Part 6

There can be no doubt that the Sphex uses her greatest skill when immolating a cricket; it is therefore very important to explain the method by which the victim is sacrificed. Taught by my numerous attempts to observe the war tactics of the Cerceris, I immediately used on the Sphex the plan already successful with the former, i.e. taking away the prey and replacing it by a living specimen. This exchange is all the easier because, as we have seen, the Sphex leaves her victim while she goes down her burrow, and the audacious tameness, which actually allows her to take from your fingertips, or even off your hand, the cricket stolen from her and now offered, conduces most happily to a successful result of the experiment by allowing the details of the drama to be closely observed.

It is easy enough to find living crickets; one has only to lift the first stone, and you find them, crouched and sheltering from the sun. These are the young ones of the current year, with only rudimentary wings, and which, not having the industry of the perfect insect, do not yet know how to dig deep retreats where they would be beyond the investigations of the Sphex. In a few moments I find as many crickets as I could wish, and all my preparations are made. I ascend to the top of my observatory, establish myself on the flat ground in the midst of the Sphex colony and wait.

A huntress comes, conveys her cricket to the mouth of her hole and goes down alone. The cricket is speedily replaced by one of mine, but placed at some distance from the hole. The Sphex returns, looks round, and hurries to seize her too distant prey. I am all attention. Nothing on earth would induce me to give up my part in the drama which I am about to witness. The frightened cricket springs away. The Sphex follows closely, reaches it, darts upon it. Then there is a struggle in the dust when sometimes conqueror, sometimes conquered is uppermost or undermost. Success, equal for a moment, finally crowns the aggressor. In spite of vigorous kicks, in spite of bites from its pincer-like jaws, the cricket is felled and stretched on its back.

The murderess soon makes her arrangements. She places herself body to body with her adversary, but in a reverse position, seizes one of the bands at the end of the cricket’s abdomen and masters with her forefeet the convulsive efforts of its great hind-thighs. At the same moment her intermediate feet squeeze the panting sides of the vanquished cricket, and her hind ones press like two levers on its face, causing the articulation of the neck to gape open. The Sphex then curves her abdomen vertically, so as to offer a convex surface impossible for the mandibles of the cricket to seize, and one beholds, not without emotion, the poisoned lancet plunge once into the victim’s neck, next into the jointing of the two front segments of the thorax, and then again towards the abdomen. In less time than it takes to tell, the murder is committed, and the Sphex, after setting her disordered toilette to rights, prepares to carry off her victim, its limbs still quivering in the death-throes. Let us reflect a moment on the admirable tactics of which I have given a faint sketch. The Cerceris attacks a passive adversary, incapable of flight, whose sole chance of safety is found in a solid cuirass whose weak points the murderers know. But here what a difference! The prey is armed with redoubtable mandibles, capable of disembowelling the aggressor if they can seize her, and a pair of strong feet, actual clubs, furnished with a double row of sharp spines, which can be used alternatively to enable the cricket to bound far away from an enemy or to overturn one by brutal kicks. Accordingly, note what precautions on the part of the Sphex before using her dart. The victim, lying on its back, cannot escape by using its hind levers, for want of anything to spring from, as of course it would were it attacked in its normal position, as are the big Weevils by Cerceris tuberculata. Its spiny legs, mastered by the forefeet of the Sphex, cannot be used as offensive weapons, and its mandibles, held at a distance by the hind-feet of the Hymenopteron, open threateningly but can seize nothing. But it is not enough for the Sphex to render it impossible for her victim to hurt her: she must hold it so firmly garrotted that no movement can turn the sting from the points where the drop of poison must be instilled, and probably it is in order to hinder any motion of the abdomen that one of the end segments is grasped. If a fertile imagination had had free play to invent a plan of attack it could not have devised anything better, and it is questionable whether the athletes of the classic palestra when grappling an adversary would have assumed attitudes more scientifically calculated.

I have just said that the dart is plunged several times into the victim’s body, once under the neck, then behind the prothorax, lastly near the top of the abdomen. It is in this triple blow that the infallibility, the infused science of instinct, appear in all their magnificence. First let us recall the chief conclusions to which the preceding study of the Cerceris have led us. The victims of Hymenoptera whose larva live on prey are not corpses, in spite of entire immobility. There is merely total or partial paralysis, and more or less annihilation of animal life, but vegetative life—that of the nutritive organs—lasts a long while yet, and preserves from decomposition the prey which the larvæ are not to devour for a considerable time. To produce this paralysis the predatory Hymenoptera use just those methods which the advanced science of our day might suggest to the experimental physiologist—namely, wounding, by means of a poisoned dart, those nervous centres which animate the organs of locomotion. We know too that the various centres or ganglia of the nervous chain in articulate animals act to a certain degree independently, so that injury to one only causes, at all events immediately, paralysis of the corresponding segment, and this in proportion as the ganglia are more widely separated and distant from each other. If, on the contrary, they are soldered together, injury to the common centre causes paralysis of all the segments where its ramifications spread. This is the case with Buprestids and Weevils, which the Cerceris paralyses by a single sting, directed at the common mass of the nerve centres in the thorax. But open a cricket, and what do we find to animate the three pairs of feet? We find what the Sphex knew long before the anatomist, three nerve centres far apart. Thence the fine logic of the three stabs. Proud science! humble thyself.

Crickets sacrificed by Sphex flavipennis are no more dead, in spite of all appearances, than are Weevils struck by a Cerceris. The flexibility of the integuments displays the slightest internal movement, and thus makes useless the artificial means used by me to show some remains of life in the Cleonus of Cerceris tuberculata. If one closely observes a cricket stretched on its back a week or even a fortnight or more after the murder, one sees the abdomen heave strongly at long intervals. Very often one can notice a quiver of the palpi and marked movements in the antennæ and the bands of the abdomen, which separate and then come suddenly together. By putting such crickets into glass tubes I have kept them perfectly fresh for six weeks. Consequently, the Sphex larvæ, which live less than a fortnight before enclosing themselves in their cocoons, are sure of fresh food as long as they care to feast.

The chase is over; the three or four crickets needed to store a cell are heaped methodically on their backs, their heads at the far end, their feet toward the entrance. An egg is laid on each. Then the burrow has to be closed. The sand from the excavation lying heaped before the cell door is promptly swept out backward into the passage. From time to time fair-sized bits of gravel are chosen singly, the Sphex scratching in the fragments with her forefeet, and carrying them in her jaws to consolidate the pulverised mass. If none suitable are at hand, she goes to look for them in the neighbourhood, apparently choosing with such scrupulous care as a mason would show in selecting the best stones for a building. Vegetable remains and tiny bits of dead leaf are also employed. In a moment every outward sign of the subterranean dwelling is gone, and if one has not been careful to mark its position, it is impossible for the most attentive eye to find it again. This done, a new burrow is made, provisioned and walled up as soon as the Sphex has eggs to house. Having finished laying, she returns to a careless and vagabond life until the first cold weather ends her well-filled existence.

The Sphex’s task is accomplished. I will finish mine by an examination of her weapon. The organ destined for the elaboration of her poison is composed of two elegantly branched tubes communicating separately with a common reservoir or pear-shaped vial, whence proceeds a slender channel leading to the axis of the sting and conducting to its end the little poisoned drop. The dart is extremely small, and not such as one would expect from the size of the Sphex, especially from the effect which her sting produces on crickets. The point is quite smooth, without the barbs found in the sting of the hive bee. The reason of this is evident. The bee uses her sting to avenge an injury only at the cost of life, the barbs preventing its withdrawal from the wound, and thus causing mortal ruptures in the viscera at the end of the abdomen. What could the Sphex have done with a weapon which would have been fatal the first time it was used? Even supposing that the barbed dart could have been withdrawn, I doubt if any Hymenopteron using its weapon, especially to wound game destined for its progeny, would be provided with one. For here the dart is not a fine gentleman’s weapon, unsheathed for vengeance, which is said to be the pleasure of the gods, but a very costly one, since the vindictive bee sometimes pays for it with life. It is a worker’s tool, on which depends the future of the larvæ, thus it should be one easily used in a struggle with captured prey, plunging into and coming out of the flesh without any delay—a condition much better fulfilled by a smooth blade than by a barbed one.

I wished to ascertain at my own expense if the Sphex’s sting be very painful—that sting which knocks over robust victims with frightful rapidity. Well, I own with great admiration that it is slight and cannot be at all compared as to pain with those of the bee and the irascible wasp. It hurts so little that, instead of using pincers, I never hesitated to catch with my fingers any Sphegidæ which I wanted for my researches. I may say the same of the various Cerceris, Philanthides, Palares, and even of the huge Scoliides, whose very look is terrifying, and in general of all predatory Hymenoptera which I have been able to observe. I except, however, those that hunt spiders, the Pompili, and even their sting is far less severe than that of a bee.

One last remark. We know how furiously Hymenoptera armed with a sting used only for defence rush at the bold man who disturbs their nest, and punish his temerity. Those on the contrary whose sting is used only for hunting are very pacific, as if they guessed how important for their family is the little poison drop in their vase. That droplet is the safeguard of their race—I might really say their means of subsistence; therefore they use it economically, in the serious business of the chase, with no parade of vengeful courage. I was not once punished by a sting when I established myself amid colonies of our various predatory Hymenoptera, whose nests I overturned, carrying off larvæ and provisions. To induce the creature to use its weapon, one must lay hold of it, and even then the skin is not always pierced, unless one puts within reach a part more delicate than the fingers, such as the wrist.

VIII

LARVA AND NYMPH

The egg of Sphex flavipennis is white, elongated, and cylindrical, slightly curved, and measuring three to four millimetres in length. Instead of being laid fortuitously on any part of the victim, it is invariably placed on one spot, across the cricket’s breast—a little on one side, between the first and second pairs of feet. The eggs of the white bordered, and of the Languedocian Sphex occupy a like position—the first on the breast of a cricket, the second on that of an ephippiger. This chosen spot must possess some highly important peculiarity for the security of the young larva, as I have never known it vary.

Hatching takes place at the end of two or three days. A most delicate covering splits, and one sees a feeble maggot, transparent as crystal, somewhat attenuated and even compressed in front, slightly swelled out behind, and adorned on either side by a narrow white band formed by the chief trachea. The feeble creature occupies the same position as the egg; its head is, as it were, engrafted on the same spot where the front end of the egg was fixed, and the remainder of its body rests on the victim without adhering to it. Its transparency allows us readily to perceive rapid fluctuations within its body, undulations following one another with mathematical regularity, and which, beginning in the middle of the body, are impelled, some forward and some backward. These are due to the digestive canal, which imbibes long draughts of the juices drawn from the sides of the victim.

Let us pause a moment before a spectacle so calculated to arrest attention. The prey is laid on its back, motionless. In the cell of Sphex flavipennis it is a cricket, or three or four, piled up; in that of the Languedocian Sphex there is a single victim, but proportionately large, a plump-bodied ephippiger. The grub is a lost grub if torn from the spot whence it draws nourishment. Should it fall, all is over, for weak as it is, and without means of locomotion, how would it again find the spot where it should quench its thirst? The merest trifle would enable the victim to get rid of the animalcule gnawing at its entrails, yet the gigantic prey gives itself up without the least sign of protestation. I am well aware that it is paralysed, and has lost the use of its feet from the sting of its assassin, but at this early stage it preserves more or less power of movement and sensation in parts unaffected by the dart. The abdomen palpitates, the mandibles open and shut, the abdominal styles and the antennæ oscillate. What would happen if the grub fixed on one of the spots yet sensitive near the mandibles, or even on the stomach, which, being tenderer and more succulent, would naturally suggest itself as fittest for the first mouthfuls of the feeble grub? Bitten on the quick parts, cicada, cricket, and ephippiger would display at least some shuddering of the skin, which would detach and throw off the minute larva, for which probably all would be over, since it would risk falling into the formidable, pincer-like jaws.

But there is a part of the body where no such peril is to be feared—the thorax wounded by the sting. There and there only can the experimenter on a recent victim dig down the point of a needle—nay, pierce through and through without evoking any sign of pain. And there the egg is invariably laid—there the young larva always attacks its prey. Gnawed where pain is no longer felt, the cricket does not stir. Later, when the wound has reached a sensitive spot, it will move of course as much as it can; but then it is too late—its torpor will be too deep, and besides, its enemy will have gained strength. That is why the egg is always laid on the same spot, near the wounds caused by the sting on the thorax, not in the middle, where the skin might be too thick for the new-born grub, but on one side—toward the junction of the feet, where the skin is much thinner. What a judicious choice! what reasoning on the part of the mother when, underground, in complete darkness, she perceives and utilises the one suitable spot for her egg!

I have brought up Sphex larvæ by giving them successively crickets taken from cells, and have thus been able, day by day, to follow the rapid progress of my nurslings. The first cricket—that on which the egg is laid—is attacked, as I have already said, toward the point where the dart first struck—between the first and second pairs of legs. At the end of a few days the young larva has hollowed a hole big enough for half its body in the victim’s breast. One may then sometimes see the cricket, bitten to the quick, vainly move its antennæ and abdominal styles, open and close its empty jaws, and even move a foot, but the larva is safe and searches its vitals with impunity. What an awful nightmare for the paralysed cricket! This first ration is consumed in six or seven days; nothing is left but the outer integument, whose every portion remains in place. The larva, whose length is then twelve millimetres, comes out of the body of the cricket through the hole it had made in the thorax. During this operation it moults, and the skin remains caught in the opening. It rests, and then begins on a second ration. Being stronger it has nothing to fear from the feeble movements of the cricket, whose daily increasing torpor has extinguished the last shred of resistance, more than a week having passed since it was wounded; so it is attacked with no precautions, and usually at the stomach, where the juices are richest. Soon comes the turn of the third cricket, then that of the fourth, which is consumed in ten hours. Of these three victims there remains only the horny integument, whose various portions are dismembered one by one and carefully emptied. If a fifth ration be offered, the larva disdains or hardly touches it, not from moderation, but from an imperious necessity.

It should be observed that up to now the larva has ejected no excrement, and that its intestine, in which four crickets have been engulfed, is distended to bursting. Thus, a new ration cannot tempt its gluttony, and henceforward it only thinks about making a silken dwelling. Its repast has lasted from ten to twelve days without a pause. Its length now measures from twenty-five to thirty millimetres, and its greatest width from five to six. Its usual shape, somewhat enlarged behind and narrowed in front, agrees with that general in larvæ of Hymenoptera. It has fourteen segments, including the head, which is very small, with weak mandibles seemingly incapable of the part just played by them. Of these fourteen segments the intermediary ones are provided with stigmata. Its livery is yellowish-white, with countless chalky white dots.

We saw that the larva began on the stomach of the second cricket, this being the most juicy and fattest part. Like a child who first licks off the jam on his bread, and then bites the slice with contemptuous tooth, it goes straight to what is best, the abdominal intestines, leaving the flesh, which must be extracted from its horny sheath, until it can be digested deliberately. But when first hatched it is not thus dainty: it must take the bread first and the jam later, and it has no choice but to bite its first mouthful from the middle of the victim’s chest, exactly where its mother placed the egg. It is rather tougher, but the spot is a secure one, on account of the deep inertia into which three stabs have thrown the thorax. Elsewhere, there would be, generally, if not always, spasmodic convulsions which would detach the feeble thing and expose it to terrible risks amid a heap of victims whose hind legs, toothed like a saw, might occasionally kick, and whose jaws could still grip. Thus it is motives of security, and not the habits of the grub, which determine the mother where to place its egg.

A suspicion suggests itself to me as to this. The first cricket, the ration on which the egg is laid, exposes the grub to more risks than do the others. First, the larva is still a weakly creature; next, the victim was only recently stung, and therefore in the likeliest state for displaying some remains of life. This first cricket has to be as thoroughly paralysed as possible, and therefore it is stabbed three times. But the others, whose torpor deepens as time passes,—the others which the larvæ only attack when grown strong,—have they to be treated as carefully? Might not a single stab, or two, suffice to bring on a gradual paralysis while the grub devours its first allowance? The poison is too precious to be squandered; it is powder and shot for the Sphex, only to be used economically. At all events, if at one time I have been able to see a victim stabbed thrice, at another I have only seen two wounds given. It is true that the quivering point of the Sphex’s abdomen seemed seeking a favourable spot for a third wound; but if really given, it escaped my observation. I incline to believe that the victim destined to be eaten first always is stabbed three times, but that economy causes the others only to be struck twice. The study of the caterpillar-hunting Ammophila will later confirm this suspicion.

The last cricket being finished, the larva sets to work to spin a cocoon. In less than forty-eight hours the work is completed, and henceforward the skilful worker may yield within an impenetrable shelter to the overpowering lethargy which is stealing over it—a state of being which is neither sleeping nor waking, death nor life, whence it will issue transfigured ten months later. Few cocoons are so complex as is this one. Besides a coarse outer network, there are three distinct layers, forming three cocoons, one within another. Let us examine in detail these various courses of the silken edifice. First comes an open network, coarse and cobwebby, on which the larva places itself and hangs as in a hammock to work more easily at the cocoon properly so called. This incomplete net, hastily spun to serve as a scaffolding, is made with threads carelessly placed and holding grains of sand, bits of earth, and remains from the larva’s banquet—cricket’s thighs, still banded with red, feet, and skull. The next covering, which is the first of the real cocoon, is a felted wrapper, light red, very fine, very supple, and somewhat crumpled. A few threads cast here and there connect it with the preceding scaffolding and the following covering. It forms a cylindrical purse, with no opening and too large for what it contains, thus causing the surface to wrinkle. Then comes an elastic case, markedly smaller than the purse which contains it, almost cylindrical, and rounded at the upper end, toward which is turned the head of the larva, while at the lower it makes a blunt cone. Its colour is light red, except towards the lower end, where the shade is darker. It is fairly firm, though it yields to a moderate pressure, except in the conical part, which resists and seems to contain a hard substance. On opening this sheath it is seen to be formed of two layers closely pressed together, but easily separable. The outer is a silken felt precisely like that of the preceding purse, the inner one, the third of the cocoon, is a kind of lacquer—a brilliant violet-brown varnish, fragile, very soft to the touch, and of quite a different nature to the rest of the cocoon. The microscope shows that instead of being a felt of silky filaments like the other coverings, it is a homogeneous covering of a peculiar varnish, whose origin is, as we shall see, sufficiently strange. As for the resistance of the conical end of the cocoon, one finds it caused by a load of friable matter, dark violet, and shining with numerous black particles. This load is the dry mass of excrement, ejected once for all by the larva, inside its cocoon, and to it is due the darker colour of the conical end. The average length of this complex dwelling is twenty-seven millimetres, and its greatest width nine.

Let us return to the purple varnish which covers the interior of the cocoon. At first, I thought it should be attributed to the silk glands, which, after serving to spin the double wrapper of silk and the scaffolding, must finally have secreted it. To convince myself, I opened larvæ which had just completed their task of weaving, and had not yet begun to lay on the lacquer. At that period I found no trace of violet fluid in their glands. It is only seen in the digestive canal, which is swelled with a purple pulp, and later in the stercorous load sent down to the lower end of the cocoon. Elsewhere all is white, or faintly tinged with yellow. I am far from suggesting that the larva plasters its cocoon with excrement, yet I am convinced that this wash is produced by the digestive organs, and I suspect—though I cannot positively assert it, having several times missed the moment to ascertain it—that the larva disgorges and applies with its mouth the quintessence of the purple pulp in its stomach to make the wash of lacquer. Only after this last piece of work would it eject the remains of digestion in a single mass, and thus is explained the disgusting necessity of storing the excrement within the larva’s habitation.

At all events the usefulness of this layer is clear; its absolute impermeability protects the larva from the damp which would certainly penetrate the poor shelter hollowed for it by its mother. Recollect that it is buried but a few inches deep in sandy, open ground. To judge how far cocoons thus varnished are capable of resisting damp, I have plunged them in water for several days, yet never found any trace of moisture within them. Let us compare the Sphex cocoon, with manifold coverings to protect the larva in a burrow itself unprotected, with that of Cerceris tuberculata, sheltered by a layer of sandstone, more than half a yard down in the ground. This cocoon has the form of a very long pear, with the small end cut off. It is composed of a single silken wrap, so fine that the larva is seen through it. In my many entomological researches I have always found the labour of larva and mother supplement each other. In a deep well-sheltered dwelling the cocoon is of light materials; for a surface abode, exposed to wind and weather, it is strongly constructed.

Nine months pass, during which a work is done which is quite hidden. I pass over this period, occupied by the unknown mystery of transformation, and to come to the nymph, go from the end of September to the first days of the following July. The larva has thrown aside its faded vestment, and the chrysalis, a transitory organisation, or rather, a perfect insect in swaddling bands, awaits motionless the awakening which is still a month off. Feet, antennæ, the visible portions of the mouth, and the undeveloped wings, look like clearest crystal, and are regularly spread out under the thorax and abdomen. The rest of the body is of an opaque white, slightly tinged with yellow; the four intermediary segments of the abdomen show on either side a narrow, blunt prolongation; the last segment has above a blade-like termination, shaped like the section of a circle, furnished below with two conical protuberances, side by side, thus making in all eleven appendages starring the contour of the abdomen. Such is the delicate creature which, to become a Sphex, must assume a particoloured livery of black and red, and throw off the fine skin which swaddles it so closely.

I have been curious to follow day by day the progress and coloration of the chrysalid, and to experiment whether sunlight—that rich palette whence Nature draws her colours—could influence their progress. With this aim I have taken chrysalids out of their cocoon and kept them in glass tubes, where some, in complete darkness, realised natural conditions, while others, hung up against a white wall, were all day long in a strong light. These diametrically opposed conditions did not affect the colouring, or if there were some slight difference, it was to the disadvantage of those exposed to light. Quite unlike to what occurs with plants, light does not influence insect-colouring, nor even quicken it. It must be so, since in the species most gifted with splendid colour—Buprestids and Carabids for instance—the wonderful hues that would seem stolen from a sunbeam are really elaborated in darkness, deep in the ground, or in the decayed trunk of some aged tree.

The first indication of colour is in the eyes, whose horny facets pass successively from white to tawny, then to a slaty hue, and lastly to black. The simple ones at the top of the forehead share in their turn in this coloration before the rest of the body has at all lost its whitish tint. It should be noted that this precocity in the most delicate of organs, the eye, is general in animals. Later a smoky line appears in the furrow separating the mesothorax from the metathorax, and four-and-twenty hours later the whole back of the mesothorax is black. At the same time the division of the prothorax grows shaded, a black dot appears in the central and upper part of the metathorax, and the mandibles are covered with a rusty tint. Gradually a deeper and deeper shade spreads over the last segments of the thorax, and finally reaches the head and sides. One day suffices to turn the smoky tint of the head and the furthest segments of the thorax into deep black. Then the abdomen shares in the rapidly increasing coloration. The edge of the anterior segments is tinted with daffodil, while the posterior segments acquire a band of ashy black. Then the antennæ and feet take a darker and darker tint, till they become black, all the base of the abdomen turns orange-red, and the tip black. The livery would then be complete, but that the tarsi and mouthpieces are transparent red and the stumps of wings ashy black. Four-and-twenty hours later the chrysalis will burst its bonds. It only takes six or seven days to acquire its permanent tints; the eyes have done so a fortnight before the rest of the body. From this sketch the law of chromatic evolution is easily apprehended. We see that, omitting the eyes and ocelli, whose early perfection recalls what takes place in the higher animals, the starting-point of coloration is a central one, the mesothorax, whence it invades progressively by centrifugal progression—first the rest of the thorax, then the head and abdomen, and finally the various appendages, antennæ, and feet. The tarsi and mouthpieces take colour later still, and the wings only on coming out of their cases.

Now we have the Sphex in full costume, but she still has to free herself from the chrysalis case. This is a very fine wrap, enfolding every smallest detail of structure, and hardly veiling the shape and colours of the perfect insect. As prelude to the last act of metamorphosis, the Sphex, rousing suddenly from her torpor, begins to shake herself violently, as if to call life into her long-benumbed limbs. The abdomen is alternately lengthened and contracted, the feet are suddenly spread, then bent, then spread again, and their various joints are stiffened with effort. The creature, curved backwards on its head and the point of the abdomen, with ventral surface upward, distends by vigorous shakes the jointing of its neck and of the petiole attaching the abdomen to the thorax. At last its efforts are crowned with success, and after half an hour of these rough gymnastics the sheath, pulled in every direction, ruptures at the neck, at the insertion of the feet and petiole, and, in short, wherever the body has been movable enough to allow of sufficiently violent displacement.

All these tears leave several irregular strips, the chief of which envelops the abdomen and comes up the back of the thorax. To it belong the wing sheaths. A second strip covers the head. Lastly, each foot has its own sheath, more or less dilapidated toward the base. The biggest, which forms the chief part of the whole covering, is got off by alternate dilatations and contractions of the abdomen, which gradually push it back into a little ball connected for some time with the animal by tracheal filaments. Then the Sphex again becomes motionless, and the operation is over, though head, antennæ, and feet are still more or less covered. It is clear that the feet cannot be freed in one piece on account of the roughnesses and thorns with which they are armed. These rags of skin dry up and are got rid of later by rubbing the feet together, and by brushing, smoothing, and combing the whole body with the tarsi when the Sphex has acquired full vigour.