The Life and Love of the Insect

CHAPTER I. The Sacred Beetle

THE SACRED BEETLE

The building of the nest, the safeguard of the family, furnishes the loftiest expression of the instinctive faculties. That ingenious architect, the bird, teaches us as much; and the insect, with its still more varied talents, repeats the lesson, telling us that maternity is the supreme inspirer of the instinct. Placed in charge of the duration of the species, which is of more serious interest than the preservation of individuals, maternity awakens a marvellous foresight in the drowsiest intelligence; it is the thrice sacred hearth wherein smoulder and then suddenly burst forth those incomprehensible psychic gleams which give us the impression of an infallible reasoning power. The more maternity asserts itself, the higher does instinct ascend.

The most worthy of our attention in this respect are the Hymenoptera, upon whom the cares of maternity devolve in their fulness. All these favourites of instinct prepare board and lodging for their offspring. They become past masters in a host of industries for the sake of a family which their faceted eyes never behold and which, nevertheless, the maternal foresight knows quite well. One becomes a manufacturer of cotton goods and mills cotton-wool bottles; another sets up as a basket-maker and weaves hampers out of scraps of flowers; a third turns mason and builds rooms of cement and domes of road-metal; a fourth starts a pottery-works, in which the clay is kneaded into shapely vases and jars and bulging pots; yet another adopts the calling of a pitman and digs mysterious warm, moist passages underground. A thousand trades similar to ours and often even unknown to our industrial system are employed in the preparation of the abode. Next come the victuals of the expected nurslings: piles of honey, loaves of pollen, stores of preserved game, cunningly paralyzed. In such works as these, having the future of the family for their exclusive object, the highest manifestations of the instinct are displayed under the impulse of maternity.

In the rest of the entomological order, the mother’s cares are generally very summary. In most cases, they are confined to the laying of the eggs in favourable spots, where the grub can find a bed and food at its own risk and peril. Where education is so rustic, talents are superfluous. Lycurgus banished the arts from his republic, as enervating. In like manner, the higher inspirations of the instinct are banished among insects brought up in Spartan simplicity. The mother neglects the gentle cares of the cradle; and the prerogatives of the intellect, the best of all, diminish and disappear, so true is it that for the animal, even as for ourselves, the family is a source of perfection.

While the Hymenoptera, so extremely thoughtful of their progeny, fill us with wonder, the others, which abandon theirs to the chances of good luck or bad, must seem to us, by comparison, of but little interest. These others form almost the entirety; at least, to my knowledge, among the fauna of our country-sides, there is only one other instance of insects preparing board and lodging for their family, as do the gatherers of honey and the buriers of baskets full of game.

And, strange to say, those insects vying in maternal tenderness with the flower-despoiling tribe of Bees are none other than the Dung-beetles, the dealers in ordure, the scavengers of the meadows contaminated by the herd. We must pass from the scented corollas of the flower-bed to the droppings left on the high-road by the mule to find a second example of devoted mothers and lofty instincts. Nature abounds in these antitheses. What are our ugliness and beauty, our cleanliness and dirt to her? With refuse, she creates the flower; from a little manure, she extracts the blessed grain of the wheat.

Notwithstanding their filthy trade, the Dung-beetles occupy a very respectable rank. Thanks to their usually imposing size; to their severe and irreproachably glossy garb; to their short, stout, thickset shape; to the quaint ornamentation either of their brow or, also, of their thorax, they cut an excellent figure in the collector’s boxes, especially when to our own species, oftenest of an ebon black, we add a few tropical species flashing with gleams of gold and ruddy copper.

They are the sedulous guests of our herds, for which reason several of them emit a mild flavour of benzoic acid, the aromatic of the sheepfolds. Their pastoral habits have impressed the nomenclators, who, too often, alas, careless of euphony, have changed their note this time and headed their descriptions with such names as Melibæus, Tityrus, Amyntas, Corydon, Mopsus and Alexis. We have here the whole series of bucolic denominations made famous by the poets of antiquity. Virgil’s eclogues have lent their vocabulary for the Dung-beetles’ glorification.

What alacrity around one and the same dropping! Never did adventurers hurrying from the four corners of the earth display such eagerness in working a Californian claim. Before the sun becomes too hot, they are there in their hundreds, large and small, promiscuously, of every sort, shape and size, hastening to carve themselves a slice of the common cake. There are some that work in the open air and scrape the surface; there are some that dig themselves galleries in the thick of the heap, in search of choice veins; others work the lower stratum and bury their spoil without delay in the underlying ground; others—the smallest—stand aside to crumble a morsel that has fallen from the mighty excavations of their more powerful fellow-workers. Some, the newcomers and, no doubt, the hungriest, consume their meal on the spot; but the greater number mean to put by a substance that will allow them to spend long days in plenty, down in some safe retreat. A nice, fresh dropping is not found just when you want it, amid the fields bare of thyme; a windfall of that sort is as manna from the sky; only fortune’s favourites receive so fair a portion. Wherefore the riches of to-day are prudently stored for the morrow.

The stercoraceous scent has carried the glad tidings half a mile around; and all have hastened up to gather provisions. A few laggards are still arriving, a-wing or on foot.

Who is this that trots towards the heap, fearing lest he come too late? His long legs move with a sudden, awkward action, as though driven by some mechanism within his belly; his little red antennæ spread their fan, a sign of anxious greed. He is coming, he has come, not without sending some few banqueters sprawling. It is the Sacred Beetle, clad all in black, the biggest and most famous of our Dung-beetles. Ancient Egypt held him in veneration and looked upon him as a symbol of immortality. Here he now sits at table, beside his fellow-guests, each of whom is giving the last touches to his ball with the flat of his broad fore-legs or else enriching it with yet one more layer before retiring to enjoy the fruit of his labours in peace. Let us follow the construction of the famous ball in all its phases.

The shield, that is to say, the broad, flat edge of the head, is notched with six angular teeth arranged in a semicircle. This constitutes the tool for digging and separating, the rake that lifts and casts aside the unnutritious vegetable fibres, goes for something better, scrapes and collects it together. A choice is thus made, for these dainty epicures differentiate between one thing and another: a casual choice, if the Beetle be interested in his own provender, but a most scrupulous choice, when it becomes a question of constructing the maternal ball.

For his own needs, the Beetle is less fastidious and contents himself with a wholesale selection. The notched shield scoops and digs, eliminates and gathers somewhat at random. The fore-legs play a mighty part in the work. They are flattened, curved into the segment of a circle, supplied with powerful nervures and armed on the outside with five sturdy teeth. If a powerful effort be needed to remove an obstacle or to force a way through the thickest part of the heap, the Dung-beetle makes play with his elbows, that is to say, he flings his toothed legs to right and left and clears a semi-circular space with a vigorous thrust of the rake. Room once made, a different kind of work is found for these same limbs: they collect armfuls of the material raked together by the shield and push it under the insect’s belly, between the four hind-legs. These are shaped for the turner’s trade. The legs, especially the last two, are long and slender, slightly bowed and ending in a very sharp claw. One has but to look at them to recognize a pair of spherical compasses capable of embracing a globular body in their curved branches and improving its form. In fact, their mission is to shape the ball.

Armful by armful, the material is heaped up under the belly, between the four legs, which, by a slight pressure, impart their own curve to it and give it a first fashion. Then, betweenwhiles, the rough-hewn pill is set spinning betwixt the four branches of the two spherical compasses; it turns under the Dung-beetle’s belly until it is rolled into a perfect ball. Should the surface layer lack plasticity and threaten to peel off, should some too-stringy part refuse to yield to the action of the wheel, the fore-legs correct the faulty places; their broad beaters pat the ball to give consistency to the new layer and to imbed the recalcitrant scraps into the mass.

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