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The Wonders of Instinct: Chapters in the Psychology of Insects

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Title: The Wonders of Instinct: Chapters in the Psychology of Insects

Author: Jean-Henri Fabre

Translator: Bernard Miall
        Alexander Teixeira de Mattos


        
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3754]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3754

Credits: Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. HTML
        version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT: CHAPTERS IN THE PSYCHOLOGY OF INSECTS ***




Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. HTML
version by Al Haines.










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

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