Read Ebook: Insect life: Souvenirs of a naturalist by Fabre Jean Henri Merrifield F Editor Parker M Prendergast Illustrator Roberts Margaret Translator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 458 lines and 91349 words, and 10 pages

The Sacred Beetle Frontispiece Dung Beetles gathering Provender Facing page 6 Geotrupes stercorarius fighting for the Pellet 12 Cerceris bupresticida and its Prey; Bupresticis micans and Buprestis flavomaculata 46 Cerceris tuberculata dragging Weevil to its Burrow 54 Cerceris ferreri and its Prey, the Weevil; Rhynchites betulae on Birch Leaves, showing two leaves rolled up by the Weevil 58 Sphex flavipennis about to seize Grasshopper 120 Sphex occitanica taking a Sun Bath 136 The Sphex of Languedoc dragging to its Burrow an Ephippiger of the Vine 156 The Sphex of Languedoc and its enemy, the Praying Mantis 166 Ammophila hirsuta attacking a Grub 194 Ammophila sabulosa taking stone to cover its Burrow; A. argentata Mining 207 Ammophila hirsuta hunting for Caterpillars; Ammophila sabulosa on the Wing 208 Bembex rostrata taking Gadfly to its Nest; Bembex rostrata Mining 240 Mason Bees--Chalicodoma muraria on Old Nest 272 Mason Bees--Chalicodoma sicula and Nest 280

THE SACRED BEETLE

This was how it came about. We were five or six, I the oldest and their professor, still more their comrade and friend; they, young fellows with warm hearts and lively imaginations, overflowing with that youthful vitality which makes one so open to impressions and so eager for knowledge.

Talking of one thing and another we followed a path bordered with elder and hawthorn, where already the Rose Beetle was revelling in the overwhelming scent of the clustering blossoms. We were going to see if the Sacred Scarabaeus had yet appeared on the sandy plateau of Les Angles, rolling the ball of dung which ancient Egypt looked on as emblematic of the world; we wanted to discover whether the running stream at the bottom of the hill might not hide young newts under the net of water weeds--newts whose branchiae look like tiny sprays of coral; to see if that elegant little fish of the rivulet, the stickleback, had donned his wedding cravat of azure and purple; if the new-come swallows were dipping on pointed wings over the meadows chasing the midges which scatter their eggs in their airy dance; to see if the Eyed Lizard was sunning his blue-spotted body at the mouth of a hole made in the sandstone; or if the flocks of Laughing Gulls, come up from the sea after the legions of fish which ascend the Rh?ne to spawn, were hovering over the river, and now and again uttering their cry like the laugh of a maniac. But enough; suffice it to say that, like simple folk who find much pleasure in living with the brute creation, we were intending to spend a morning in enjoying the ineffable awakening of life in springtime.

We were not disappointed. The stickleback was in full dress, his scales would have made silver look dim; his throat was of the brightest vermilion. On the approach of a great horse-leech with no good intentions, up rose the spines on back and side as if moved by a spring. Thus bravely encountered, the bandit beat an ignominious retreat down among the water-plants. The dull race of molluscs, Planorbinae, and water-snails were sucking in air on the surface of the water, and the great Water Beetle, with its hideous larva, went by wringing the neck now of one, now of another, without the stupid band seeming to notice it. But let us leave the waters of the plain and climb the steep cliff dividing us from the tableland where sheep are feeding and horses are being exercised for the approaching races, one and all bestowing largesse on the rejoicing dung beetles.

For here at work are the scavenger beetles to whom is entrusted the high office of clearing the ground of impurities. It is impossible to admire sufficiently the variety of tools with which they are furnished, both to stir the dung with, to divide and shape it, and to hollow the deep retreats into which they shut themselves with their booty. These tools form a kind of technological museum, where there is a specimen of every kind of digging instrument. Some might be copied from those devised by human industry, others are of an original type, and might serve as models for new tools for man. Copris hispanica wears a strong horn on its head, forked and bent back, like the long spike of a pickaxe. To a similar horn C. lunaris adds two strong points, shaped liked a ploughshare, projecting from the thorax, and between them a sharp-edged protuberance, serving as a wide rake. Bubas bubalus and B. bison, both exclusively Mediterranean species, have foreheads armed with two stout, diverging horns, between which projects a horizontal share from the corslet. Geotrupes typhaeus carries three points on the front of its thorax, parallel and standing straight out, the middle one shorter than the others. Onthophagus taurus owns as implements two long curving appendages like the horns of a bull, while the furcate Onthophagus has a two-pronged fork on its flat head. Even those least well off have on one part or other hard tubercules--tools blunt indeed, but which the patient insect knows very well how to utilise. All are furnished with a shovel, i.e. a large, flat, sharp-edged head; all use a rake--in other words, they collect materials with their toothed front legs.

As compensation for their unpleasant work, more than one gives out a strong scent of musk, and its ventral parts gleam like polished metal. Geotrupes hypocrita has the under part of its body bright with metallic lights of copper and gold, and G. stercorarius with amethystine violet. But the usual colour is black. It is in tropical regions that we find dung beetles in gorgeous array--absolutely living jewels. Under camel droppings in Upper Egypt is found a beetle rivalling the dazzling green of an emerald; Guiana, Brazil, Senegal, can show Copridae of a metallic red, rich as the red of copper, bright as that of a ruby. If such a jewelled race be wanting to our country, still its dung beetles are not less remarkable for their habits.

What eagerness is displayed around a dropping! Never did adventurers from the four corners of the world show such eagerness in working a Californian claim! Before the sun grows too hot there they are by hundreds, large and small, pell-mell, of every kind and form and shape, hastening to secure a slice of the cake! Some work in the open air and rake the surface, some open galleries in the thickest part, seeking choice morsels, others toil in the under part and bury their treasure as soon as possible in the adjacent ground, and the smallest crumble some scrap fallen from the excavations of their strong fellow-workers. Some again--newcomers, and doubtless the hungriest--eat then and there, but the aim of the greater number is to lay up a store which will allow them to pass long days of plenty down in some sure retreat. A fresh dropping is not to be found just when wanted in a plain where no thyme grows; such a gift is indeed a piece of good fortune, and only comes to the lucky. So when found, the wealth is prudently stored. The smell has carried the good news a couple of miles round, and all have rushed to gather up provender. Some laggards are still coming in on the wing or on foot.

What is the one now trotting towards the heap, fearing to arrive too late? His long legs work with a brusque, awkward action, as if moved by some machine inside him; his little red antennae spread their fans--sure sign of anxious greediness. He is coming, has arrived, not without upsetting some of the guests. It is the Sacred Beetle, all in black, the largest and most celebrated of our dung beetles.

Here he is at table, beside his fellow-guests, who are giving last touches to their balls with the flat of their large front legs, or enriching them with a last layer before retiring to enjoy the fruit of their labours in peace. Let us follow this famous ball in each stage of construction.

The edge of the beetle's head is large and flat, and armed with six angular teeth arranged in a semicircle. It is the tool for digging and dividing, the rake to lift or reject such vegetable fibres as are not nutritious, to seek out what is best and rake it together. A choice is thus made, for these keen connoisseurs like one thing better than another--a somewhat careless choice, indeed, if the beetle alone be concerned, but one which is rigorously scrupulous if the maternal ball be in question, with its central hollow where the egg will hatch. Then every scrap of fibre is rejected, and only the quintessence of the stercorous matter is used to build the inner layer of the cell. Then, as soon as it is hatched, the young larva finds in the walls of its dwelling a dainty food which strengthens digestion and enables it later to attack the coarse outer layers. For its own needs the beetle is less fastidious, contenting itself with a general selection. The toothed head hollows and seeks, rejects and gathers, somewhat at haphazard. The forelegs aid mightily. They are flattened, bent into the arc of a circle, are furnished with strong nerves and armed with five stout teeth. If an effort has to be made, an obstacle overthrown, a path forced through the thickest part of the heap, the dung beetle elbows its way; in other words, throws its toothed legs right and left, and clears a half circle with a vigorous sweep of its rake. Room being made, these same feet have a new task; they collect bundles of the material raked up by the head, and pass it under the insect to the four hind-feet. These are planned for the turner's trade. The legs, especially the last pair, are long and slender, slightly bent in an arc, and ending in a very sharp spur or talon. A glance shows that they form a spherical compass, capable of holding a globe in the bent legs to verify and correct its shape. In fact, their mission is to shape the ball. Bundle after bundle the material accumulates under the insect, held between the four legs which by a slight pressure lend it their own curve and something of shape. Then from time to time the rough hewn ball is set in motion between the legs of the double spherical compass, turned underneath the beetle, and rolled into a perfect sphere. Should the outer layer fail in plasticity and threaten to scale off, or if some part be too fibrous, and refuse to be shaped by rotation, the faulty part is retouched by the forefeet; little taps of their broad surface give consistency to the new layer and imbed the recalcitrant fibre in the general mass. When the sun shines and work is urgent, one is amazed by the feverish activity with which the turner labours. Work goes on fast; first there was a pellet, now it is as large as a nut, by and by it will be of the size of an apple. I have seen some greedy beetles make up a ball as large as an apple. Assuredly there is food in the larder for some days to come!

Provender being gathered, the next thing is to retire from the m?l?e, and carry it to a fitting place. Now we see some of the most characteristic habits of the Scarabaeus. He sets out at once, embracing the ball with the long hind legs, whose talons, planted in the mass, serve as pivots--leans on the intermediary legs as pivots, and using as levers the flat of the toothed forefeet, which press the ground alternately, journeys backward with his load, the body bent, the head low, and the hinder part upraised. The hind feet, which are the chief organs in the mechanism, move continually, going and coming and changing the place where the talons are stuck in, to alter the axis of rotation, to keep the load balanced and advance by an alternate push right and left. Thus the ball comes in contact with the ground in every part of it, which gives it a perfect shape and lends consistency to the outer layer by a uniform pressure. Courage! it moves, it rolls, and the journey's end will be reached, though not without trouble. Here is a first difficulty. The beetle has to cross a slope, and the heavy ball would naturally follow the incline, but for reasons best known to itself, the insect prefers to cross this natural slope--an audacious plan, which one false step or a grain of sand to upset the balance will defeat. The false step is made, the ball rolls to the bottom of the valley, and the insect, upset by the impetus of its load, staggers, gets again on its legs, and hastens to harness itself afresh. The mechanism works capitally. But look out, scatterbrain! follow the hollow of the valley, it will spare labour and misadventure. The road is good and quite level, and your ball will roll along with no exertion. Not a bit of it. The insect has made up its mind to remount the slope already so fatal to it. Perhaps it suits it to return to the heights. Against that I have nothing to say, the Scarabaeus knows better than I do whether it be advisable to dwell in lofty regions. At all events, take this path which will lead you up by a gentle incline. Not at all. If there be near at hand some very stiff slope impossible to climb, then that slope this wrong-headed insect prefers. Then begins the labour of Sisyphus. With endless precautions the monstrous load is painfully hoisted, step by step to a certain height, the beetle always going tail first. One asks one's self by what miracle of statics such a mass can be kept on the slope. Ah! a clumsy movement brings all this toil to naught. Down goes the ball, dragging the beetle with it. The escalade is repeated, soon followed by a fresh fall. The attempt is renewed, and better managed at the difficult points; a nasty grass-root, which occasioned the previous tumbles, is prudently turned; we have almost got to the top. But gently! gently! the ascent is perilous, and a mere nothing may ruin all. A leg slips on a bit of smooth gravel, and ball and scavenger roll down together. The beetle begins all over again, with tireless obstinacy. Ten times, twenty times, will it attempt that further ascent, until persistency vanquishes all obstacles, or until, better advised, it takes the level road.

The scavenger does not always roll his ball single-handed, but frequently takes a partner, or rather, a partner takes him. The affair is usually managed thus: the ball being prepared, a beetle comes out of the throng, pushing it backwards. One of the newcomers, whose own work is hardly begun, leaves its task and runs to the ball, now in motion, to lend a hand to the lucky proprietor, who appears to accept the proffered aid in an amiable spirit. The two work as partners, each doing its best to convey the ball to a place of safety. Was a treaty made in the workshop, a tacit agreement to share the cake? While one kneaded and shaped, was the other tapping rich veins whence to extract choice material for their common use? I have never observed such collaboration, but have always seen every beetle exclusively occupied by his own affairs on the field of labour, so that the last comer has no acquired rights.

Is it, then, an association of the two sexes, a couple about to set up house? For a time I thought so. The two scavengers pushing a ball, one before and one behind, with equal zeal, used to remind me of certain couplets once on a time popular on barrel-organs--

Pour monter notre m?nage, h?las comment ferons-nous? Toi devant, moi derri?re, nous pousserons le tonneau.

Vainly do I ask myself what Prudhon introduced into Scarabaeus-morality the audacious paradox that "Property spells theft," or what diplomatist taught the dung-beetle that "they may take who have the power, and they may keep who can." I have not the evidence required to lead me to the origin of these spoliations which have become a habit, or of this abuse of strength in order to seize a ball of dirt. All that I can affirm is that among beetles theft is universal. These dung rollers pillage one another with a cool effrontery really matchless. I leave it to future observers to elucidate this curious problem in the psychology of animals, and return to the couple rolling their balls in partnership.

But first let us dissipate an error current in books. In the magnificent work of M. Emile Blanchard, Metamorphoses, Habits, and Instincts of Animals, I find the following passage: "Sometimes our insect is stopped by an insurmountable obstacle: the ball has fallen into a hole. At such a time the Ateuchus displays a really astonishing grasp of the situation, and a yet more astonishing power of communication between individuals of the same species. Recognising the impossibility of getting the ball over the obstacle, the Ateuchus seemingly abandons it, and flies away. If you are sufficiently endowed with that great and noble virtue called Patience, remain near this forsaken ball. After a while the Ateuchus will return, and not alone; it will be followed by two, three, or four companions who, alighting at the appointed spot, will join in trying to lift up the load. The Ateuchus has been to seek reinforcements, and this explains why several beetles uniting to transport a single ball is such a common sight in dry fields." I also read in Illiger's Entomological Magazine: "A Gymnopleurus pilularius, while constructing the ball of dung destined to contain its eggs, let it roll into a hole, whence the insect tried long and vainly to extract it. Finding this only waste of time, he hastened to a neighbouring heap of manure to seek three of his kind, which, uniting their efforts to his, succeeded in getting out the ball, and then went back to their own work."

I humbly beg pardon of my illustrious master, M. Blanchard, but assuredly things do not happen thus. First, the two accounts are so much alike that they must have had a common origin. After observations not followed up closely enough to merit blind confidence, Illiger put forward the story of his Gymnopleurus, and the same fact has been attributed to the Scarabaeus because it really is a common thing to find two of these insects busy rolling a ball, or getting it out of some difficult position. But the partnership does not at all prove that one went to ask help from the other in some difficulty. I have had a large measure of the patience recommended by M. Blanchard; I may claim to have spent long days in the intimacy of Scarabaeus sacer; I have tried every means to comprehend its manners and customs, and to study them from life, and never did I see anything which suggested that one had called its companions to its aid. As I shall presently relate, I have put the dung-beetle to proofs far more serious than that of a ball fallen into a hole, and into far graver difficulties than having to climb a slope--a thing which is mere sport for the obstinate Sisyphus, who seems to enjoy the rough gymnastics required by steep places, as if the ball grew thereby firmer, and therefore more valuable. I have invented situations where the insect had extreme need of help, and never could I detect any proof of good offices between comrades. I have seen pillaged and pillagers, and nothing else. If a number of beetles surrounded the same ball, it meant battle. My humble opinion is that several Scarabaei gathered round a pellet with intent to thieve was what gave rise to these stories of comrades called in to give a helping hand. Incomplete observations have turned an audacious robber into a serviceable companion who put his own work aside to do a friendly turn. It is no slight thing to admit that an insect has a truly surprising grasp of the situation and a facility of communication between individuals more surprising still; therefore I insist on this point, Are we to suppose that a Scarabaeus in distress conceives the idea of begging for help?--flies off, explores the country round to find comrades at work on a dropping, and having found them, by some pantomime, especially by movements of the antennae, addresses them more or less thus: "Hullo, you there! My load is upset in a hole yonder; come and help me to get it out. I will do as much for you another time." And are we to suppose too that his colleagues understand him? And, more wonderful still, that they leave their work, their ball newly begun, their beloved ball, exposed to the greed of others, and certain to be filched during their absence, in order to help the supplicant! I am profoundly incredulous of so much self-sacrifice, and my incredulity is borne out by all which I have seen during many long years, not in collection boxes, but on the spots where the Scarabaei work. Outside of the cares of maternity--cares in which it almost always shows itself admirable, the Insect--unless, indeed, it lives in society like bees and ants and some others--thinks and cares for nothing but itself.

Let us drop this discussion, excused by the importance of the subject. I have already said that a Scarabaeus, owner of a ball which it is pushing backwards, is often joined by another which hastens to its aid with interested views, ready to rob if it gets the chance. Let us call the pair associates, though that is hardly the name for them, since one forces itself on the other, who perhaps only accepts help for fear of worse. The meeting is, however, perfectly peaceable. The arrival of the assistant does not distract the proprietor for an instant from his labours; the newcomer seems animated by the best intentions, and instantly sets to work. The way they harness themselves is different for each. The owner of the ball occupies the chief position, the place of honour; he pushes behind the load, his hind feet upraised, his head downward. The helper is in front, in a reverse position, head raised, toothed arms on the ball, long hind legs on the ground. Between the two moves the ball, pushed before it by the one, dragged towards it by the other. The efforts of the couple are not always harmonious, especially as the assistant turns his back to the road to be traversed, and the view of the owner is bounded by his load. Hence repeated accidents and ludicrous tumbles, taken cheerfully, each hastening to pick himself up and resume his former position. On level ground this style of draught does not answer to the expenditure of energy, for want of precision in combined movements; the Scarabaeus behind would do as well or better alone, and the assistant, having proved his goodwill at the risk of disturbing the mechanism, decides to keep quiet of course without abandoning the precious globe, which he looks on as already his. A ball touched is a ball acquired. He will not be so imprudent as to let go; the other would instantly take advantage of it. So he folds his legs under him, flattens himself, incrusts himself, as it were, on the ball, and becomes part of it. Ball and beetle roll together, pushed along by the lawful owner. Whether it should go over the body of the other, whether he be above, below, or on one side of the rolling load, matters not--the intruder lies low. A singular helper this, who lets himself be run over for the sake of a share in the provender! But let them come to a steep incline, and he gets a chance of displaying his usefulness. On the steep slope he takes the lead, holding up the heavy load with his toothed feet while his comrade steadies himself to hoist the load a little higher. Thus, by a combination of judicious efforts, I have seen them mount ascents, the one above holding up, the lower one pushing, where all the obstinate efforts of a single beetle must have failed. All, however, have not the same zeal in difficult moments; some, just when their assistance is most wanted on a slope, do not appear in the least aware that there is anything to overcome. While the unhappy Sisyphus is exhausting himself in efforts to surmount his difficulties, the other remains passive, incrusted on the ball, rolling down with it, and forthwith hoisted up again.

I have often tried the following experiment on two associates in order to judge of their inventive faculties in a serious predicament. Let us suppose them on level ground, the assistant firmly seated on the ball, the other pushing. Without disturbing the latter, I nail the ball to the ground with a long, strong pin; it comes to a sudden stop. The beetle, unaware of my treachery, doubtless believes in some rut, some dandelion root or pebble stopping the way. He redoubles his efforts, struggles his hardest, but nothing moves. What has happened? Let us go and see. Twice or thrice he walks round his pellet. Discovering nothing which can explain its immovableness, he goes behind and pushes again. The ball remains motionless. Let us look above. He climbs up to find nothing but his motionless colleague, for I have taken care to drive the head of the pin in deep enough to hide the head in the mass of the ball. He examines the summit and again descends; fresh thrusts are vigorously applied in front and on either side with the same want of success. Certainly no scavenger beetle ever yet found himself confronted by such a problem of inertia. It is the very moment for claiming assistance, a thing all the more easy that the colleague is close at hand, squatted on the top of the dome. Will the Scarabaeus give him a shake, or address him somewhat thus: What are you about, lazy bones? Come and look here; something has broken down. Nothing proves that he does so, for the beetle long persists in trying to move the immovable, examining now on this side, now on that, now above, now below, while his friend still remains quiescent. In the end, however, the latter becomes aware that something unusual is going on; it is brought home to him by the uneasy comings and goings of his companion and by the immobility of the ball, so in his turn he comes down to look into the matter. Double harness does not prove more effectual than single, and matters grow complicated. The little fans of their antennae open and shut, open again, quiver and betray their lively anxiety. Then a stroke of genius ends their perplexities. Who knows what may be underneath? They explore below the ball, and a slight excavation reveals the pin. They recognise at once that the crux is there. Had I a voice in the matter I should have said, "An excavation must be made, and the stake which holds the ball must be got out." This very elementary proceeding, and one so easy to such expert excavators, was not adopted nor even attempted. The scavenger beetle was cleverer than the man. The two colleagues, one on this side, one on that, insinuated themselves under the ball, which slipped up along the pin in proportion as the living wedges raised it, the softness of the material allowing of this clever manoeuvre. Soon the ball was suspended at a height equal to that of the beetles' bodies. What remained to do was more difficult. From lying flat they gradually got on their legs and pushed upward with their backs. It was hard to accomplish, the feet losing strength the more they stretched upward, but they did it. Then came a moment when they could no longer use their backs to push, the highest point possible being reached. There was a last resource, but one much less favourable to the development of strength. Now in one of the postures in which it drags a ball, now in the other,--that is to say, either head downward or the reverse,--the insect pushes with hind or fore feet. Finally, unless the pin be too long, the ball drops to the ground. The perforation is repaired as best it can be, and the ball is at once dragged onward.

Had it some vague consciousness of the services rendered by the elevation of its point of leverage? I cannot believe it, although the beetle profited very cleverly by my platform of little stones, for if the very elementary idea of using a higher base to reach something too elevated was not beyond it, how was it that neither beetle bethought him of offering his back to the other, thus rendering the task possible? One assisting the other, they might have doubled the height attained. They are far indeed from any such combinations. Here, each pushes the ball with all its might, but pushes as if alone, without seeming to suspect the happy result which would be brought about by a combined effort. When the ball is fastened to the ground by a pin, they behave as they would when the ball is stopped by a loop of dandelion, or held by some slender bit of stalk which has got into the soft, rolling mass. My artifice brought about a stoppage not unlike those which occur when the ball is rolling amid the many inequalities of the ground, and the insect acts as it would have acted in some circumstances where I had not interfered. It uses its back as a wedge and lever and pushes with its feet without at all varying its means of action, even when it might call a comrade to its help.

Already the thief is some yards away. The robbed beetle comes up from his hole, looks, and finds nothing. No doubt he has himself had a hand in like proceedings. Scent and sight soon put him on the track and he hurriedly comes up with the robber, whereupon this sly dog promptly changes his position, gets on his hind legs and clasps the ball with his toothed arms as he does when acting helper. Ah, you rascal! I see through you! you would excuse yourself by declaring that the ball rolled down the slope, and that you are trying to stop it and take it home. I, however, who am an impartial witness, assert that the ball, being well balanced at the mouth of the hole, did not move of its own accord. Besides, the ground is level. I affirm that I saw you set it in motion and make off with unequivocal intentions. It was an attempt at larceny or I know nothing about it. My evidence not being taken into consideration, the owner listens mildly to his companion's excuses, and the two roll the ball back as if nothing had happened.

But if the thief can get far enough away, or can conceal his track by adroitly doubling back, the loss is irreparable. To have collected provisions under a fiery sun, to have conveyed them a weary way, to have hollowed out a comfortable banqueting hall in the sand, and then, just when all is ready, and appetite whetted by toil lends charms to the prospect of the approaching feast, to find one's self suddenly robbed by a companion is certainly a reverse of fortune that would try most people's courage. But the dung beetle does not allow itself to be cast down by this malicious blow of fate; it rubs its cheeks, spreads its antennae, sniffs the air, and flies to the nearest heap to begin again. This is a trait of character which I admire and envy.

Let us suppose the Scarabaeus lucky enough to have met with a reliable partner, or, better still, that he has no self-invited associate. The hole is ready, made in friable earth, usually in sand, rather shallow, about the size of one's fist, communicating with the outer air by a short passage, just wide enough to let the ball pass. As soon as the provender is introduced, the Scarabaeus shuts itself in, stopping up the mouth of the passage with fragments kept in reserve in a corner. Once the door is closed, nothing outside betrays the banqueting hall. And now hurrah! all is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds. The table is sumptuously laid, the ceiling tempers the heat of the sun, only allowing a gentle moist heat to penetrate; the calm, the darkness, the concert given by the field-cricket overhead, all favour digestion. Carried away by my interest, I have caught myself listening at the door, believing that I heard sung at table the famous

Ah! how sweet 'tis nought to do When all around is endless stir.

from the opera of Galathea.

THE ENCLOSURE

If you seek among writers for information as to the habits of Scarabaeus sacer in particular, and on the dung robbers in general, you find that science has not got beyond some of the beliefs current in the time of the Pharaohs. We are told that the ball which is dragged along contains an egg, and is a cradle where the larva will find board and lodging. The parents roll it over rough ground to make it round, and when shocks and shakes and tumbles all along the slopes have shaped it properly, they bury it and abandon it to mother earth.

So rough a start in life always seemed to me unlikely. How could a beetle's egg, so tender and fragile as it is, endure the rocking of its rolling cradle? There exists in the germ a spark of life which the slightest touch, the merest trifle, can extinguish, and is it likely that the parents should take it into their heads to lug it about over hill and dale for hours? Not they; maternal tenderness does not subject its progeny to the martyrdom of Regulus.

However, something more than logical reasoning was required to sweep away received opinions. I therefore opened hundreds of balls rolled by the dung beetles and others out of holes dug under my eyes, and never, never did I find either a central niche or an egg in the pellets. They are invariably rough heaps of food, hastily shaped, with no particular structure inside them, merely provender with which the beetles shut themselves up to enjoy an orgy in peace for some days. They covet and steal them with an energy which they certainly would not show if it implied new family cares. It would be absurd for one Scarabaeus to steal the eggs of another, each having enough to do in securing the future of its own. So on that point no more doubt can exist; the balls rolled by beetles never contain eggs.

My first attempt to resolve the thorny question as to the bringing up of the larva was by constructing an ample enclosure with an artificial soil of sand and soil constantly renewed. Some twenty Scarabaeus sacer were introduced, together with Copris, Gymnopleurus, and Onthophagus, and never did entomological experiment cost me so many mortifications. The main difficulty was to renew the food. My landlord owned a stable and a horse. I gained the confidence of his servant, who first laughed at my plans, and then allowed himself to be gained over by a silver coin. Every breakfast for my beetles cost twopence halfpenny; never before did the budget of a scavenger beetle amount to such a sum, I can still see and shall always see Joseph, as, when after grooming his horse of a morning, he would raise his head a little above the wall between the two gardens and call "Heigh! heigh!" on which I would hurry to receive a pot of manure. Discretion on both sides was necessary, as will be seen. One day his master appeared at the moment of transfer, and made up his mind that all his manure went over the wall, and that what he wanted for his cabbages went to grow my verbenas and narcissus. Vainly did I try to explain; my explanations seemed to him mere jests. Joseph got a sound scolding, was called this and that, and threatened with dismissal if it happened again. It did not.

I still had the resource of going bashfully along the road with a twist of paper to gather up stealthily provisions for my pupils. I did so, and do not blush for it. Sometimes fate was kind. A donkey carrying the produce of the market-gardens of Ch?teau-Renard and Barbentane to Avignon would depose an offering as he passed my door. Such a gift, instantly collected, enriched me for several days. In short, by hook or by crook, by watching for a dropping, or turning diplomatist to get one, I succeeded in feeding my captives. If success is earned by an experiment conducted with a fervour that nothing can discourage, my experiment deserved to prosper. It did not. After some time my Scarabaei, consumed by home-sickness in a space which deprived them of their wider movements, let themselves die miserably without revealing their secret. Gymnopleurus and Onthophagus responded better to my expectations. In due time I shall use the information furnished by them.

Along with my attempts at education in an enclosed space, I carried on direct researches, the results of which were far from what I desired. I felt that I must have assistants. Just then a joyous band of children were crossing the high land. It was a Thursday, and oblivious of school and hated lessons, an apple in one hand and a piece of bread in the other, they were coming from the neighbouring village of Les Angles and wending their way to search on the bare hill where the bullets drop when the garrison is shooting at a mark. A few bits of lead, worth about a halfpenny, were the object of this early morning expedition.

The tiny rosy flowers of wild geranium enamelled the turf which for a brief moment beautified this Arabia Petrea; the water wagtail, half black, half white, uttered its scornful cry as it fluttered from one point of rock to another; on the threshold of burrows, dug at the foot of tufts of thyme, the field-crickets filled the air with their monotonous symphony. And the children were happy in this festival of spring--happier still at their prospective riches--that halfpenny which they would get in return for the bullets they would find, that halfpenny which would enable them next Sunday to buy at the stall set up before the church two peppermint bull's-eyes--two great bull's-eyes at a farthing apiece!

I accosted the tallest, whose wide-awake air gave me hopes of him; the little ones formed a circle, each munching his apple; I explained the matter and showed them Scarabaeus sacer rolling his ball, and told them that in a like ball, buried somewhere, I knew not where, a hollow is sometimes found, and in this hollow a grub. The thing to be done was to search about and watch the beetles in order to find such a ball. Those with no maggot would not count. To stimulate the children by a fabulous sum which would henceforward secure to me the time hitherto devoted to some farthing's worth of lead, I promised a franc, a lovely new coin worth twenty halfpennies, for each inhabited ball. At the mention of this sum eyes opened wide with delightful na?vet?. I had quite upset their ideas on the subject of money by naming this exorbitant price as the value of a piece of dirt. Then, to show I was in good earnest, I distributed some halfpence to clinch the bargain. The following week at the same day and hour I was to appear at the same place and faithfully perform the conditions of our compact towards all who should have made the precious discovery. Having thoroughly posted up all the party, I dismissed the children. "He really means it!" they said as they went away; "he really means it! If we could only get one apiece!" and with hearts swelling with sweet hope, they clinked their pence in the hollow of the hand. The flattened bullets were forgotten. I saw the children scatter over the plain and hunt about.

On the appointed day the week after I returned to the tableland confident of success. My young helpers would no doubt have mentioned this lucrative trade in beetle-balls to their comrades and shown their handsels to convince the incredulous. Accordingly I found a larger party assembled than the first time. On seeing me they ran up, but there was no eagerness, no shout of joy. I saw that things had gone ill. Many times on coming out of school had they sought for what I had described, but in vain. Some balls, found underground with the Scarabaeus, were brought, but they were mere heaps of food, and there was no grub. Fresh explanations were given and a new appointment was made for the following Thursday. Again the same want of success. The seekers, discouraged, were now few. I made a last appeal, but nothing came of it. Finally, I paid the most zealous, those who had been faithful to the last, and we dissolved partnership. I could count on no one but myself for researches, which seemed simple enough, but really were exceedingly difficult. Even up to the present time, after many years, excavations made in favourable spots and hopeful opportunities have not yet given any clear, consistent result. I am reduced to combining incomplete observations and to filling up gaps by analogy. The little which I have seen, together with observations on other dung beetles--Gymnopleurus, Copris, and Onthophagus--in my enclosure is summed up in the following statement.

The ball destined for the egg is not fashioned in public, in the hurry-scurry of the general workshop. It is a work of art and much patience, demanding minute care impossible amid a crowd. One must retire to meditate one's plans and set to work, so the mother makes a hollow from four to eight inches deep in the sand. It is a rather spacious hall, communicating with the outside by a much narrower gallery. The insect carries down choice materials, no doubt first rolled into pellets. She must make many journeys, for the contents of the hole are out of all proportion with the door, and could not be carried in at once. I recollect a Spanish Copris which, at the moment I came upon it, was finishing a ball as large as an orange at the bottom of a burrow only communicating with the outside world by means of a gallery where I could but just insert my finger. It is true that the Copris do not roll balls or make long journeys to fetch food. They dig a hole immediately under the dung, and crawl backward with successive loads to the bottom of their cavity. The facility for provisioning and the security offered by working under the manure favour a taste for luxury not to be expected in the same degree among beetles belonging to the rude trade of ball-rollers; but should it return two or three times, Scarabaeus sacer can amass wealth of which Copris hispanica might well be jealous.

So far the insect has only raw material, put together anyhow. The first thing to do is to select very carefully, taking what is most delicate for the inner layers, upon which the larva will feed, and the coarser for the outer ones which merely serve as a protecting shell. Then around a central hollow which receives the egg the materials must be arranged layer after layer, according to their decreasing fineness and nutritive value; the strata must be made consistent and adhere one to another; and finally, the bits of fibre in the outside crust, which has to protect the whole thing, must be felted together. How can the Scarabaeus, clumsy and stiff as it seems, accomplish such a work in complete darkness, at the bottom of a hole so full of provisions that there is barely room to move? When I think how delicate is the work done and how rude the tools of the workman,--of the angular feet fitted to hollow the ground, and, if need be, even tufa,--I am reminded of an elephant trying to make lace. Explain who can this miracle of maternal industry; I give it up, especially as it has not been my good fortune to see the artist at work. Let us restrict ourselves to describing this masterpiece.

The ball which contains the egg is generally as large as a middle-sized apple. In the midst is an oval cavity about a centimetre in diameter. At the bottom is the egg, fixed vertically; it is cylindrical, rounded at each end, yellowish-white, about as large as a grain of wheat, but shorter. The wall of the hollow is washed over with a greenish-brown, semi-fluid matter, manure cream, destined as the first food of the larva. Does the mother collect the quintessence of the dung to make this delicate food? The look of it tells me that it is a pap prepared in the maternal stomach. The pigeon softens grain in its crop, and turns it into a kind of milk food which it disgorges for its nestlings. It would seem that the beetle shows the same tender care. It half digests the choice food, and disgorges it in the shape of a delicate film to line the walls of the cavity where the egg is laid. Thus, when first hatched, the larva finds food easy of digestion, which rapidly strengthens its stomach and allows it to attack the under layers which lack the same refinement of preparation. Under the semi-fluid paste is a choice pulp, compact and homogeneous, whence every particle of fibre is banished. Beyond are the coarser strata where vegetable fibres abound, and finally the outside of the ball is composed of the coarsest materials felted together into a resistant shell. Manifestly there is a progressive change of diet. On issuing from the egg the feeble grub licks the fine paste on the walls of its dwelling. There is but little of it, still it is strengthening and of high nutritious value. To the bottle of early infancy succeeds the pap of the weanling, intermediate between the dainty fare of the start and the coarse nourishment at the end. This layer is thick enough and abundant enough to make the maggot into a robust grub. Then, strong food for the strong, barley bread with its husks, raw dung full of sharp bits of hay. The larva is superabundantly provisioned with it, and, having attained its growth, comes to the imprisoning outer layer. The capacity of the dwelling has increased with that of its inhabitant. The small original cavity with its excessively thick walls is now a large cell with sides only a few lines thick. The inner layers have turned into larva, nymph, or Scarabaeus, as the case may be. In short, the ball is now a shell, hiding within its spacious interior the mysteries of metamorphosis.

My observations go no further; my certificates of the birth and condition of the Scarabaeus do not go beyond the egg; I have not actually seen the larva which, however, is known and described by various authors. Neither have I seen the perfect insect while yet enclosed in the cell, previous to exercising its functions as ball-roller and excavator, and that is exactly what I should most have desired to see. I should have liked to find the creature in its birthplace, recently transformed, new to all labour, so that I might have examined the worker's hand before it set to its tasks, and for the following reason.

Insects have each foot terminated by a kind of finger or tarsus, composed of a series of delicate portions which may be compared to the joints of our fingers. They end in a crooked nail. One claw to each foot is the rule, and this claw, at least in the case of the superior Coleoptera, especially the scavenger beetles, contains five joints. Now by a strange exception, the Scarabaeus has no tarsi on its forefeet, while possessing well-shaped ones with five joints on the two other pairs. They are imperfect, maimed, wanting in their front limbs in that which represents, roughly indeed, our hand in an insect. A like anomaly is found in the Onitis and Bubas, also of the scavenger family. Entomology has long noted this curious fact without being able to give a satisfactory explanation. Is it a birth imperfection? Does the beetle come into the world without fingers on its front limbs, or does it lose them as soon as it enters on its toilsome labours?

One might easily suppose such mutilation a consequence of the insect's hard work. To grope, to excavate, to rake, to divide now among the gravel in the soil, now in the fibrous mass of manure, is not a work in which organs so delicate as the tarsi can be used without danger. Yet graver is it that when the insect is rolling its ball backward, head downward, it is with the end of the forefeet that it grips the ground. What becomes of the weak feet, no thicker than a thread, in this perpetual contact with all the inequalities of the soil? They are useless--merely in the way, and sooner or later they are bound to disappear, crushed, torn off, worn out. Our workmen, alas! are too often maimed by handling heavy tools, and lifting great weights, and the same may be the case with the Scarabaeus which rolls a ball that to it is a huge load. In that case the maimed arms would be a noble certificate of a life of toil.

But serious doubts at once suggest themselves. If these mutilations be accidental, and the result of laborious work, they should be the exception, not the rule. Because a workman or several workmen have had a hand crushed in machinery, it does not follow that all others should be maimed. If the Scarabaeus often, or even very often, loses the fore-claws in its trade of ball-roller, there must be some which, cleverer or more fortunate, have preserved their tarsi. Let us then consult facts. I have observed a very large number of the species of Scarabaeus which inhabit France, the S. sacer, common in Provence; S. semipunctatus, which is seldom found far from the sea, and frequents the sandy shores of Cette, Palavas, and of the Gulf of Juan; also S. longicollis, which is much more widely spread than the two others, and found at least as far up the Rh?ne Valley as Lyons. Finally, I have observed an African kind, S. cicatricosus, found in the environs of Constantine, and the want of tarsi on the forefeet has proved invariable in all four species, at all events as far as my observations go. Therefore the Scarabaeus is maimed from birth, and it must be no accident but a natural peculiarity.

Moreover, we have further proof in another reason. Were the absence of fore-claws accidental, and the consequence of rough labour, there are other insects, especially among the scavenger beetles, which undertake excavations yet more difficult than those of the Scarabaeus, and which ought therefore to be still more liable to lose their front claws, as these are useless and in the way when the foot has to serve as a strong tool for excavation. For instance, the Geotrupes, who deserve their name of Earth-piercer so well, make hollows in the hard and beaten soil of paths among pebbles cemented by clay--vertical pits so deep that to reach the lowest cell one has to use powerful digging tools, and even then one does not always succeed. Now these miners par excellence, who easily open long galleries in surroundings whose surface the Scarabaeus sacer could hardly disturb, have their front tarsi intact, as if to perforate tufa were a work calling for delicacy rather than strength. Everything then points to the belief that, if observed in its natal cell, the baby Scarabaeus would be found mutilated like the veteran who has travelled the world and grown worn with labour.

On this absence of fingers might be based an argument in favour of the theories now in fashion--the struggle for life and the evolution of the species. One might say that the Scarabaeus had originally tarsi on all its feet in conformity with the general laws of insect organisation. One way or another, some have lost these embarrassing appendages on their forefeet, they being hurtful rather than useful. Finding themselves the better for this mutilation, which proved favourable to their work, little by little they gained a superiority over the less favoured ones, founded a race by transmitting their fingerless stumps to their descendants, and finally, the primitively fingered insect became the fingerless Scarabaeus of our time. I am willing to agree to this reasoning if it could first be demonstrated why, with like labours,--labours even far harder,--the Geotrupes has preserved his tarsi. Meantime let us continue to believe that the first Scarabaeus who rolled a ball, perhaps on the shores of some lake where bathed the Palaeotherium, was as much without tarsi as him of our own day.

CERCERIS BUPRESTICIDA

Every one has met with books which, according to his turn of mind, have been epoch-making, opening to him horizons whose very existence he had never guessed. They throw wide open the gates of a new world where henceforward he will use his mental powers; they are the spark which, falling on a hearth, kindles into flame materials otherwise never utilised. And very often it is mere chance which puts into our hands some book which makes a new starting-point in the evolution of our ideas. The most casual circumstance, a few lines which happen to come under our eye, decide our future and impel us into the path which thenceforward we shall follow. One winter evening, beside a stove where the ashes were yet warm, while my family slept, I was forgetting, while I read, all the cares of the morrow--the black cares of the professor of physics, who, after having piled one university diploma on another and rendered for a quarter of a century services whose merit was not denied, earns for himself and family 1600 francs--less than a groom in a well-to-do household. Such was the shameful parsimony of that day in educational matters; thus did Red tape will it. I was a free-lance, son of my solitary studies. Thus, amid my books I was putting aside acute professorial worries when I chanced to light on an entomological pamphlet which had come into my hands I forget how. It was by the patriarch of entomology of that day, the venerable savant L?on Dufour, on the habits of a Hymenopteron whose prey was the Buprestis. Certainly long ere this I had felt a great interest in insects; from childhood I had delighted in beetles, bees, and butterflies; as far back as I can recollect I see myself enraptured by the splendours of a beetle's elytra, or the wings of the great Swallowtail butterfly. The materials lay ready on the hearth, but the spark to kindle them had been lacking. The accidental perusal of L?on Dufour's pamphlet was that spark. I had a mental revelation. So then to arrange lovely beetles in a cork box, to name and classify was not the whole of science; there was something far superior, namely, the close study of the structure, and still more of the faculties of insects. Thrilled by emotion I read of a grand instance of this. A little later, aided by those fortunate circumstances which always befriend the ardent seeker, I published my first entomological work, the complement of L?on Dufour's. It gained the honours of the Institute of France, a prize for experimental physiology being adjudged to it, and--far sweeter reward!--shortly after I received a most flattering and encouraging letter from the very man who had inspired me. From far away in the Landes the venerated master sent me the cordial expression of his enthusiasm, and urged me to continue my studies. At that recollection my old eyes still grow wet with a holy emotion. Oh, bright days of illusion, of faith in the future, what has become of you!

I hope that the reader will not be sorry to meet with an extract from the pamphlet which was the starting-point of my own researches, the more so that it is necessary for the understanding of what follows. So I will let my Master speak, only abridging slightly:--

In all insect history I know of no fact more curious and extraordinary than that which I am about to relate. It concerns a species of Cerceris which feeds its progeny on the most splendid kinds of Buprestis. Let me share with you, my friend, the vivid impressions gained by studying the habits of this Hymenopteron. In July 1839 a friend, who lives in the country, sent me two Buprestis bifasciata, an insect new to my collection, telling me that a kind of wasp which was carrying one of these pretty beetles had dropped it on his coat, and that a few minutes later a similar wasp had let fall another on the ground. In July 1840, having been called in as physician by my friend, I reminded him of his capture of the preceding year, and asked about the circumstances. Season and place corresponding with it, I hoped to do as much myself, but that particular day was dark and chilly, unfavourable therefore to the flight of Hymenoptera. Nevertheless, we made a tour of inspection in the garden walks, and seeing no insects I bethought myself of seeking in the ground for the homes of burrowing Hymenoptera. A tiny heap of sand recently thrown up, like a miniature mole-hill, attracted my attention. Scratching it away, I saw that it masked the orifice of a gallery descending far down. We carefully dug up the ground with a spade, and soon caught sight of the shining elytra of the coveted Buprestis. Soon I not only found wing-cases but a whole Buprestis, nay, three and four displayed their gold and emerald. I could not believe my eyes. But that was only the prelude to my feast. In the chaos caused by my own exhumations a Hymenopteron appeared and was taken by me; it was the captor of the Buprestis, trying to escape from amid her victims. I recognised an old acquaintance, a Cerceris which I have found some two hundred times in Spain and around Saint Sever.

But my ambition was far from satisfied. It was not enough to know ravisher and prey: I wanted the larva for which all this rich store was laid up. After exhausting the first vein of Buprestis I hastened to make new excavations. Digging down more carefully I finally discovered two larvae, which completed the good fortune of this campaign. In less than an hour I turned over three haunts of the Cerceris, and my booty was some fifteen whole Buprestids with fragments of a yet greater number. I calculated, and I believe it fell far short of the truth, that there were twenty-five nests in this garden, a fact representing an immense number of buried Buprestids. What must it be, I said to myself, in localities where in a few hours I have caught as many as sixty Cerceris on blossoming garlic, with nests most probably near, and no doubt provisioned quite as abundantly! Imagination, backed by probability, showed me underground, within a small space, B. bifasciata by thousands, although I who have observed the entomology of our parts for over thirty years have never noticed a single one. Once only, perhaps twenty years ago, did I see, sticking in a hole of an ancient oak, the abdomen and elytra of this insect. This fact was a ray of light, for it told me that the larva of B. bifasciata must live in the wood of the oak, and entirely explained the abundance of this beetle in a district where the forests consist chiefly of that tree. As Cerceris bupresticida is rare on the clayey hills of the latter stretch of country compared to the sandy plains where grows Pinus maritima, it became an interesting question whether this Hymenopteron when it inhabits the pine region provisions its nest as it does in the oak district. I had good reason to believe that it did not, and you will soon see with some surprise how exquisite is the entomological tact of our Cerceris in her choice of the numerous kind of Buprestids.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet