan and prevents escape.

In any case, the watch, in this respect, makes no demand upon my
diligence. The prisoner is satisfied with her new abode and manifests
no regret for her natural burrow. There is no attempt at flight on her
part. Let me not omit to add that each pan must receive not more than
one inhabitant. The Lycosa is very intolerant. To her a neighbour is
fair game, to be eaten without scruple when one has might on one's
side. Time was when, unaware of this fierce intolerance, which is more
savage still at breeding time, I saw hideous orgies perpetrated in my
overstocked cages. I shall have occasion to describe those tragedies
later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It goes without saying that, in a state of liberty, on our barren
waste-lands, the Lycosa does not indulge in such sumptuous
architecture. I have given the reason: she is too great a stay-at-home
to go in search of materials and she makes use of the limited resources
which she finds around her. Bits of earth, small chips of stone, a few
twigs, a few withered grasses: that is all, or nearly all. Wherefore
the work is generally quite modest and reduced to a parapet that hardly
attracts attention.

My captives teach us that, when materials are plentiful, especially
textile materials that remove all fears of landslip, the Lycosa
delights in tall turrets. She understands the art of donjon-building
and puts it into practice as often as she possesses the means.

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

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

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

This presumes, it is true, an exemplary patience on the Lycosa's part;
for the burrow has naught that can serve to entice victims. At best,
the ledge provided by the turret may, at rare intervals, tempt some
weary wayfarer to use it as a resting-place. But, if the quarry do not
come to-day, it is sure to come to-morrow, the next day, or later, for
the Locusts hop innumerable in the waste-land, nor are they always able
to regulate their leaps. Some day or other, chance is bound to bring
one of them within the purlieus of the burrow. This is the moment to
spring upon the pilgrim from the ramparts. Until then, we maintain a
stoical vigilance. We shall dine when we can; but we shall end by
dining.

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

THE LAYING.

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

Early one morning, ten days later, I find her preparing for her
confinement. A silk network is first spun on the ground, covering an
extent about equal to the palm of one's hand. It is coarse and
shapeless, but firmly fixed. This is the floor on which the Spider
means to operate.

On this foundation, which acts as a protection from the sand, the
Lycosa fashions a round mat, the size of a two-franc piece and made of
superb white silk. With a gentle, uniform movement, which might be
regulated by the wheels of a delicate piece of clockwork, the tip of
the abdomen rises and falls, each time touching the supporting base a
little farther away, until the extreme scope of the mechanism is
attained.

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

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

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

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

It is a white-silk pill, soft to the touch and glutinous. Its size is
that of an average cherry. An observant eye will notice, running
horizontally around the middle, a fold which a needle is able to raise
without breaking it. This hem, generally undistinguishable from the
rest of the surface, is none other than the edge of the circular mat,
drawn over the lower hemisphere. The other hemisphere, through which
the youngsters will go out, is less well fortified: its only wrapper is
the texture spun over the eggs immediately after they were laid.

The work of spinning, followed by that of tearing, is continued for a
whole morning, from five to nine o'clock. Worn out with fatigue, the
mother embraces her dear pill and remains motionless. I shall see no
more to-day. Next morning, I find the Spider carrying the bag of eggs
slung from her stern.

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

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

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

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

A test of another kind, with a second subject, renders the mistake more
striking. I substitute, in the place of the lawful bag which I have
removed, the work of the Silky Epeira. The colour and softness of the
material are the same in both cases; but the shape is quite different.
The stolen object is a globe; the object presented in exchange is an
elliptical conoid studded with angular projections along the edge of
the base. The Spider takes no account of this dissimilarity. She
promptly glues the queer bag to her spinnerets and is as pleased as
though she were in possession of her real pill. My experimental
villainies have no other consequence beyond an ephemeral carting. When
hatching-time arrives, early in the case of Lycosa, late in that of the
Epeira, the gulled Spider abandons the strange bag and pays it no
further attention.

Let us penetrate yet deeper into the wallet-bearer's stupidity. After
depriving the Lycosa of her eggs, I throw her a ball of cork, roughly
polished with a file and of the same size as the stolen pill. She
accepts the corky substance, so different from the silk purse, without
the least demur. One would have thought that she would recognize her
mistake with those eight eyes of hers, which gleam like precious
stones. The silly creature pays no attention. Lovingly she embraces the
cork ball, fondles it with her palpi, fastens it to her spinnerets and
thenceforth drags it after her as though she were dragging her own bag.

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

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

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

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

THE FAMILY.

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

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

Towards the end of summer, all the householders, old or young, whether
in captivity on the window-sill or at liberty in the paths of the
enclosure, supply me daily with the following improving sight. In the
morning, as soon as the sun is hot and beats upon their burrow, the
anchorites come up from the bottom with their bag and station
themselves at the opening. Long siestas on the threshold in the sun are
the order of the day throughout the fine season; but, at the present
time, the position adopted is a different one. Formerly, the Lycosa
came out into the sun for her own sake. Leaning on the parapet, she had
the front half of her body outside the pit and the hinder half inside.
The eyes took their fill of light; the belly remained in the dark. When
carrying her egg-bag, the Spider reverses the posture: the front is in
the pit, the rear outside. With her hind-legs she holds the white pill
bulging with germs lifted above the entrance; gently she turns and
turns it, so as to present every side to the life-giving rays. And this
goes on for half the day, so long as the temperature is high; and it is
repeated daily, with exquisite patience, during three or four weeks. To
hatch its eggs, the bird covers them with the quilt of its breast; it
strains them to the furnace of its heart. The Lycosa turns hers in
front of the hearth of hearths: she gives them the sun as an incubator.

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

The whole family emerges from the bag straightway. Then and there, the
youngsters climb to the mother's back. As for the empty bag, now a
worthless shred, it is flung out of the burrow; the Lycosa does not
give it a further thought. Huddled together, sometimes in two or three
layers, according to their number, the little ones cover the whole back
of the mother, who, for seven or eight months to come, will carry her
family night and day. Nowhere can we hope to see a more edifying
domestic picture than that of the Lycosa clothed in her young.

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

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

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

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

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

I have described elsewhere the prowess of the Copris watching over
cells that are not her handiwork and do not contain her offspring. With
a zeal which even the additional labour laid upon her does not easily
weary, she removes the mildew from the alien dung-balls, which far
exceed the regular nests in number; she gently scrapes and polishes and
repairs them; she listens attentively and enquires by ear into each
nurseling's progress. Her real collection could not receive greater
care. Her own family or another's: it is all one to her.

The Lycosa is equally indifferent. I take a hair-pencil and sweep the
living burden from one of my Spiders, making it fall close to another
covered with her little ones. The evicted youngsters scamper about,
find the new mother's legs outspread, nimbly clamber up these and mount
on the back of the obliging creature, who quietly lets them have their
way. They slip in among the others, or, when the layer is too thick,
push to the front and pass from the abdomen to the thorax and even to
the head, though leaving the region of the eyes uncovered. It does not
do to blind the bearer: the common safety demands that. They know this
and respect the lenses of the eyes, however populous the assembly be.
The whole animal is now covered with a swarming carpet of young, all
except the legs, which must preserve their freedom of action, and the
under part of the body, where contact with the ground is to be feared.

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

I perceive that I have reached the limits, not of the bearer's
good-will, but of equilibrium. The Spider would adopt an indefinite
further number of foundlings, if the dimensions of her back afforded
them a firm hold. Let us be content with this. Let us restore each
family to its mother, drawing at random from the lot. There must
necessarily be interchanges, but that is of no importance: real
children and adopted children are the same thing in the Lycosa's eyes.

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

One morning I catch the two harridans fighting out their quarrel on the
floor. The loser is laid flat upon her back; the victress, belly to
belly with her adversary, clutches her with her legs and prevents her
from moving a limb. Both have their poison-fangs wide open, ready to
bite without yet daring, so mutually formidable are they. After a
certain period of waiting, during which the pair merely exchange
threats, the stronger of the two, the one on top, closes her lethal
engine and grinds the head of the prostrate foe. Then she calmly
devours the deceased by small mouthfuls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more, with what do the little ones keep up their strength? We do
not like to suggest reserves supplied by the egg as rectifying the
animal's expenditure of vital force, especially when we consider that
those reserves, themselves so close to nothing, must be economized in
view of the silk, a material of the highest importance, of which a
plentiful use will be made presently. There must be other powers at
play in the tiny animal's machinery.

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

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

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

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

Beasts of flesh and blood act no otherwise. Whether they mutually
devour one another or levy tribute on the plant, they invariably
quicken themselves with the stimulant of the sun's heat, a heat stored
in grass, fruit, seed and those which feed on such. The sun, the soul
of the universe, is the supreme dispenser of energy.

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

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

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

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

Daily, if the sky be clear, the Lycosa, carrying her young, comes up
from the burrow, leans on the kerb and spends long hours basking in the
sun. Here, on their mother's back, the youngsters stretch their limbs
delightedly, saturate themselves with heat, take in reserves of
motor-power, absorb energy.

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



CHAPTER 10. THE BANDED EPEIRA.

BUILDING THE WEB.

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

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

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

"Pinck! Pinck!"

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

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

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

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

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

Her hunting-weapon is a large upright web, whose outer boundary, which
varies according to the disposition of the ground, is fastened to the
neighbouring branches by a number of moorings. Let us see, first of
all, how the ropes which form the framework of the building are
obtained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These cross-bars, in their turn, support others in ever changing
directions. When there are enough of them, the Epeira need no longer
resort to falls in order to extract her threads; she goes from one cord
to the next, always wire-drawing with her hind-legs. This results in a
combination of straight lines owning no order, save that they are kept
in one nearly perpendicular plane. Thus is marked out a very irregular
polygonal area, wherein the web, itself a work of magnificent
regularity, shall presently be woven.

In the lower part of the web, starting from the centre, a wide opaque
ribbon descends zigzag-wise across the radii. This is the Epeira's
trade-mark, the flourish of an artist initialling his creation. "Fecit
So-and-so," she seems to say, when giving the last throw of the shuttle
to her handiwork.

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

THE LIME-SNARE.

The spiral network of the Epeirae possesses contrivances of fearsome
cunning. The thread that forms it is seen with the naked eye to differ
from that of the framework and the spokes. It glitters in the sun,
looks as though it were knotted and gives the impression of a chaplet
of atoms. To examine it through the lens on the web itself is scarcely
feasible, because of the shaking of the fabric, which trembles at the
least breath. By passing a sheet of glass under the web and lifting it,
I take away a few pieces of thread to study, pieces that remain fixed
to the glass in parallel lines. Lens and microscope can now play their
part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I guess aright when I judged that it was a fatty substance that
preserved the Epeira from the snares of her sticky Catherine-wheel? The
action of the carbon-disulphide seems to say yes. Besides, there is no
reason why a substance of this kind, which plays so frequent a part in
animal economy, should not coat the Spider very slightly by the mere
act of perspiration. We used to rub our fingers with a little oil
before handling the twigs in which the Goldfinch was to be caught; even
so the Epeira varnishes herself with a special sweat, to operate on any
part of her web without fear of the lime-threads.

However, an unduly protracted stay on the sticky threads would have its
drawbacks. In the long run, continual contact with those threads might
produce a certain adhesion and inconvenience to the Spider, who must
preserve all her agility in order to rush upon the prey before it can
release itself. For this reason, gummy threads are never used in
building the post of interminable waiting.

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

As for the glue itself, it is hardly possible to study its chemical
properties, because the quantity is so slight. The microscope shows it
trickling from the broken threads in the form of a transparent and more
or less granular streak. The following experiment will tell us more
about it.

With a sheet of glass passed across the web, I gather a series of
lime-threads which remain fixed in parallel lines. I cover this sheet
with a bell-jar standing in a depth of water. Soon, in this atmosphere
saturated with humidity, the threads become enveloped in a watery
sheath, which gradually increases and begins to flow. The twisted shape
has by this time disappeared; and the channel of the thread reveals a
chaplet of translucent orbs, that is to say, a series of extremely fine
drops.

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

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

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

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

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

THE HUNT.

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

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

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

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

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

You are of their company, O my industrious Epeirae! So that you may
dine, you spend your treasures of patience nightly; and often without
result. I sympathize with your woes, for I, who am as concerned as you
about my daily bread, I also doggedly spread my net, the net for
catching ideas, a more elusive and less substantial prize than the
Moth. Let us not lose heart. The best part of life is not in the
present, still less in the past; it lies in the future, the domain of
hope. Let us wait.

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

What happens next, in an uncertain light, does not lend itself to
accurate observation. It is better to turn to those Garden Spiders who
never leave their web and who hunt mainly in the daytime. The Banded
and the Silky Epeira, both of whom live on the rosemaries in the
enclosure, shall show us in broad daylight the innermost details of the
tragedy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When all movement ceases under the snowy winding-sheet, the Spider goes
up to her bound prisoner. She has a better weapon than the bestiarius'
trident: she has her poison-fangs. She gnaws at the Locust, without
undue persistence, and then withdraws, leaving the torpid patient to
pine away.

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

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

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

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

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

It is done; the twisted ends are put back into position. The
well-trussed game is at last removed from the web and fastened on
behind with a thread. The Spider then marches in front and the load is
trundled across the web and hoisted to the resting-floor, which is both
an inspection-post and a dining-hall. When the Spider is of a species
that shuns the light and possesses a telegraph-line, she mounts to her
daytime hiding-place along this line, with the game bumping against her
heels.

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

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

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

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

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

The Epeira, therefore, does not incontinently kill her prey with her
delicate bite; she poisons it so as to produce a gradual weakness,
which gives the blood-sucker ample time to drain her victim, without
the least risk, before the rigor mortis stops the flow of moisture.

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

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

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

And these Epeirae, so terrible to insects, I am able to handle without
any fear. My skin does not suit them. If I persuaded them to bite me,
what would happen to me? Hardly anything. We have more cause to dread
the sting of a nettle than the dagger which is fatal to Dragon-flies.
The same virus acts differently upon this organism and that, is
formidable here and quite mild there. What kills the insect may easily
be harmless to us. Let us not, however, generalize too far. The
Narbonne Lycosa, that other enthusiastic insect-huntress, would make us
pay dearly if we attempted to take liberties with her.

It is not uninteresting to watch the Epeira at dinner. I light upon
one, the Banded Epeira, at the moment, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, when she has captured a Locust. Planted in the centre of the
web, on her resting-floor, she attacks the venison at the joint of a
haunch. There is no movement, not even of the mouth-parts, so far as I
am able to discover. The mouth lingers, close-applied, at the point
originally bitten. There are no intermittent mouthfuls, with the
mandibles moving backwards and forwards. It is a sort of continuous
kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recognizing the large variety of game, we wonder how the Epeira manages
not to hesitate amid those many diverse forms, how, for instance, she
passes from the Locust to the Butterfly, so different in appearance. To
attribute to her as a guide an extensive zoological knowledge were
wildly in excess of what we may reasonably expect of her poor
intelligence. The thing moves, therefore it is worth catching: this
formula seems to sum up the Spider's wisdom.

THE TELEGRAPH-WIRE.

Of the six Garden Spiders that form the object of my observations, two
only, the Banded and the Silky Epeira, remain constantly in their webs,
even under the blinding rays of a fierce sun. The others, as a rule, do
not show themselves until nightfall. At some distance from the net they
have a rough-and-ready retreat in the brambles, an ambush made of a few
leaves held together by stretched threads. It is here that, for the
most part, they remain in the daytime, motionless and sunk in
meditation.

But the shrill light that vexes them is the joy of the fields. At such
times the Locust hops more nimbly than ever, more gaily skims the
Dragon-fly. Besides, the limy web, despite the rents suffered during
the night, is still in serviceable condition. If some giddy-pate allow
himself to be caught, will the Spider, at the distance whereto she has
retired, be unable to take advantage of the windfall? Never fear. She
arrives in a flash. How is she apprised? Let us explain the matter.

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

In both cases, nothing happens at first. The Epeira remains in her
motionless attitude, even when the morsel is at a short distance in
front of her. She is indifferent to the presence of the game, does not
seem to perceive it, so much so that she ends by wearing out my
patience. Then, with a long straw, which enables me to conceal myself
slightly, I set the dead insect trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If the eyes are insufficient guides, even close at hand, how will it be
when the prey has to be spied from afar? In that case, an intelligence
apparatus for long-distance work becomes indispensable. We have no
difficulty in detecting the apparatus.

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

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

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

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

I leave the Spider to mind her own affairs for some days before I
interfere with her. I again propose to give her a Locust; but this time
I first cut the signalling-thread with a touch of the scissors, without
shaking any part of the edifice. The game is then laid on the web.
Complete success: the entangled insect struggles, sets the net
quivering; the Spider, on her side, does not stir, as though heedless
of events.

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

Why? Because her telegraph, being out of order, no longer tells her of
the shaking of the web. The captured prey is too far off for her to see
it; she is all unwitting. A good hour passes, with the Locust still
kicking, the Spider impassive, myself watching. Nevertheless, in the
end, the Epeira wakes up: no longer feeling the signalling-thread,
broken by my scissors, as taut as usual under her legs, she comes to
look into the state of things. The web is reached, without the least
difficulty, by one of the lines of the framework, the first that
offers. The Locust is then perceived and forthwith enswathed, after
which the signalling-thread is remade, taking the place of the one
which I have broken. Along this road the Spider goes home, dragging her
prey behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonderful! One of her hind-legs is stretched outside the leafy cabin;
and the signalling-thread ends just at the tip of that leg. Whoso has
not seen the Epeira in this attitude, with her hand, so to speak, on
the telegraph-receiver, knows nothing of one of the most curious
instances of animal cleverness. Let any game appear upon the scene; and
the slumberer, forthwith aroused by means of the leg receiving the
vibrations, hastens up. A Locust whom I myself lay on the web procures
her this agreeable shock and what follows. If she is satisfied with her
bag, I am still more satisfied with what I have learnt.

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



CHAPTER 11. THE EUMENES.

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

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

The Hunting Wasps whose story we have described in former volumes are
wonderfully well versed in the art of wielding the lancet; they astound
us with their surgical methods, which they seem to have learnt from
some physiologist who allows nothing to escape him; but those skilful
slayers have no merit as builders of dwelling-houses. What is their
home, in point of fact? An underground passage, with a cell at the end
of it; a gallery, an excavation, a shapeless cave. It is miner's work,
navvy's work: vigorous sometimes, artistic never. They use the pick-axe
for loosening, the crowbar for shifting, the rake for extracting the
materials, but never the trowel for laying. Now in the Eumenes we see
real masons, who build their houses bit by bit with stone and mortar
and run them up in the open, either on the firm rock or on the shaky
support of a bough. Hunting alternates with architecture; the insect is
a Nimrod or a Vitruvius by turns. (Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, the Roman
architect and engineer.--Translator's Note.)

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

Eumenes pomiformis is much more common and is comparatively indifferent
to the nature of the foundation whereon she erects her cells. She
builds on walls, on isolated stones, on the wood of the inner surface
of half-closed shutters; or else she adopts an aerial base, the slender
twig of a shrub, the withered sprig of a plant of some sort. Any form
of support serves her purpose. Nor does she trouble about shelter. Less
chilly than her African cousin, she does not shun the unprotected
spaces exposed to every wind that blows.

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

Having chosen the site, the builder erects a circular fence about three
millimetres thick. (.118 inch.--Translator's Note.) The materials
consist of mortar and small stones. The insect selects its stone-quarry
in some well-trodden path, on some neighbouring road, at the driest,
hardest spots. With its mandibles, it scrapes together a small quantity
of dust and saturates it with saliva until the whole becomes a regular
hydraulic mortar which soon sets and is no longer susceptible to water.
The Mason-bees have shown us a similar exploitation of the beaten paths
and of the road-mender's macadam. All these open-air builders, all
these erectors of monuments exposed to wind and weather require an
exceedingly dry stone-dust; otherwise the material, already moistened
with water, would not properly absorb the liquid that is to give it
cohesion; and the edifice would soon be wrecked by the rains. They
possess the sense of discrimination of the plasterer, who rejects
plaster injured by damp. We shall see presently how the insects that
build under shelter avoid this laborious macadam-scraping and give the
preference to fresh earth already reduced to a paste by its own
dampness. When common lime answers our purpose, we do not trouble about
Roman cement. Now Eumenes Amedei requires a first-class cement, even
better than that of the Chalicodoma of the Walls, for the work, when
finished, does not receive the thick covering wherewith the Mason-bee
protects her cluster of cells. And therefore the cupola-builder, as
often as she can, uses the highway as her stone-pit.

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

A circular fence, we were saying, is begun on the bare rock. Before the
mortar sets, which does not take long, the mason sticks a few stones
into the soft mass, as the work advances. She dabs them half-way into
the cement, so as to leave them jutting out to a large extent, without
penetrating to the inside, where the wall must remain smooth for the
sake of the larva's comfort. If necessary, a little plaster is added,
to tone down the inner protuberances. The solidly embedded stonework
alternates with the pure mortarwork, of which each fresh course
receives its facing of tiny encrusted pebbles. As the edifice is
raised, the builder slopes the construction a little towards the centre
and fashions the curve which will give the spherical shape. We employ
arched centrings to support the masonry of a dome while building: the
Eumenes, more daring than we, erects her cupola without any
scaffolding.

A round orifice is contrived at the summit; and, on this orifice, rises
a funnelled mouthpiece built of pure cement. It might be the graceful
neck of some Etruscan vase. When the cell is victualled and the egg
laid, this mouthpiece is closed with a cement plug; and in this plug is
set a little pebble, one alone, no more: the ritual never varies. This
work of rustic architecture has naught to fear from the inclemency of
the weather; it does not yield to the pressure of the fingers; it
resists the knife that attempts to remove it without breaking it. Its
nipple shape and the bits of gravel wherewith it bristles all over the
outside remind one of certain cromlechs of olden time, of certain
tumuli whose domes are strewn with Cyclopean stones.

Such is the appearance of the edifice when the cell stands alone; but
the Hymenopteron nearly always fixes other domes against her first, to
the number of five, six, or more. This shortens the labour by allowing
her to use the same partition for two adjoining rooms. The original
elegant symmetry is lost and the whole now forms a cluster which, at
first sight, appears to be merely a clod of dry mud, sprinkled with
tiny pebbles. But let us examine the shapeless mass more closely and we
shall perceive the number of chambers composing the habitation with the
funnelled mouths, each quite distinct and each furnished with its
gravel stopper set in the cement.

The Chalicodoma of the Walls employs the same building methods as
Eumenes Amedei: in the courses of cement she fixes, on the outside,
small stones of minor bulk. Her work begins by being a turret of rustic
art, not without a certain prettiness; then, when the cells are placed
side by side, the whole construction degenerates into a lump governed
apparently by no architectural rule. Moreover, the Mason-bee covers her
mass of cells with a thick layer of cement, which conceals the original
rockwork edifice. The Eumenes does not resort to this general coating:
her building is too strong to need it; she leaves the pebbly facings
uncovered, as well as the entrances to the cells. The two sorts of
nests, although constructed of similar materials, are therefore easily
distinguished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nest of Eumenes pomiformis is the size of an average cherry and
constructed of pure mortar, without the least outward pebblework. Its
shape is exactly similar to that which we have just described. When
built upon a horizontal base of sufficient extent, it is a dome with a
central neck, funnelled like the mouth of an urn. But when the
foundation is reduced to a mere point, as on the twig of a shrub, the
nest becomes a spherical capsule, always, of course, surmounted by a
neck. It is then a miniature specimen of exotic pottery, a paunchy
alcarraza. Its thickens is very slight, less than that of a sheet of
paper; it crushes under the least effort of the fingers. The outside is
not quite even. It displays wrinkles and seams, due to the different
courses of mortar, or else knotty protuberances distributed almost
concentrically.

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

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

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

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

The capsules of Eumenes pomiformis are literally crammed with game. It
is true that the morsels are very small. My notes speak of fourteen
green caterpillars in one cell and sixteen in a second cell. I have no
other information about the integral diet of this Wasp, whom I have
neglected somewhat, preferring to study her cousin, the builder of
rockwork domes. As the two sexes differ in size, although to a lesser
degree than in the case of Eumenes Amedei, I am inclined to think that
those two well-filled cells belonged to females and that the males'
cells must have a less sumptuous table. Not having seen for myself, I
am content to set down this mere suspicion.

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

The results, however, in no way answered to my expectations. All my
endeavours failed; and the larva allowed itself to die a piteous death
without touching its provisions.

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

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

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

How different are the conditions in the Eumenes' cell. The caterpillars
are imperfectly paralysed, perhaps because they have received but a
single stab; they toss about when touched with a pin; they are bound to
wriggle when bitten by the larva. If the egg is laid on one of them,
the first morsel will, I admit, be consumed without danger, on
condition that the point of attack be wisely chosen; but there remain
others which are not deprived of every means of defence. Let a movement
take place in the mass; and the egg, shifted from the upper layer, will
tumble into a pitfall of legs and mandibles. The least thing is enough
to jeopardize its existence; and this least thing has every chance of
being brought about in the disordered heap of caterpillars. The egg, a
tiny cylinder, transparent as crystal, is extremely delicate: a touch
withers it, the least pressure crushes it.

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

This stratagem I longed to discover; I would not be put off by the
scarcity of nests, by the irksomeness of the searches, by the risk of
sunstroke, by the time taken up, by the vain breaking open of
unsuitable cells; I meant to see and I saw. Here is my method: with the
point of a knife and a pair of nippers, I make a side opening, a
window, beneath the dome of Eumenes Amedei and Eumenes pomiformis. I
work with the greatest care, so as not to injure the recluse. Formerly
I attacked the cupola from the top, now I attack it from the side. I
stop when the breach is large enough to allow me to see the state of
things within.

What is this state of things? I pause to give the reader time to
reflect and to think out for himself a means of safety that will
protect the egg and afterwards the grub in the perilous conditions
which I have set forth. Seek, think and contrive, such of you as have
inventive minds. Have you guessed it? Do you give it up? I may as well
tell you.

The egg is not laid upon the provisions; it is hung from the top of the
cupola by a thread which vies with that of a Spider's web for
slenderness. The dainty cylinder quivers and swings to and fro at the
least breath; it reminds me of the famous pendulum suspended from the
dome of the Pantheon to prove the rotation of the earth. The victuals
are heaped up underneath.

Second act of this wondrous spectacle. In order to witness it, we must
open a window in cell upon cell until fortune deigns to smile upon us.
The larva is hatched and already fairly large. Like the egg, it hangs
perpendicularly, by the rear, from the ceiling; but the suspensory cord
has gained considerably in length and consists of the original thread
eked out by a sort of ribbon. The grub is at dinner: head downwards, it
is digging into the limp belly of one of the caterpillars. I touch up
the game that is still intact with a straw. The caterpillars grow
restless. The grub forthwith retires from the fray. And how? Marvel is
added to marvels: what I took for a flat cord, for a ribbon, at the
lower end of the suspensory thread, is a sheath, a scabbard, a sort of
ascending gallery wherein the larva crawls backwards and makes its way
up. The cast shell of the egg, retaining its cylindrical form and
perhaps lengthened by a special operation on the part of the new-born
grub, forms this safety-channel. At the least sign of danger in the
heap of caterpillars, the larva retreats into its sheath and climbs
back to the ceiling, where the swarming rabble cannot reach it. When
peace is restored, it slides down its case and returns to table, with
its head over the viands and its rear upturned and ready to withdraw in
case of need.

Third and last act. Strength has come; the larva is brawny enough not
to dread the movements of the caterpillars' bodies. Besides, the
caterpillars, mortified by fasting and weakened by a prolonged torpor,
become more and more incapable of defence. The perils of the tender
babe are succeeded by the security of the lusty stripling; and the
grub, henceforth scorning its sheathed lift, lets itself drop upon the
game that remains. And thus the banquet ends in normal fashion.

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

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



CHAPTER 12. THE OSMIAE.

THEIR HABITS.

February has its sunny days, heralding spring, to which rude winter
will reluctantly yield place. In snug corners, among the rocks, the
great spurge of our district, the characias of the Greeks, the jusclo
of the Provençals, begins to lift its drooping inflorescence and
discreetly opens a few sombre flowers. Here the first midges of the
year will come to slake their thirst. By the time that the tip of the
stalks reaches the perpendicular, the worst of the cold weather will be
over.

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

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

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

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

Most of the Osmiae of my region do not themselves prepare the dwelling
destined for the laying. They want ready-made lodgings, such as the old
cells and old galleries of Anthophorae and Chalicodomae. If these
favourite haunts are lacking, then a hiding-place in the wall, a round
hole in some bit of wood, the tube of a reed, the spiral of a dead
Snail under a heap of stones are adopted, according to the tastes of
the several species. The retreat selected is divided into chambers by
partition-walls, after which the entrance to the dwelling receives a
massive seal. That is the sum-total of the building done.

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

Latreille's Osmia uses different materials for her partitions and her
doors. She chews the leaves of some mucilaginous plant, some mallow
perhaps, and then prepares a sort of green putty with which she builds
her partitions and finally closes the entrance to the dwelling. When
she settles in the spacious cells of the Masked Anthophora (Anthophora
personata, Illig.), the entrance to the gallery, which is wide enough
to admit a man's finger, is closed with a voluminous plug of this
vegetable paste. On the earthy banks, hardened by the sun, the home is
then betrayed by the gaudy colour of the lid. It is as though the
authorities had closed the door and affixed to it their great seals of
green wax.

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

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

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

There are other quarters that suit the Three-horned Osmia, who is not
particular, it seems to me, and will make shift with any hiding-place,
so long as it have the requisite conditions of diameter, solidity,
sanitation and kindly darkness. The most original dwellings that I know
her to occupy are disused Snail-shells, especially the house of the
Common Snail (Helix aspersa). Let us go to the slope of the hills thick
with olive-trees and inspect the little supporting-walls which are
built of dry stones and face the south. In the crevices of this
insecure masonry we shall reap a harvest of old Snail-shells, plugged
with earth right up to the orifice. The family of the Three-horned
Osmia is settled in the spiral of those shells, which is subdivided
into chambers by mud partitions.

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

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

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

My method is extremely simple. All I ask is that the birth of my
insects, that is to say, their first seeing the light, their emerging
from the cocoon, should take place on the spot where I propose to make
them settle. Here there must be retreats of no matter what nature, but
of a shape similar to that in which the Osmia delights. The first
impressions of sight, which are the most long-lived of any, shall bring
back my insects to the place of their birth. And not only will the
Osmiae return, through the always open windows, but they will also
nidify on the natal spot, if they find something like the necessary
conditions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now for the provisions and the partition-walls. Here the order of the
work changes according to the diameter of the cylinder. My glass tubes
vary greatly in dimensions. The largest have an inner width of a dozen
millimetres (Nearly half an inch.--Translator's Note.); the narrowest
measure six or seven. (About a quarter of an inch.--Translator's Note.)
In the latter, if the bottom suit her, the Osmia sets to work bringing
pollen and honey. If the bottom do not suit her, if the sorghum-pith
plug with which I have closed the rear-end of the tube be too irregular
and badly-joined, the Bee coats it with a little mortar. When this
small repair is made, the harvesting begins.

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

Her division is made by a dab of clay placed at right angles to the
axis of the cylinder, at a distance from the bottom determined by the
ordinary length of a cell. The wad is not a complete round; it is more
crescent-shaped, leaving a circular space between it and one side of
the tube. Fresh layers are swiftly added to the dab of clay; and soon
the tube is divided by a partition which has a circular opening at the
side of it, a sort of dog-hole through which the Osmia will proceed to
knead the Bee-bread. When the victualling is finished and the egg laid
upon the heap, the whole is closed and the filled-up partition becomes
the bottom of the next cell. Then the same method is repeated, that is
to say, in front of the just completed ceiling a second partition is
built, again with a side-passage, which is stouter, owing to its
distance from the centre, and better able to withstand the numerous
comings and goings of the housewife than a central orifice, deprived of
the direct support of the wall, could hope to be. When this partition
is ready, the provisioning of the second cell is effected; and so on
until the wide cylinder is completely stocked.

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

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

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

DISTRIBUTION OF THE SEXES.

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

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

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

In this common cradle, the chronological order of births is perfectly
clear. The first-born of the family is at the bottom of the series; the
last-born is at the top, near the closed door. The others follow from
bottom to top in the same order in which they followed in point of
time. The laying is numbered automatically; each cocoon tells us its
respective age by the place which it occupies.

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

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

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

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

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

In this way, the swarm that resided in my study furnished me, in the
first year, with an average of twelve cells. Next year, the summer
appeared to be more favourable and the average became rather higher,
reaching fifteen. The most numerous laying performed under my eyes, not
in a tube, but in a succession of Snail-shells, reached the figure of
twenty-six. On the other hand, layings of between eight and ten are not
uncommon. Lastly, taking all my records together, the result is that
the family of the Osmia fluctuates roundabout fifteen in number.

I have already spoken of the great differences in size apparent in the
cells of one and the same series. The partitions, at first widely
spaced, draw gradually nearer to one another as they come closer to the
aperture, which implies roomy cells at the back and narrow cells in
front. The contents of these compartments are no less uneven between
one portion and another of the string. Without any exception known to
me, the large cells, those with which the series starts, have more
abundant provisions than the straitened cells with which the series
ends. The heap of honey and pollen in the first is twice or even thrice
as large as that in the second. In the last cells, the most recent in
date, the victuals are but a pinch of pollen, so niggardly in amount
that we wonder what will become of the larva with that meagre ration.

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

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

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

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

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

These conclusions, as my notes show, apply likewise, in every respect,
to the various species of Mason-bees; and one clear and simple rule
stands out from this collection of facts. Apart from the strange
exception of the Three-pronged Osmia, who mixes the sexes without any
order, the Bees whom I studied and probably a crowd of others produce
first a continuous series of females and then a continuous series of
males, the latter with less provisions and smaller cells. This
distribution of the sexes agrees with what we have long known of the
Hive-bee, who begins her laying with a long sequence of workers, or
sterile females, and ends it with a long sequence of males. The analogy
continues down to the capacity of the cells and the quantities of
provisions. The real females, the Queen-bees, have wax cells
incomparably more spacious than the cells of the males and receive a
much larger amount of food. Everything therefore demonstrates that we
are here in the presence of a general rule.

OPTIONAL DETERMINATION OF THE SEXES.

But does this rule express the whole truth? Is there nothing beyond a
laying in two series? Are the Osmiae, the Chalicodomae and the rest of
them fatally bound by this distribution of the sexes into two distinct
groups, the male group following upon the female group, without any
mixing of the two? Is the mother absolutely powerless to make a change
in this arrangement, should circumstances require it?

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

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

This result makes us foresee what a direct examination of the two sexes
in the adult form tells us. The male does not differ materially from
the female in respect of size. If he is a trifle smaller, it is
scarcely noticeable, whereas, in the Horned Osmia and the Three-horned
Osmia, the male is only half or a third the size of the female, as we
have seen from the respective bulk of their cocoons. In the Mason-bee
of the Walls there is also a difference in size, though less
pronounced.

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

The more I thought about this curious question, the more probable it
appeared to me that the irregular series of the Three-pronged Osmia and
the regular series of the other Osmiae and of the Bees in general were
all traceable to a common law. It seemed to me that the arrangement in
a succession first of females and then of males did not account for
everything. There must be something more. And I was right: that
arrangement in series is only a tiny fraction of the reality, which is
remarkable in a very different way. This is what I am going to prove by
experiment.

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

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

As we find the same sort of thing in all the old nests, we must needs
admit that the mother knows the sex of the eggs which she is going to
lay, because that egg is placed in a cell of the proper capacity. We
can go further, and admit that the mother alters the order of
succession of the sexes at her pleasure, because her layings, between
one old nest and another, are broken up into small groups of males and
females according to the exigencies of space in the actual nest which
she happens to be occupying.

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

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

The Osmiae themselves will furnish the most conclusive evidence on the
latter point. We have seen that these Bees are not generally miners,
who themselves dig out the foundation of their cells. They make use of
the old structures of others, or else of natural retreats, such as
hollow stems, the spirals of empty shells and various hiding-places in
walls, clay or wood. Their work is confined to repairs to the house,
such as partitions and covers. There are plenty of these retreats; and
the insects would always find first-class ones if it thought of going
any distance to look for them. But the Osmia is a stay-at-home: she
returns to her birthplace and clings to it with a patience extremely
difficult to exhaust. It is here, in this little familiar corner, that
she prefers to settle her progeny. But then the apartments are few in
number and of all shapes and sizes. There are long and short ones,
spacious ones and narrow. Short of expatriating herself, a Spartan
course, she has to use them all, from first to last, for she has no
choice. Guided by these considerations, I embarked on the experiments
which I will now describe.

I have said how my study became a populous hive, in which the
Three-horned Osmia built her nests in the various appliances which I
had prepared for her. Among these appliances, tubes, either of glass or
reed, predominated. There were tubes of all lengths and widths. In the
long tubes, entire or almost entire layings, with a series of females
followed by a series of males, were deposited. As I have already
referred to this result, I will not discuss it again. The short tubes
were sufficiently varied in length to lodge one or other portion of the
total laying. Basing my calculations on the respective lengths of the
cocoons of the two sexes, on the thickness of the partitions and the
final lid, I shortened some of these to the exact dimensions required
for two cocoons only, of different sexes.

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

When confronted with tubes too small to receive all her family, the
Osmia is in the same plight as the Mason-bee in the presence of an old
nest. She thereupon acts exactly as the Chalicodoma does. She breaks up
her laying, divides it into series as short as the room at her disposal
demands; and each series begins with females and ends with males. This
breaking up, on the one hand, into sections in all of which both sexes
are represented and the division, on the other hand, of the entire
laying into just two groups, one female, the other male, when the
length of the tube permits, surely provide us with ample evidence of
the insect's power to regulate the sex of the egg according to the
exigencies of space.

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

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

The deep central cells receive only the females of the Osmia; sometimes
even the two sexes together, with a partition in the middle, the female
occupying the lower and the male the upper storey. Lastly, the deeper
cavities on the circumference are allotted to females and the shallower
to males.

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

Thus the sex of the egg is optional. The choice rests with the mother,
who is guided by considerations of space and, according to the
accommodation at her disposal, which is frequently fortuitous and
incapable of modification, places a female in this cell and a male in
that, so that both may have a dwelling of a size suited to their
unequal development. This is the unimpeachable evidence of the numerous
and varied facts which I have set forth. People unfamiliar with insect
anatomy--the public for whom I write--would probably give the following
explanation of this marvellous prerogative of the Bee: the mother has
at her disposal a certain number of eggs, some of which are irrevocably
female and the others irrevocably male: she is able to pick out of
either group the one which she wants at the actual moment; and her
choice is decided by the holding capacity of the cell that has to be
stocked. Everything would then be limited to a judicious selection from
the heap of eggs.

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

Therefore, in each ovarian tube, in each glove-finger, the emergence of
the eggs occurs according to the order governing their arrangement in
the common sheath; and any other sequence is absolutely impossible.
Moreover, at the nesting-period, the six ovarian sheaths, one by one
and each in its turn, have at their base an egg which in a very short
time swells enormously. Some hours or even a day before the laying,
that egg by itself represents or even exceeds in bulk the whole of the
ovigerous apparatus. This is the egg which is on the point of being
laid. It is about to descend into the oviduct, in its proper order, at
its proper time; and the mother has no power to make another take its
place. It is this egg, necessarily this egg and no other, that will
presently be laid upon the provisions, whether these be a mess of honey
or a live prey; it alone is ripe, it alone lies at the entrance to the
oviduct; none of the others, since they are farther back in the row and
not at the right stage of development, can be substituted at this
crisis. Its birth is inevitable.

What will it yield, a male or a female? No lodging has been prepared,
no food collected for it; and yet both food and lodging have to be in
keeping with the sex that will proceed from it. And here is a much more
puzzling condition: the sex of that egg, whose advent is predestined,
has to correspond with the space which the mother happens to have found
for a cell. There is therefore no room for hesitation, strange though
the statement may appear: the egg, as it descends from its ovarian
tube, has no determined sex. It is perhaps during the few hours of its
rapid development at the base of its ovarian sheath, it is perhaps on
its passage through the oviduct that it receives, at the mother's
pleasure, the final impress that will produce, to match the cradle
which it has to fill, either a female or a male.

PERMUTATIONS OF SEX.

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

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

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

The tubes employed are of two kinds. The first, which are cylindrical
and of the same width throughout, will be of use for confirming the
facts observed in the first year of my experiments in indoor rearing.
The others, the majority, consist of two cylinders which are of very
different diameters, set end to end. The front cylinder, the one which
projects a little way outside the hive and forms the entrance-hole,
varies in width between 8 and 12 millimetres. (Between .312 and .468
inch.--Translator's Note.) The second, the back one, contained entirely
within my packing-case, is closed at its far end and is 5 to 6
millimetres in diameter. (.195 to .234 inch.--Translator's Note.) Each
of the two parts of the double-galleried tunnel, one narrow and one
wide, measures at most a decimetre in length. (3.9
inches.--Translator's Note.) I thought it advisable to have these short
tubes, as the Osmia is thus compelled to select different lodgings,
each of them being insufficient in itself to accommodate the total
laying. In this way I shall obtain a greater variety in the
distribution of the sexes. Lastly, at the mouth of each tube, which
projects slightly outside the case, there is a little paper tongue,
forming a sort of perch on which the Osmia alights on her arrival and
giving easy access to the house. With these facilities, the swarm
colonized fifty-two double-galleried tubes, thirty-seven cylindrical
tubes, seventy-eight Snail-shells and a few old nests of the Mason-bee
of the Shrubs. From this rich mine of material I will take what I want
to prove my case.

Every series, even when incomplete, begins with females and ends with
males. To this rule I have not yet found an exception, at least in
galleries of normal diameter. In each new abode the mother busies
herself first of all with the more important sex. Bearing this point in
mind, would it be possible for me, by manoeuvring, to obtain an
inversion of this order and make the laying begin with males? I think
so, from the results already ascertained and the irresistible
conclusions to be drawn from them. The double-galleried tubes are
installed in order to put my conjectures to the proof.

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

Let us now see what has happened. Of the fifty-two double-galleried
tubes, about a third did not have their narrow passage colonized. The
Osmia closed its aperture communicating with the large passage; and the
latter alone received the eggs. This waste of space was inevitable. The
female Osmiae, though nearly always larger than the males, present
marked differences among one another: some are bigger, some are
smaller. I had to adjust the width of the narrow galleries to Bees of
average dimensions. It may happen therefore that a gallery is too small
to admit the large-sized mothers to whom chance allots it. When the
Osmia is unable to enter the tube, obviously she will not colonize it.
She then closes the entrance to this space which she cannot use and
does her laying beyond it, in the wide tube. Had I tried to avoid these
useless apparatus by choosing tubes of larger calibre, I should have
encountered another drawback: the medium-sized mothers, finding
themselves almost comfortable, would have decided to lodge females
there. I had to be prepared for it: as each mother selected her house
at will and as I was unable to interfere in her choice, a narrow tube
would be colonized or not, according as the Osmia who owned it was or
was not able to make her way inside.

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

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

We have advanced one step and that no small one: we have seen that the
Osmia, when circumstances require it, is capable of reversing the
sequence of the sexes. Would it be possible, provided that the tube
were long enough, to obtain a complete inversion, in which the entire
series of the males should occupy the narrow gallery at the back and
the entire series of the females the roomy gallery in front? I think
not; and I will tell you why.

Long and narrow cylinders are by no means to the Osmia's taste, not
because of their narrowness but because of their length. Observe that
for each load of honey brought the worker is obliged to move backwards
twice. She enters, head first, to begin by disgorging the honey-syrup
from her crop. Unable to turn in a passage which she blocks entirely,
she goes out backwards, crawling rather than walking, a laborious
performance on the polished surface of the glass and a performance
which, with any other surface, would still be very awkward, as the
wings are bound to rub against the wall with their free end and are
liable to get rumpled or bent. She goes out backwards, reaches the
outside, turns round and goes in again, but this time the opposite way,
so as to brush off the load of pollen from her abdomen on to the heap.
If the gallery is at all long, this crawling backwards becomes
troublesome after a time; and the Osmia soon abandons a passage that is
too small to allow of free movement. I have said that the narrow tubes
of my apparatus are, for the most part, only very incompletely
colonized. The Bee, after lodging a small number of males in them,
hastens to leave them. In the wide front gallery she can stay where she
is and still be able to turn round easily for her different
manipulations; she will avoid those two long journeys backwards, which
are so exhausting and so bad for her wings.

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

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

A suspicion occurs to me, a suspicion aroused by my attentive
examination of the narrow tubes. All, whatever the number of their
inmates, are carefully plugged at the opening, just as separate tubes
would be. It might therefore be the case that the narrow gallery at the
back was looked upon by the Osmia not as the prolongation of the large
front gallery, but as an independent tube. The facility with which the
worker turns as soon as she reaches the wide tube, her liberty of
action, which is now as great as in a doorway communicating with the
outer air, might well be misleading and cause the Osmia to treat the
narrow passage at the back as though the wide passage in front did not
exist. This would account for the placing of the female in the large
tube above the males in the small tube, an arrangement contrary to her
custom.

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

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

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

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

The Three-horned Osmia often settles her family in old shells,
especially those of the Common Snail (Helix aspersa), who is so common
under the stone-heaps and in the crevices of the little unmortared
walls that support our terraces. In this species the spiral is wide
open, so that the Osmia, penetrating as far down as the helical passage
permits, finds, immediately above the point which is too narrow to
pass, the space necessary for the cell of a female. This cell is
succeeded by others, wider still, always for females, arranged in a
line in the same way as in a straight tube. In the last whorl of the
spiral, the diameter would be too great for a single row. Then
longitudinal partitions are added to the transverse partitions, the
whole resulting in cells of unequal dimensions in which males
predominate, mixed with a few females in the lower storeys. The
sequence of the sexes is therefore what it would be in a straight tube
and especially in a tube with a wide bore, where the partitioning is
complicated by subdivisions on the same level. A single Snail-shell
contains room for six or eight cells. A large, rough earthen stopper
finishes the nest at the entrance to the shell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This dual arrangement disappears when the place chosen for the nest is
not large enough to contain the entire laying. We then see broken
layings, beginning with females and ending with males.

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

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

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

Generally speaking, when the sexes are of different sizes, every insect
that collects food and prepares or selects a dwelling for its offspring
must be able to choose the sex of the egg in order to satisfy without
mistake the conditions imposed upon it.

The question remains how this optional assessment of the sexes is
effected. I know absolutely nothing about it. If I should ever learn
anything about this delicate point, I shall owe it to some happy chance
for which I must wait, or rather watch, patiently.

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

Dear insects, my study of you has sustained me and continues to sustain
me in my heaviest trials; I must take leave of you for to-day. The
ranks are thinning around me and the long hopes have fled. Shall I be
able to speak of you again? (This forms the closing paragraph of Volume
3 of the "Souvenirs entomologiques," of which the author lived to
publish seven more volumes, containing over 2,500 pages and nearly
850,000 words.--Translator's Note.)



CHAPTER 13. 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 lampouris, meaning,
the bright-tailed. Science employs the same term: it calls it 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, said: "Show me what you eat and I will tell you what
you are."

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 anaesthetic: 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 other long, dry
stalks by the road-side 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 paralysed 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 instal 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 efficacy 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 own weight, dangling feebly like a broken stick.
This condition persists.


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

What does the Lampyris want with anaesthetical talent against 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, tightly 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 obliges the besieged non-combatant 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 anaesthesia 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
the 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 anaesthetic poison and
at the same time, no doubt, the serum capable of turning the solid
flesh into fluid. Those 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, who sucks and
drains her 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 liquifier, leaves nothing, or next
to nothing. With similar tools, the one simply sucks the blood of his
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 with a speck of glair. This is a mere
temporary halt, in which the Mollusc is miserly with his 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 up there, 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 at 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 anaesthetic 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 parts 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 nearly 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 oxidation. 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 was
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 air-tube supplying the light-producing sheet increases the
flow of air and the light is intensified; the same 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 (.195 inch.--Translator's Note.), 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.

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 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 an over-rapid 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 oxidation.

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 light-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 were 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 searchlight 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 a 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 antennae. 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 Cyclops' 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 through this clumsy midwifery. A soft opalescent
light shines through the integument 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 lighthouses, 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 14. THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Incomparably docile under our nursing, the cabbage has given its all
for our nourishment and that of our cattle: its leaves, its flowers,
its buds, its stalk, its root; all that it now wants is to combine the
ornamental with the useful, to smarten itself, to adorn our flowerbeds
and cut a good figure on a drawing-room table. It has done this to
perfection, not with its flowers, which, in their modesty, continue
intractable, but with its curly and variegated leaves, which have the
undulating grace of Ostrich-feathers and the rich colouring of a mixed
bouquet. None who beholds it in this magnificence will recognize the
near relation of the vulgar "greens" that form the basis of our
cabbage-soup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As these experiments are made in the enclosure of a bell-cage, one
might imagine that captivity impels the flock to feed, in the absence
of better things, on what it would refuse were it free to hunt for
itself. Having naught else within their reach, the starvelings consume
any and all Cruciferae, without distinction of species. Can things
sometimes be the same in the open fields, where I play none of my
tricks? Can the family of the White Butterfly be settled on other
Crucifers than the cabbage? I start a quest along the paths near the
gardens and end by finding on wild radish and white mustard colonies as
crowded and prosperous as those established on cabbage.

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

How does the Pieris manage to know her way about her botanical domain?
We have seen the Larini (A species of Weevils found on
thistle-heads.--Translator's Note.), those explorers of fleshy
receptacles with an artichoke flavour, astonish us with their knowledge
of the flora of the thistle tribe; but their lore might, at a pinch, be
explained by the method followed at the moment of housing the egg. With
their rostrum, they prepare niches and dig out basins in the receptacle
exploited and consequently they taste the thing a little before
entrusting their eggs to it. On the other hand, the Butterfly, a
nectar-drinker, makes not the least enquiry into the savoury qualities
of the leafage; at most dipping her proboscis into the flowers, she
abstracts a mouthful of syrup. This means of investigation, moreover,
would be of no use to her, for the plant selected for the establishing
of her family is, for the most part, not yet in flower. The mother
flits for a moment around the plant; and that swift examination is
enough: the emission of eggs takes place if the provender be found
suitable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hatching takes place in about a week. It is almost simultaneous for
the whole mass: as soon as one caterpillar comes out of its egg, the
others come out also, as though the natal impulse were communicated
from one to the other. In the same way, in the nest of the Praying
Mantis, a warning seems to be spread abroad, arousing every one of the
population. It is a wave propagated in all directions from the point
first struck.

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

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

As his first mouthfuls, therefore, the Cabbage-caterpillar eats the
membranous wrapper of his egg. This is a regulation diet, for I have
never seen one of the little grubs allow itself to be tempted by the
adjacent green stuff before finishing the ritual repast whereat skin
bottles furnish forth the feast. It is the first time that I have seen
a larva make a meal of the sack in which it was born. Of what use can
this singular fare be to the budding caterpillar? I suspect as follows:
the leaves of the cabbage are waxed and slippery surfaces and nearly
always slant considerably. To graze on them without risking a fall,
which would be fatal in earliest childhood, is hardly possible unless
with moorings that afford a steady support. What is needed is bits of
silk stretched along the road as fast as progress is made, something
for the legs to grip, something to provide a good anchorage even when
the grub is upside down. The silk-tubes, where those moorings are
manufactured, must be very scantily supplied in a tiny, new-born
animal; and it is expedient that they be filled without delay with the
aid of a special form of nourishment. Then what shall the nature of the
first food be? Vegetable matter, slow to elaborate and niggardly in its
yield, does not fulfil the desired conditions at all well, for time
presses and we must trust ourselves safely to the slippery leaf. An
animal diet would be preferable: it is easier to digest and undergoes
chemical changes in a shorter time. The wrapper of the egg is of a
horny nature, as silk itself is. It will not take long to transform the
one into the other. The grub therefore tackles the remains of its egg
and turns it into silk to carry with it on its first journeys.

If my surmise is well-founded, there is reason to believe that, with a
view to speedily filling the silk-glands to which they look to supply
them with ropes, other caterpillars beginning their existence on smooth
and steeply-slanting leaves also take as their first mouthful the
membranous sack which is all that remains of the egg.

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

The troop begins its steadying-work as soon as it comes into contact
with its pasturage, the green cabbage-leaf. Here, there, in its
immediate neighbourhood, each grub emits from its spinning glands short
cables so slender that it takes an attentive lens to catch a glimpse of
them. This is enough to ensure the equilibrium of the almost
imponderable atom.

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

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

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

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

Everything, even the nonsensical, is capable of explanation with a
little credulity. When I question the peasants, our neighbours, they
tell me that the effect of the egg-shell is as simple as can be: the
Butterflies, attracted by the whiteness, come and lay their eggs upon
it. Broiled by the sun and lacking all nourishment on that thankless
support, the little caterpillars die; and that makes so many fewer.

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

"Never," they reply, with one voice.

"Well, then?"

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

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

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

To eat and digest, to accumulate reserves whence the Butterfly will
issue: that is the caterpillar's one and only business. The
Cabbage-caterpillar performs it with insatiable gluttony. Incessantly
it browses, incessantly digests: the supreme felicity of an animal
which is little more than an intestine. There is never a distraction,
unless it be certain see-saw movements which are particularly curious
when several caterpillars are grazing side by side, abreast. Then, at
intervals, all the heads in the row are briskly lifted and as briskly
lowered, time after time, with an automatic precision worthy of a
Prussian drill-ground. Can it be their method of intimidating an always
possible aggressor? Can it be a manifestation of gaiety, when the
wanton sun warms their full paunches? Whether sign of fear or sign of
bliss, this is the only exercise that the gluttons allow themselves
until the proper degree of plumpness is attained.

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

I found them dispersed all over the neighbouring walls, some thirty
yards off. The thrust of a ledge, the eaves formed by a projecting bit
of mortar served them as a shelter where the chrysalid moult took place
and where the winter was passed. The Cabbage-caterpillar possesses a
robust constitution, unsusceptible to torrid heat or icy cold. All that
he needs for his metamorphosis is an airy lodging, free from permanent
damp.

The inmates of my fold, therefore, move about for a few days on the
trelliswork, anxious to travel afar in search of a wall. Finding none
and realizing that time presses, they resign themselves. Each one,
supporting himself on the trellis, first weaves around himself a thin
carpet of white silk, which will form the sustaining layer at the time
of the laborious and delicate work of the nymphosis. He fixes his
rear-end to this base by a silk pad and his fore-part by a strap that
passes under his shoulders and is fixed on either side to the carpet.
Thus slung from his three fastenings, he strips himself of his larval
apparel and turns into a chrysalis in the open air, with no protection
save that of the wall, which the caterpillar would certainly have found
had I not interfered.

Of a surety, he would be short-sighted indeed that pictured a world of
good things prepared exclusively for our advantage. The earth, the
great foster-mother, has a generous breast. At the very moment when
nourishing matter is created, even though it be with our own zealous
aid, she summons to the feast host upon host of consumers, who are all
the more numerous and enterprising in proportion as the table is more
amply spread. The cherry of our orchards is excellent eating: a maggot
contends with us for its possession. In vain do we weigh suns and
planets: our supremacy, which fathoms the universe, cannot prevent a
wretched worm from levying its toll on the delicious fruit. We make
ourselves at home in a cabbage bed: the sons of the Pieris make
themselves at home there too. Preferring broccoli to wild radish, they
profit where we have profited; and we have no remedy against their
competition save caterpillar-raids and egg-crushing, a thankless,
tedious, and none too efficacious work.

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

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

Now, among our entomological auxiliaries, the smallest in size are the
best at their work. One of them is charged with watching over the
cabbages. She is so small, she works so discreetly that the gardener
does not know her, has not even heard of her. Were he to see her by
accident, flitting around the plant which she protects, he would take
no notice of her, would not suspect the service rendered. I propose to
set forth the tiny midget's deserts.

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

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

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

Beside each group lies a Cabbage-caterpillar, sometimes dying,
sometimes dead, and always presenting a most tattered appearance. These
cocoons are the work of the Microgaster's family, hatched or on the
point of hatching into the perfect stage; the caterpillar is the dish
whereon that family has fed during its larval state. The epithet
glomeratus, which accompanies the name of Microgaster, suggests this
conglomeration of cocoons. Let us collect the clusters as they are,
without seeking to separate them, an operation which would demand both
patience and dexterity, for the cocoons are closely united by the
inextricable tangle of their surface-threads. In May a swarm of pigmies
will sally forth, ready to get to business in the cabbages.

Colloquial language uses the terms Midge and Gnat to describe the tiny
insects which we often see dancing in a ray of sunlight. There is
something of everything in those aerial ballets. It is possible that
the persecutrix of the Cabbage-caterpillar is there, along with many
another; but the name of Midge cannot properly be applied to her. He
who says Midge says Fly, Dipteron, two-winged insect; and our friend
has four wings, one and all adapted for flying. By virtue of this
characteristic and others no less important, she belongs to the order
of Hymenoptera. (This order includes the Ichneumon-flies, of whom the
Microgaster is one.--Translator's Note.) No matter: as our language
possesses no more precise term outside the scientific vocabulary, let
us use the expression Midge, which pretty well conveys the general
idea. Our Midge, the Microgaster, is the size of an average Gnat. She
measures 3 or 4 millimetres. (.117 to .156 inch.--Translator's Note.)
The two sexes are equally numerous and wear the same costume, a black
uniform, all but the legs, which are pale red. In spite of this
likeness, they are easily distinguished. The male has an abdomen which
is slightly flattened and, moreover, curved at the tip; the female,
before the laying, has hers full and perceptibly distended by its
ovular contents. This rapid sketch of the insect should be enough for
our purpose.

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

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

What do they feed on? The lens makes conscientious enquiries; nowhere
does it manage to show me the vermin attacking solid nourishment, fatty
tissues, muscles or other parts; nowhere do I see them bite, gnaw, or
dissect. The following experiment will tell us more fully: I pour into
a watch-glass the crowds extracted from the hospitable paunches. I
flood them with caterpillar's blood obtained by simple pricks; I place
the preparation under a glass bell-jar, in a moist atmosphere, to
prevent evaporation; I repeat the nourishing bath by means of fresh
bleedings and give them the stimulant which they would have gained from
the living caterpillar. Thanks to these precautions, my charges have
all the appearance of excellent health; they drink and thrive. But this
state of things cannot last long. Soon ripe for the transformation, my
grubs leave the dining-room of the watch-glass as they would have left
the caterpillar's belly; they come to the ground to try and weave their
tiny cocoons. They fail in the attempt and perish. They have missed a
suitable support, that is to say, the silky carpet provided by the
dying caterpillar. No matter: I have seen enough to convince me. The
larvae of the Microgaster do not eat in the strict sense of the word;
they live on soup; and that soup is the caterpillar's blood.

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

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

When the time approaches to weave the carpet for the support of the
chrysalis, an appearance of emaciation at last points to the evil that
is at their vitals. They spin nevertheless. They are stoics who do not
forget their duty in the hour of death. At last they expire, quite
softly, not of any wounds, but of anaemia, even as a lamp goes out when
the oil comes to an end. And it has to be. The living caterpillar,
capable of feeding himself and forming blood, is a necessity for the
welfare of the grubs; he has to last about a month, until the
Microgaster's offspring have achieved their full growth. The two
calendars synchronize in a remarkable way. When the caterpillar leaves
off eating and makes his preparations for the metamorphosis, the
parasites are ripe for the exodus. The bottle dries up when the
drinkers cease to need it; but until that moment it must remain more or
less well-filled, although becoming limper daily. It is important,
therefore, that the caterpillar's existence be not endangered by wounds
which, even though very tiny, would stop the working of the
blood-fountains. With this intent, the drainers of the bottle are, in a
manner of speaking, muzzled; they have by way of a mouth a pore that
sucks without bruising.

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

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

Around the caterpillar, who is not always quite dead and who sometimes
even goes on weaving his carpet a moment longer, the vermin at once
begin to work at their cocoons. The straw-coloured thread, drawn from
the silk-glands by a backward jerk of the head, is first fixed to the
white network of the caterpillar and then produces adjacent warp-beams,
so that, by mutual entanglements, the individual works are welded
together and form an agglomeration in which each of the grubs has its
own cabin. For the moment, what is woven is not the real cocoon, but a
general scaffolding which will facilitate the construction of the
separate shells. All these frames rest upon those adjoining and, mixing
up their threads, become a common edifice wherein each grub contrives a
shelter for itself. Here at last the real cocoon is spun, a pretty
little piece of closely-woven work.

In my rearing-jars I obtain as many groups of these tiny shells as my
future experiments can wish for. Three-fourths of the caterpillars have
supplied me with them, so ruthless has been the toll of the spring
births. I lodge these groups, one by one, in separate glass tubes, thus
forming a collection on which I can draw at will, while, in view of my
experiments, I keep under observation the whole swarm produced by one
caterpillar.

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

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

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

What is lacking to complete its happiness? Apparently a little food, a
few sugary mouthfuls extracted from the flowers. I serve up some
provisions in the tubes: not drops of honey, in which the puny
creatures would get stuck, but little strips of paper spread with that
dainty. They come to them, take their stand on them and refresh
themselves. The fare appears to agree with them. With this diet,
renewed as the strips dry up, I can keep them in very good condition
until the end of my inquisition.

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

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

We will begin by asking:

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

This question and others of the same category, which ought to take
precedence of everything else, are generally neglected by the impaler
of insects, who cares more for the niceties of nomenclature than for
glorious realities. He classifies his subjects, dividing them into
regiments with barbarous labels, a work which seems to him the highest
expression of entomological science. Names, nothing but names: the rest
hardly counts. The persecutor of the Pieris used to be called
Microgaster, that is to say, little belly: to-day she is called
Apanteles, that is to say, the incomplete. What a fine step forward! We
now know all about it!

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

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

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

The caterpillars graze placidly, heedless of their terrible attendants.
If some giddy-pates in the turbulent swarm pass over the caterpillars'
spines, these draw up their fore-part with a jerk and as suddenly lower
it again; and that is all: the intruders forthwith decamp. Nor do the
latter seem to contemplate any harm: they refresh themselves on the
honey-smeared strip, they come and go tumultuously. Their short flights
may land them, now in one place, now in another, on the browsing herd,
but they pay no attention to it. What we see is casual meetings, not
deliberate encounters.

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

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

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

It is impossible, in such a crowd, for the eye to follow the successive
mothers who hasten to lay in each; but there is one quite practicable
method by which we can estimate the number of germs introduced into a
single egg, which is, later, to open the ravaged caterpillars and count
the grubs which they contain. A less repugnant means is to number the
little cocoons heaped up around each dead caterpillar. The total will
tell us how many germs were injected, some by the same mother returning
several times to the egg already treated, others by different mothers.
Well, the number of these cocoons varies greatly. Generally, it
fluctuates in the neighbourhood of twenty, but I have come across as
many as sixty-five; and nothing tells me that this is the extreme
limit. What hideous industry for the extermination of a Butterfly's
progeny!

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


INDEX.

Ammophila.

Andrena.

Anoxia.

Ant-lion.

Anthidium.

Anthophora personata.

Anthrax.

Apanteles, see Microgaster glomeratus.

Arundo donax, the great reed.

Audubon, on trapping Turkeys.

Bats.

Bell-ringing Toad.

Bembex.

Bird-catchers.

Blackbirds, Corsican.

Bluebottle.
the laying of the eggs.
hatching.
a test.
paper a protection against.
the grubs.
sand a protection against.

Bower-bird.

Brussels Sprouts, ancestry of.

Buprestis.

Burying-beetles: method of burial.
appearance of the insect.
manipulation of the corpse.
cooperation of individuals.
larvae of.
attacked by vermin.
the dismal end of.
experiments.
test conditions imposed.
conditions of burial.
nets of cordage cut through.
ligatures severed.
limitations of instinct.

Cabbage, ancestry of.
offspring.

Cabbage Butterfly, her selection of suitable Cruciferae.
eggs of.
hatching of the eggs.

Cabbage-caterpillar.
eats egg-cases on emergence.
employment of silk by.
growth and moults.
its voracity.
an old charm against.
the only true charm.
movements of the caterpillar.
its chrysalis.
its deadly enemy.

Calliphora vomitaria, see Bluebottle.

Capricorn Beetle.
the grub.
its cell.
the barricade.
the pupa.
metamorphosis and emergence.

Cauliflower.

Centauries.

Cerambyx miles.

Cerceris.

Cetonia, or Rose-chafer.

Chalicodoma.

Chat, Black-eared.

Cicada.
the grasshopper's victim.

Cicadella.

Clairville on the Burying-beetle.

Clothes-moth.

Cockchafers.

Cole-rape.

Cordillac, philosophy of.

Couch-grass.

Cricket, Italian.
Common Black.

Cruciferae, the diet of Pieris brassicae.

Dasypoda.

Dermestes.

Digger-wasps.

Dragon-fly.

Drilus maroccanus.

Dung-beetles.

Empusa.
larva of.
fore-limbs.
strange head-dress.
food of.
how killed.
metamorphosis of.
curious position assumed in captivity.
pacific nature of.

Epeira, Angular, telegraph wire of.

Epeira fasciator.
appearance of.
its web.
nature of the thread.
her station on the web.
fatty unguent of.
nature of the adhesive glue.
hunting methods.
treatment of prey.
bite of.
the alarm.
the telegraph wire.

Epeira, Silky.

Ephippigera.

Eucera.

Eumenes.
cells of different species.
nest of E. pomiformis.
prey found in nest of E. Amedei.
sex of eggs known to insect.
prey in nest of E. pomiformis.
experiments on larvae.
position of the egg.
suspension of the larvae.
the protective sheath.

Flesh-fly, Grey.
viviparous.
maggots of.
a test.
her attacks on meat-safes.
baffled by sand.

Fly.

Frog, burial of a.

Froghopper.

Geotrupes.

Gledditsch on Burying-beetles.

Glow-worm.
diet of Snails.
anaesthetises its prey.
digestive juice secreted by.
adhesive climbing appendage of.
luminous apparatus of.
regulation of light.
light displayed by females.
eyes of the male.
pairing.
eggs.
luminosity of eggs.
of larvae.

Grasshopper, Green.
the note of the.
stridulating apparatus.
habitat.
food.
mating habits.
eggs.
seminal capsule.

Greenfinch.

Halictus.

Harmas.
description of.

Harmonica.

Horn-beetle.

Hornet.

Hunting-wasp.

Laboratory, the outdoor.

Lacordaire on the Burying-beetle.

Lamellicornis.

Larini.

Linnet, dead, preserved from flies by paper.

Lizard, Eyed.

Locust.
the prey of the Epeira.

Lycosa, Narbonne.
its eyes.
its burrow.
the rampart.
use of same.
methods of catching prey.
method of laying eggs.
the egg-sac.
experiments with.
the hatching process.
the young.
experiments with.
a problem of energy.

Macrocera.

Mantis, Praying.

Mason-bees.
cells used by Osmiae.

Mason-wasps.

Massagetae, customs of the.

Megachiles.

Melolontho fullo.

Michelet.

Microgaster glomeratus.
the exterminator of the Cabbage Caterpillar.
method of feeding.
emergence from the host.
cocoons.
the adult.
pairing.
food.
the eggs laid in the Butterfly's egg.

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

Mouse, burial of a.

National festival, the.

Natterjack.

Necrophorus, see Burying-beetles.

Oryctes.

Osmia.
cells of different species.
glass nests of Three-horned Osmia.
distribution of sexes.
optional determination of sex.

Owl.
Horned Owl.
Common Owl.

Oyster-plant.

Pelopaeus.

Pérez, Professor.

Philanthus apivorus.

Phylloxera.

Pieris brassicae.

Pine Processionary.
silken road of.
nest.
use of road.
senses.
nest.
the processionary march.
experiments.
on a circular track.

Pliny, on the Cabbage Caterpillar.

Pompilus.

Rose-chafer.

Sacred Beetle.

Saprini.

Sarcophaga carnaria, see Flesh-fly.

Scarabaeus.

Scolia.

Scops.

Serin-finch.

Sex, distribution, determination and permutations of, in the Osmia.

Silpha.

Sitaris.

Snail-shell, Osmia's use of.

Snail, the prey of the Glow-worm.

Sphex.

Sphex, White-banded.

Spiders.
apprised of prey by vibration.

Staphylinus.

Stizus.

Swede.

Tadpoles.

Tarantula, Black-bellied, see Lycosa.

Thistles.

Thomisus.

Toad, Bell-ringing.

Tree-frogs.

Tree Wasps.

Turkeys, how trapped.

Ventoux, Mount.

Wasp, Common.

Woodpecker.