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18350-8.txt
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Project Gutenberg's Social Life in the Insect World, by J. H. Fabre
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Social Life in the Insect World
Author: J. H. Fabre
Translator: Bernard Miall
Release Date: May 8, 2006 [EBook #18350]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOCIAL LIFE IN THE INSECT WORLD ***
Produced by Louise Pryor, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
SOCIAL LIFE
IN THE INSECT WORLD
BY
J. H. FABRE
TRANSLATED BY
BERNARD MIALL
WITH 14 ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN, LTD.
ADELPHI TERRACE
_First Edition_ 1911
_Second Impression_ 1912
_Third Impression_ 1912
_Fourth Impression_ 1913
_Fifth Impression_ 1913
_Sixth Impression_ 1915
_Seventh Impression_ 1916
_Eighth Impression_ 1916
_Ninth Impression_ 1917
_Tenth Impression_ 1918
_Eleventh Impression_ 1918
_Twelfth Impression_ 1919
(_All rights reserved_)
[Illustration: 1. THE MANTIS. A DUEL BETWEEN FEMALES.
2. THE MANTIS DEVOURING A CRICKET.
3. THE MANTIS DEVOURING HER MATE.
4. THE MANTIS IN HER ATTITUDE OF PRAYER.
5. THE MANTIS IN HER "SPECTRAL" ATTITUDE.
(See p. 76.)]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
THE FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT 1
CHAPTER II
THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW 17
CHAPTER III
THE SONG OF THE CIGALE 31
CHAPTER IV
THE CIGALE. THE EGGS AND THEIR HATCHING 45
CHAPTER V
THE MANTIS. THE CHASE 68
CHAPTER VI
THE MANTIS. COURTSHIP 79
CHAPTER VII
THE MANTIS. THE NEST 86
CHAPTER VIII
THE GOLDEN GARDENER. ITS NUTRIMENT 102
CHAPTER IX
THE GOLDEN GARDENER. COURTSHIP 111
CHAPTER X
THE FIELD CRICKET 120
CHAPTER XI
THE ITALIAN CRICKET 130
CHAPTER XII
THE SISYPHUS BEETLE. THE INSTINCT OF PATERNITY 136
CHAPTER XIII
A BEE-HUNTER: THE _PHILANTHUS AVIPORUS_ 150
CHAPTER XIV
THE GREAT PEACOCK, OR EMPEROR MOTH 179
CHAPTER XV
THE OAK EGGAR, OR BANDED MONK 202
CHAPTER XVI
A TRUFFLE-HUNTER: THE _BOLBOCERAS GALLICUS_ 217
CHAPTER XVII
THE ELEPHANT-BEETLE 238
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PEA-WEEVIL 258
CHAPTER XIX
AN INVADER: THE HARICOT-WEEVIL 282
CHAPTER XX
THE GREY LOCUST 300
CHAPTER XXI
THE PINE-CHAFER 317
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE MANTIS: A DUEL BETWEEN FEMALES; DEVOURING
A CRICKET; DEVOURING HER MATE; IN HER ATTITUDE
OF PRAYER; IN HER "SPECTRAL" ATTITUDE _Frontispiece_
DURING THE DROUGHTS OF SUMMER THIRSTING INSECTS,
AND NOTABLY THE ANT, FLOCK TO THE DRINKING-PLACES
OF THE CIGALE 8
THE CIGALE AND THE EMPTY PUPA-SKIN 28
THE ADULT CIGALE, FROM BELOW. THE CIGALE OF
THE FLOWERING ASH, MALE AND FEMALE 36
THE CIGALE LAYING HER EGGS. THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER,
THE FALSE CIGALE OF THE NORTH,
DEVOURING THE TRUE CIGALE, A DWELLER IN
THE SOUTH 48
THE NEST OF THE PRAYING MANTIS; TRANSVERSE SECTION
OF THE SAME; NEST OF EMPUSA PAUPERATA;
TRANSVERSE SECTION OF THE SAME; VERTICAL
SECTION OF THE SAME; NEST OF THE GREY MANTIS;
SCHEFFER'S SISYPHUS (see Chap. XII.); PELLET OF
THE SISYPHUS; PELLET OF THE SISYPHUS, WITH
DEJECTA OF THE LARVA FORCED THROUGH THE
WALLS 88
THE MANTIS DEVOURING THE MALE IN THE ACT OF
MATING; THE MANTIS COMPLETING HER NEST;
GOLDEN SCARABÆI CUTTING UP A LOB-WORM 90
THE GOLDEN GARDENER: THE MATING SEASON OVER,
THE MALES ARE EVISCERATED BY THE FEMALES 114
THE FIELD-CRICKET: A DUEL BETWEEN RIVALS; THE
DEFEATED RIVAL RETIRES, INSULTED BY THE
VICTOR 124
THE ITALIAN CRICKET 132
THE GREAT PEACOCK OR EMPEROR MOTH 180
THE GREAT PEACOCK MOTH. THE PILGRIMS DIVERTED
BY THE LIGHT OF A LAMP 196
THE GREY LOCUST; THE NERVATURES OF THE WING;
THE BALANINUS FALLEN A VICTIM TO THE LENGTH
OF HER PROBOSCIS 244
THE PINE-CHAFER (_MELOLONTHA FULLO_) 318
SOCIAL LIFE IN THE INSECT WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT
Fame is the daughter of Legend. In the world of creatures, as in the
world of men, the story precedes and outlives history. There are many
instances of the fact that if an insect attract our attention for this
reason or that, it is given a place in those legends of the people whose
last care is truth.
For example, who is there that does not, at least by hearsay, know the
Cigale? Where in the entomological world shall we find a more famous
reputation? Her fame as an impassioned singer, careless of the future,
was the subject of our earliest lessons in repetition. In short, easily
remembered lines of verse, we learned how she was destitute when the
winter winds arrived, and how she went begging for food to the Ant, her
neighbour. A poor welcome she received, the would-be borrower!--a
welcome that has become proverbial, and her chief title to celebrity.
The petty malice of the two short lines--
Vous chantiez! j'en suis bien aise,
Eh bien, dansez maintenant!
has done more to immortalise the insect than her skill as a musician.
"You sang! I am very glad to hear it! Now you can dance!" The words
lodge in the childish memory, never to be forgotten. To most
Englishmen--to most Frenchmen even--the song of the Cigale is unknown,
for she dwells in the country of the olive-tree; but we all know of the
treatment she received at the hands of the Ant. On such trifles does
Fame depend! A legend of very dubious value, its moral as bad as its
natural history; a nurse's tale whose only merit is its brevity; such is
the basis of a reputation which will survive the wreck of centuries no
less surely than the tale of Puss-in-Boots and of Little Red
Riding-Hood.
The child is the best guardian of tradition, the great conservative.
Custom and tradition become indestructible when confided to the archives
of his memory. To the child we owe the celebrity of the Cigale, of whose
misfortunes he has babbled during his first lessons in recitation. It is
he who will preserve for future generations the absurd nonsense of which
the body of the fable is constructed; the Cigale will always be hungry
when the cold comes, although there were never Cigales in winter; she
will always beg alms in the shape of a few grains of wheat, a diet
absolutely incompatible with her delicate capillary "tongue"; and in
desperation she will hunt for flies and grubs, although she never eats.
Whom shall we hold responsible for these strange mistakes? La Fontaine,
who in most of his fables charms us with his exquisite fineness of
observation, has here been ill-inspired. His earlier subjects he knew
down to the ground: the Fox, the Wolf, the Cat, the Stag, the Crow, the
Rat, the Ferret, and so many others, whose actions and manners he
describes with a delightful precision of detail. These are inhabitants
of his own country; neighbours, fellow-parishioners. Their life, private
and public, is lived under his eyes; but the Cigale is a stranger to the
haunts of Jack Rabbit. La Fontaine had never seen nor heard her. For him
the celebrated songstress was certainly a grasshopper.
Grandville, whose pencil rivals the author's pen, has fallen into the
same error. In his illustration to the fable we see the Ant dressed like
a busy housewife. On her threshold, beside her full sacks of wheat, she
disdainfully turns her back upon the would-be borrower, who holds out
her claw--pardon, her hand. With a wide coachman's hat, a guitar under
her arm, and a skirt wrapped about her knees by the gale, there stands
the second personage of the fable, the perfect portrait of a
grasshopper. Grandville knew no more than La Fontaine of the true
Cigale; he has beautifully expressed the general confusion.
But La Fontaine, in this abbreviated history, is only the echo of
another fabulist. The legend of the Cigale and the cold welcome of the
Ant is as old as selfishness: as old as the world. The children of
Athens, going to school with their baskets of rush-work stuffed with
figs and olives, were already repeating the story under their breath, as
a lesson to be repeated to the teacher. "In winter," they used to say,
"the Ants were putting their damp food to dry in the sun. There came a
starving Cigale to beg from them. She begged for a few grains. The
greedy misers replied: 'You sang in the summer, now dance in the
winter.'" This, although somewhat more arid, is precisely La Fontaine's
story, and is contrary to the facts.
Yet the story comes to us from Greece, which is, like the South of
France, the home of the olive-tree and the Cigale. Was Æsop really its
author, as tradition would have it? It is doubtful, and by no means a
matter of importance; at all events, the author was a Greek, and a
compatriot of the Cigale, which must have been perfectly familiar to
him. There is not a single peasant in my village so blind as to be
unaware of the total absence of Cigales in winter; and every tiller of
the soil, every gardener, is familiar with the first phase of the
insect, the larva, which his spade is perpetually discovering when he
banks up the olives at the approach of the cold weather, and he knows,
having seen it a thousand times by the edge of the country paths, how in
summer this larva issues from the earth from a little round well of its
own making; how it climbs a twig or a stem of grass, turns upon its
back, climbs out of its skin, drier now than parchment, and becomes the
Cigale; a creature of a fresh grass-green colour which is rapidly
replaced by brown.
We cannot suppose that the Greek peasant was so much less intelligent
than the Provençal that he can have failed to see what the least
observant must have noticed. He knew what my rustic neighbours know so
well. The scribe, whoever he may have been, who was responsible for the
fable was in the best possible circumstances for correct knowledge of
the subject. Whence, then, arose the errors of his tale?
Less excusably than La Fontaine, the Greek fabulist wrote of the Cigale
of the books, instead of interrogating the living Cigale, whose cymbals
were resounding on every side; careless of the real, he followed
tradition. He himself echoed a more ancient narrative; he repeated some
legend that had reached him from India, the venerable mother of
civilisations. We do not know precisely what story the reed-pen of the
Hindoo may have confided to writing, in order to show the perils of a
life without foresight; but it is probable that the little animal drama
was nearer the truth than the conversation between the Cigale and the
Ant. India, the friend of animals, was incapable of such a mistake.
Everything seems to suggest that the principal personage of the original
fable was not the Cigale of the Midi, but some other creature, an insect
if you will, whose manners corresponded to the adopted text.
Imported into Greece, after long centuries during which, on the banks of
the Indus, it made the wise reflect and the children laugh, the ancient
anecdote, perhaps as old as the first piece of advice that a father of a
family ever gave in respect of economy, transmitted more or less
faithfully from one memory to another, must have suffered alteration in
its details, as is the fate of all such legends, which the passage of
time adapts to the circumstance of time and place.
The Greek, not finding in his country the insect of which the Hindoo
spoke, introduced the Cigale, as in Paris, the modern Athens, the Cigale
has been replaced by the Grasshopper. The mistake was made; henceforth
indelible. Entrusted as it is to the memory of childhood, error will
prevail against the truth that lies before our eyes.
Let us seek to rehabilitate the songstress so calumniated by the fable.
She is, I grant you, an importunate neighbour. Every summer she takes up
her station in hundreds before my door, attracted thither by the verdure
of two great plane-trees; and there, from sunrise to sunset, she hammers
on my brain with her strident symphony. With this deafening concert
thought is impossible; the mind is in a whirl, is seized with vertigo,
unable to concentrate itself. If I have not profited by the early
morning hours the day is lost.
Ah! Creature possessed, the plague of my dwelling, which I hoped would
be so peaceful!--the Athenians, they say, used to hang you up in a
little cage, the better to enjoy your song. One were well enough, during
the drowsiness of digestion; but hundreds, roaring all at once,
assaulting the hearing until thought recoils--this indeed is torture!
You put forward, as excuse, your rights as the first occupant. Before my
arrival the two plane-trees were yours without reserve; it is I who have
intruded, have thrust myself into their shade. I confess it: yet muffle
your cymbals, moderate your arpeggi, for the sake of your historian! The
truth rejects what the fabulist tells us as an absurd invention. That
there are sometimes dealings between the Cigale and the Ant is perfectly
correct; but these dealings are the reverse of those described in the
fable. They depend not upon the initiative of the former; for the Cigale
never required the help of others in order to make her living: on the
contrary, they are due to the Ant, the greedy exploiter of others, who
fills her granaries with every edible she can find. At no time does the
Cigale plead starvation at the doors of the ant-hills, faithfully
promising a return of principal and interest; the Ant on the contrary,
harassed by drought, begs of the songstress. Begs, do I say! Borrowing
and repayment are no part of the manners of this land-pirate. She
exploits the Cigale; she impudently robs her. Let us consider this
theft; a curious point of history as yet unknown.
In July, during the stifling hours of the afternoon, when the insect
peoples, frantic with drought, wander hither and thither, vainly seeking
to quench their thirst at the faded, exhausted flowers, the Cigale makes
light of the general aridity. With her rostrum, a delicate augur, she
broaches a cask of her inexhaustible store. Crouching, always singing,
on the twig of a suitable shrub or bush, she perforates the firm, glossy
rind, distended by the sap which the sun has matured. Plunging her
proboscis into the bung-hole, she drinks deliciously, motionless, and
wrapt in meditation, abandoned to the charms of syrup and of song.
Let us watch her awhile. Perhaps we shall witness unlooked-for
wretchedness and want. For there are many thirsty creatures wandering
hither and thither; and at last they discover the Cigale's private well,
betrayed by the oozing sap upon the brink. They gather round it, at
first with a certain amount of constraint, confining themselves to
lapping the extravasated liquor. I have seen, crowding around the
honeyed perforation, wasps, flies, earwigs, Sphinx-moths, Pompilidæ,
rose-chafers, and, above all, ants.
The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the belly of the
Cigale, who kindly raises herself on her claws, leaving room for the
importunate ones to pass. The larger, stamping with impatience, quickly
snatch a mouthful, withdraw, take a turn on the neighbouring twigs, and
then return, this time more enterprising. Envy grows keener; those who
but now were cautious become turbulent and aggressive, and would
willingly drive from the spring the well-sinker who has caused it to
flow.
In this crowd of brigands the most aggressive are the ants. I have seen
them nibbling the ends of the Cigale's claws; I have caught them tugging
the ends of her wings, climbing on her back, tickling her antennæ. One
audacious individual so far forgot himself under my eyes as to seize her
proboscis, endeavouring to extract it from the well!
Thus hustled by these dwarfs, and at the end of her patience, the
giantess finally abandons the well. She flies away, throwing a jet of
liquid excrement over her tormentors as she goes. But what cares the Ant
for this expression of sovereign contempt? She is left in possession of
the spring--only too soon exhausted when the pump is removed that made
it flow. There is little left, but that little is sweet. So much to the
good; she can wait for another drink, attained in the same manner, as
soon as the occasion presents itself.
[Illustration: DURING THE DROUGHTS OF SUMMER THIRSTING INSECTS, AND
NOTABLY THE ANT, FLOCK TO THE DRINKING-PLACES OF THE CIGALE.]
As we see, reality completely reverses the action described by the
fable. The shameless beggar, who does not hesitate at theft, is the Ant;
the industrious worker, willingly sharing her goods with the suffering,
is the Cigale. Yet another detail, and the reversal of the fable is
further emphasised. After five or six weeks of gaiety, the songstress
falls from the tree, exhausted by the fever of life. The sun shrivels
her body; the feet of the passers-by crush it. A bandit always in search
of booty, the Ant discovers the remains. She divides the rich find,
dissects it, and cuts it up into tiny fragments, which go to swell her
stock of provisions. It is not uncommon to see a dying Cigale, whose
wings are still trembling in the dust, drawn and quartered by a gang of
knackers. Her body is black with them. After this instance of
cannibalism the truth of the relations between the two insects is
obvious.
Antiquity held the Cigale in high esteem. The Greek Béranger, Anacreon,
devoted an ode to her, in which his praise of her is singularly
exaggerated. "Thou art almost like unto the Gods," he says. The reasons
which he has given for this apotheosis are none of the best. They
consist in these three privileges: [Greek: gêgenês, apathês,
hanaimosarke]; born of the earth, insensible to pain, bloodless. We will
not reproach the poet for these mistakes; they were then generally
believed, and were perpetuated long afterwards, until the exploring eye
of scientific observation was directed upon them. And in minor poetry,
whose principal merit lies in rhythm and harmony, we must not look at
things too closely.
Even in our days, the Provençal poets, who know the Cigale as Anacreon
never did, are scarcely more careful of the truth in celebrating the
insect which they have taken for their emblem. A friend of mine, an
eager observer and a scrupulous realist, does not deserve this reproach.
He gives me permission to take from his pigeon-holes the following
Provençal poem, in which the relations between the Cigale and the Ant
are expounded with all the rigour of science. I leave to him the
responsibility for his poetic images and his moral reflections, blossoms
unknown to my naturalist's garden; but I can swear to the truth of all
he says, for it corresponds with what I see each summer on the
lilac-trees of my garden.
LA CIGALO E LA FOURNIGO.
I.
Jour de Dièu, queto caud! Bèu tèms pèr la Cigalo,
Que, trefoulido, se regalo
D'uno raisso de fio; bèu tèms per la meissoun.
Dins lis erso d'or, lou segaire,
Ren plega, pitre au vent, rustico e canto gaire;
Dins soun gousiè, la set estranglo la cansoun.
Tèms benesi pèr tu. Dounc, ardit! cigaleto,
Fai-lei brusi, ti chimbaleto,
E brandusso lou ventre à creba ti mirau.
L'Ome enterin mando le daio,
Que vai balin-balan de longo e que dardaio
L'ulau de soun acié sus li rous espigau.
Plèn d'aigo pèr la péiro e tampouna d'erbiho
Lou coufié sus l'anco pendiho.
Si la péiro es au frès dins soun estui de bos,
E se de longo es abèurado,
L'Ome barbelo au fio d'aqueli souleiado
Que fan bouli de fes la mesoulo dis os.
Tu, Cigalo, as un biais pèr la set: dins la rusco
Tendro e jutouso d'uno busco,
L'aguio de toun bè cabusso e cavo un pous.
Lou siro monto pèr la draio.
T'amourres à la fon melicouso que raio,
E dou sourgènt sucra bèves lou teta-dous.
Mai pas toujour en pas. Oh! que nàni; de laire,
Vesin, vesino o barrulaire,
T'an vist cava lou pous. An set; vènon, doulènt,
Te prène un degout pèr si tasso.
Mesfiso-te, ma bello: aqueli curo-biasso,
Umble d'abord, soun lèu de gusas insoulènt.
Quiston un chicouloun di rèn, pièi de ti resto
Soun plus countènt, ausson la testo
E volon tout: L'auran. Sis arpioun en rastèu
Te gatihoun lou bout de l'alo.
Sus tu larjo esquinasso es un mounto-davalo;
T'aganton pèr lou bè, li bano, lis artèu;
Tiron d'eici, d'eilà. L'impaciènci te gagno.
Pst! pst! d'un giscle de pissagno
Aspèrges l'assemblado e quites lou ramèu.
T'en vas bèn liuen de la racaio,
Que t'a rauba lou pous, e ris, e se gougaio,
E se lipo li brego enviscado de mèu.
Or d'aqueli boumian abèura sens fatigo,
Lou mai tihous es la fournigo.
Mousco, cabrian, guespo e tavan embana,
Espeloufi de touto meno,
Costo-en-long qu'à toun pous lou soulcias ameno,
N'an pas soun testardige à te faire enana.
Pèr l'esquicha l'artèu, te coutiga lou mourre,
Te pessuga lou nas, pèr courre
A l'oumbro du toun ventre, osco! degun la vau.
Lou marrit-pèu prend pèr escalo
Uno patto e te monto, ardido, sus lis alo,
E s'espasso, insoulènto, e vai d'amont, d'avau.
II.
Aro veici qu'es pas de crèire.
Ancian tèms, nous dison li rèire,
Un jour d'ivèr; la fam te prenguè. Lou front bas
E d'escoundoun anères vèire,
Dins si grand magasin, la fournigo, eilàbas.
L'endrudido au soulèu secavo,
Avans de lis escoundre en cavo,
Si blad qu'aviè mousi l'eigagno de la niue.
Quand èron lest lis ensacavo.
Tu survènes alor, emé de plour is iue.
Iè disés: "Fai bèn fre; l'aurasso
D'un caire à l'autre me tirasso
Avanido de fam. A toun riche mouloun
Leisso-me prène pèr ma biasso.
Te lou rendrai segur au bèu tèms di meloun.
"Presto-me un pan de gran." Mai, bouto,
Se cresès que l'autro t'escouto,
T'enganes. Di gros sa, rèn de rèn sara tièu.
"Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto;
Crebo de fam l'ivèr, tu que cantes l'estièu."
Ansin charro la fablo antico
Pèr nous counséia la pratico
Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun
De si bourso.--Que la coulico
Rousiguè la tripaio en aqueli coudoun!
Me fai susa, lou fabulisto,
Quand dis que l'ivèr vas en quisto
De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai.
De blad! Que n'en fariès, ma fisto!
As ta fon melicouso e demandes rèn mai.
Que t'enchau l'ivèr! Ta famiho
A la sousto en terro soumiho,
Et tu dormes la som que n'a ges de revèi;
Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho.
Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou véi,
De tu magro péu dessecado
La marriasso fai becado;
Te curo lou perus, te chapouto à moucèu,
T'encafourno pèr car-salado,
Requisto prouvisioun, l'ivèr, en tèms de neu.
III.
Vaqui l'istori veritablo
Bèn liuen dôu conte de la fablo.
Que n'en pensas, canèu de sort!
--O rammaissaire de dardeno
Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno
Que gouvernas lou mounde emé lou coffre-fort,
Fasès courre lou bru, canaio,
Que l'artisto jamai travaio
E dèu pati, lou bedigas.
Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco
La Cigalo a cava la rusco,
Raubas soun bèure, e pièi, morto, la rousigas.
So speaks my friend in the expressive Provençal idiom, rehabilitating
the creature so libelled by the fabulist.
Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as
follows:--
I.
Fine weather for the Cigale! God, what heat!
Half drunken with her joy, she feasts
In a hail of fire. Pays for the harvest meet;
A golden sea the reaper breasts,
Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long,
For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.
A blessed time for thee, little Cigale.
Thy little cymbals shake and sound,
Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall!
Man meanwhile swings his scythe around;
Continually back and forth it veers,
Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.
Grass-plugged, with water for the grinder full,
A flask is hung upon his hip;
The stone within its wooden trough is cool,
Free all the day to sip and sip;
But man is gasping in the fiery sun,
That makes his very marrow melt and run.
Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst: the bark,
Tender and juicy, of the bough.
Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it. Mark
The narrow passage welling now;
The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside,
Who drinkest of the flood, the honeyed tide.
Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive,
Neighbours and wives, or wanderers vile;
They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive
Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile;
Beauty, beware! the wallet-snatcher's face,
Humble at first, grows insolent apace.
They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take;
Soon discontent, their heads they toss;
They crave for all, and all will have. They rake
Their claws thy folded wings across;
Thy back a mountain, up and down each goes;
They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.
This way and that they pull. Impatient thou:
Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous taste
O'er the assembly sprinklest. Leave the bough
And fly the rascals thus disgraced,
Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure
Now lick their honey'd lips, and feed at leisure.
See these Bohemians without labour fed!
The ant the worst of all the crew--
Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head,
All of them sharpers thro' and thro',
Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace--
None more than she was eager for thy place,
More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread,
Or nose to pinch, and then to run
Under the shade thine ample belly spread;
Or climb thy leg for ladder; sun
Herself audacious on thy wings, and go
Most insolently o'er thee to and fro.
II.
Now comes a tale that no one should believe.
In other times, the ancients say,
The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve.
Thou didst in secret see one day
The ant below the ground her treasure store away.
The wealthy ant was drying in the sun
Her corn the dew had wet by night,
Ere storing it again; and one by one
She filled her sacks as it dried aright.
Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,
Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise
Blows me this way and that to-day.
I die of hunger. Of your riches please
Fill me my bag, and I'll repay,
When summer and its melons come this way.
"Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to!
Think you the ant will lend an ear?
You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you!
"Be off, and scrape some barrel clear!
You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!"
'Tis thus the ancient fable sings
To teach us all the prudence ripe
Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string
That tie their purses. May the gripe
Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!
He angers me, this fable-teller does,
Saying in winter thou dost seek
Flies, grubs, corn--thou dost never eat like us!
--Corn! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak?
Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek.
To thee what matters winter? Underground
Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou
The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound.
Thy body, fallen from the bough,
Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now.
The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide
A banquet makes; in little bits
She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside,
And stores thee where in wealth she sits:
Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.
III.
Here is the tale related duly,
And little resembling the fable, truly!
Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it.
It isn't the story as you would make it!
Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say,
Who govern the world with the cash-box--hey?
You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk,
That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work;
And so let him suffer, the imbecile!
Be you silent! 'Tis you, I think,
When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink,
Drive her away, her drink to steal;
And when she is dead--you make your meal!
CHAPTER II
THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW
The first Cigales appear about the summer solstice. Along the beaten
paths, calcined by the sun, hardened by the passage of frequent feet, we
see little circular orifices almost large enough to admit the thumb.
These are the holes by which the larvæ of the Cigale have come up from
the depths to undergo metamorphosis. We see them more or less
everywhere, except in fields where the soil has been disturbed by
ploughing. Their usual position is in the driest and hottest situations,
especially by the sides of roads or the borders of footpaths. Powerfully
equipped for the purpose, able at need to pierce the turf or sun-dried
clay, the larva, upon leaving the earth, seems to prefer the hardest
spots.
A garden alley, converted into a little Arabia Petræa by reflection from
a wall facing the south, abounds in such holes. During the last days of
June I have made an examination of these recently abandoned pits. The
soil is so compact that I needed a pick to tackle it.
The orifices are round, and close upon an inch in diameter. There is
absolutely no debris round them; no earth thrown up from within. This is
always the case; the holes of the Cigales are never surrounded by
dumping-heaps, as are the burrows of the Geotrupes, another notable
excavator. The way in which the work is done is responsible for this
difference. The dung-beetle works from without inwards; she begins to
dig at the mouth of the burrow, and afterwards re-ascends and
accumulates the excavated material on the surface. The larva of the
Cigale, on the contrary, works outward from within, upward from below;
it opens the door of exit at the last moment, so that it is not free for
the discharge of excavated material until the work is done. The first
enters and raises a little rubbish-heap at the threshold of her burrow;
the second emerges, and cannot, while working, pile up its rubbish on a
threshold which as yet has no existence.
The burrow of the Cigale descends about fifteen inches. It is
cylindrical, slightly twisted, according to the exigencies of the soil,
and always approaches the vertical, or the direction of the shortest
passage. It is perfectly free along its entire length. We shall search
in vain for the rubbish which such an excavation must apparently
produce; we shall find nothing of the sort. The burrow terminates in a
cul-de-sac, in a fairly roomy chamber with unbroken walls, which shows
not the least vestige of communication with any other burrow or
prolongation of the shaft.
Taking its length and diameter into account, we find the excavation has
a total volume of about twelve cubic inches. What becomes of the earth
which is removed?
Sunk in a very dry, crumbling soil, we should expect the shaft and the
chamber at the bottom to have soft, powdery walls, subject to petty
landslips, if no work were done but that of excavation. On the contrary,
the walls are neatly daubed, plastered with a sort of clay-like mortar.
They are not precisely smooth, indeed they are distinctly rough; but
their irregularities are covered with a layer of plaster, and the
crumbling material, soaked in some glutinous liquid and dried, is held
firmly in place.
The larva can climb up and down, ascend nearly to the surface, and go
down into its chamber of refuge, without bringing down, with his claws,
the continual falls of material which would block the burrow, make
ascent a matter of difficulty, and retreat impossible. The miner shores
up his galleries with uprights and cross-timbers; the builder of
underground railways supports the sides and roofs of his tunnels with a
lining of brick or masonry or segments of iron tube; the larva of the
Cigale, no less prudent an engineer, plasters the walls of its burrow
with cement, so that the passage is always free and ready for use.
If I surprise the creature just as it is emerging from the soil in order
to gain a neighbouring bough and there undergo transformation, I see it
immediately make a prudent retreat, descending to the bottom of its
burrow without the slightest difficulty--a proof that even when about to
be abandoned for ever the refuge is not encumbered with rubbish.
The ascending shaft is not a hurried piece of work, scamped by a
creature impatient to reach the sunlight. It is a true dwelling, in
which the larva may make a long stay. The plastered walls betray as
much. Such precautions would be useless in the case of a simple exit
abandoned as soon as made. We cannot doubt that the burrow is a kind of
meteorological observatory, and that its inhabitant takes note of the
weather without. Buried underground at a depth of twelve or fifteen
inches, the larva, when ripe for escape, could hardly judge whether the
meteorological conditions were favourable. The subterranean climate
varies too little, changes too slowly, and would not afford it the
precise information required for the most important action of its
life--the escape into the sunshine at the time of metamorphosis.
Patiently, for weeks, perhaps for months, it digs, clears, and
strengthens a vertical shaft, leaving only a layer of earth a finger's
breadth in thickness to isolate it from the outer world. At the bottom
it prepares a carefully built recess. This is its refuge, its place of
waiting, where it reposes in peace if its observations decide it to
postpone its final departure. At the least sign of fine weather it
climbs to the top of its burrow, sounds the outer world through the thin
layer of earth which covers the shaft, and informs itself of the
temperature and humidity of the outer air.
If things are not going well--if there are threats of a flood or the
dreaded _bise_--events of mortal gravity when the delicate insect issues
from its cerements--the prudent creature re-descends to the bottom of
its burrow for a longer wait. If, on the contrary, the state of the
atmosphere is favourable, the roof is broken through by a few strokes of
its claws, and the larva emerges from its tunnel.
Everything seems to prove that the burrow of the Cigale is a
waiting-room, a meteorological station, in which the larva makes a
prolonged stay; sometimes hoisting itself to the neighbourhood of the
surface in order to ascertain the external climate; sometimes retiring
to the depths the better to shelter itself. This explains the chamber
at the base of the shaft, and the necessity of a cement to hold the
walls together, for otherwise the creature's continual comings and
goings would result in a landslip.
A matter less easy of explanation is the complete disappearance of the
material which originally filled the excavated space. Where are the
twelve cubic inches of earth that represent the average volume of the
original contents of the shaft? There is not a trace of this material
outside, nor inside either. And how, in a soil as dry as a cinder, is
the plaster made with which the walls are covered?
Larvæ which burrow in wood, such as those of Capricornis and Buprestes,
will apparently answer our first question. They make their way through
the substance of a tree-trunk, boring their galleries by the simple
method of eating the material in front of them. Detached by their
mandibles, fragment by fragment, the material is digested. It passes
from end to end through the body of the pioneer, yields during its
passage its meagre nutritive principles, and accumulates behind it,
obstructing the passage, by which the larva will never return. The work
of extreme division, effected partly by the mandibles and partly by the
stomach, makes the digested material more compact than the intact wood,
from which it follows that there is always a little free space at the
head of the gallery, in which the caterpillar works and lives; it is not
of any great length, but just suffices for the movements of the
prisoner.
Must not the larva of the Cigale bore its passage in some such fashion?
I do not mean that the results of excavation pass through its body--for
earth, even the softest mould, could form no possible part of its diet.
But is not the material detached simply thrust back behind the excavator
as the work progresses?
The Cigale passes four years under ground. This long life is not spent,
of course, at the bottom of the well I have just described; that is
merely a resting-place preparatory to its appearance on the face of the
earth. The larva comes from elsewhere; doubtless from a considerable
distance. It is a vagabond, roaming from one root to another and
implanting its rostrum. When it moves, either to flee from the upper
layers of the soil, which in winter become too cold, or to install
itself upon a more juicy root, it makes a road by rejecting behind it
the material broken up by the teeth of its picks. That this is its
method is incontestable.
As with the larvæ of Capricornis and Buprestes, it is enough for the
traveller to have around it the small amount of free space necessitated
by its movements. Moist, soft, and easily compressible soil is to the
larva of the Cigale what digested wood-pulp is to the others. It is
compressed without difficulty, and so leaves a vacant space.
The difficulty is that sometimes the burrow of exit from the
waiting-place is driven through a very arid soil, which is extremely
refractory to compression so long as it retains its aridity. That the
larva, when commencing the excavation of its burrow, has already thrust
part of the detached material into a previously made gallery, now filled
up and disappeared, is probable enough, although nothing in the actual
condition of things goes to support the theory; but if we consider the
capacity of the shaft and the extreme difficulty of making room for such
a volume of debris, we feel dubious once more; for to hide such a
quantity of earth a considerable empty space would be necessary, which
could only be obtained by the disposal of more debris. Thus we are
caught in a vicious circle. The mere packing of the powdered earth
rejected behind the excavator would not account for so large a void. The
Cigale must have a special method of disposing of the waste earth. Let
us see if we can discover the secret.
Let us examine a larva at the moment of emerging from the soil. It is
almost always more or less smeared with mud, sometimes dried, sometimes
moist. The implements of excavation, the claws of the fore-feet, have
their points covered by little globules of mortar; the others bear
leggings of mud; the back is spotted with clay. One is reminded of a
scavenger who has been scooping up mud all day. This condition is the
more striking in that the insect comes from an absolutely dry soil. We
should expect to see it dusty; we find it muddy.
One more step, and the problem of the well is solved. I exhume a larva
which is working at its gallery of exit. Chance postpones this piece of
luck, which I cannot expect to achieve at once, since nothing on the
surface guides my search. But at last I am rewarded, and the larva is
just beginning its excavation. An inch of tunnel, free of all waste or
rubbish, and at the bottom the chamber, the place of rest; so far has
the work proceeded. And the worker--in what condition is it? Let us see.
The larva is much paler in colour than those which I have caught as they
emerged. The large eyes in particular are whitish, cloudy, blurred, and
apparently blind. What would be the use of sight underground? The eyes
of the larvæ leaving their burrows are black and shining, and evidently
capable of sight. When it issues into the sunlight the future Cigale
must find, often at some distance from its burrow, a suitable twig from
which to hang during its metamorphosis, so that sight is obviously of
the greatest utility. The maturity of the eyes, attained during the time
of preparation before deliverance, proves that the larva, far from
boring its tunnel in haste, has spent a long time labouring at it.
What else do we notice? The blind, pale larva is far more voluminous
than in the mature state; it is swollen with liquid as though it had
dropsy. Taken in the fingers, a limpid serum oozes from the hinder part
of the body, which moistens the whole surface. Is this fluid, evacuated
by the intestine, a product of urinary secretion--simply the contents of
a stomach nourished entirely upon sap? I will not attempt to decide, but
for convenience will content myself with calling it urine.
Well, this fountain of urine is the key to the enigma. As it digs and
advances the larva waters the powdery debris and converts it into a
paste, which is immediately applied to the walls by the pressure of the
abdomen. Aridity is followed by plasticity. The mud thus obtained
penetrates the interstices of the rough soil; the more liquid portion
enters the substance of the soil by infiltration; the remainder becomes
tightly packed and fills up the inequalities of the walls. Thus the
insect obtains an empty tunnel, with no loose waste, as all the loosened
soil is utilised on the spot, converted into a mortar which is more
compact and homogeneous than the soil through which the shaft is
driven.
Thus the larva works in the midst of a coating of mud, which is the