If you "leave no stone unturned" in your walks through the fields,
you may perchance discover the abode of one of our solitary bees.
Indeed, I have often thought what a chapter of natural history
might be written on "Life under a Stone," so many of our smaller
creatures take refuge there,--ants, crickets, spiders, wasps,
bumblebees, the solitary bee, mice, toads, snakes, and newts. What
do these things do in a country where there are no stones? A stone
makes a good roof, a good shield; it is water-proof and fire-proof,
and, until the season becomes too rigorous, frost-proof too. The
field mouse wants no better place to nest than beneath a large,
flat stone, and the bumblebee is entirely satisfied if she can get
possession of his old or abandoned quarters. I have even heard of
a swarm of hive bees going under a stone that was elevated a little
from the ground. After that, I did not marvel at Samson's bees
going into the carcass or skeleton of the lion.
In the woods one day (it was November) I turned over a stone that
had a very strange-looking creature under it,--a species of
salamander I had never before seen, the banded salamander. It was
five or six inches long, and was black and white in alternate
bands. It looked like a creature of the night,--darkness dappled
with moonlight,--and so it proved. I wrapped it up in some leaves
and took it home in my pocket. By day it would barely move, and
could not be stimulated or frightened into any activity; but an
night it was alert and wide awake. Of its habits I know little,
but it is a pretty and harmless creature. Under another stone was
still another species, the violet-colored salamander, larger, of a
dark plum-color, with two rows of bright yellow spots down its
back. It evinced more activity than its fellow of the moon-
bespattered garb. I have also found the little musical red newt
under stones, and several small dark species.
But to return to the solitary bee. When you go a-hunting of the
honey-bee, and are in quest of a specimen among the asters or
goldenrod in some remote field to start a line with, you shall see
how much this little native bee resembles her cousin of the social
hive. There appear to be several varieties, but the one I have in
mind is just the size of the honey-bee, and of the same general
form and color, and its manner among the flowers is nearly the
same. On close inspection, its color proves to be lighter, while
the under side of its abdomen is of a rich bronze. The body is
also flatter and less tapering, and the curve inclines upward,
rather than downward. You perceive it would be the easiest thing
in the world for the bee to sting an enemy perched upon its back.
One variety, with a bright buff abdomen, is called "sweat-bee" by
the laborers in the field, because it alights upon their hands and
bare arms when they are sweaty,--doubtless in quest of salt. It
builds its nest in little cavities in rails and posts. But the one
with the bronze or copper bottom builds under a stone. I
discovered its nest one day in this wise: I was lying on the ground
in a field, watching a line of honey-bees to the woods, when my
attention was arrested by one of these native bees flying about me
in a curious, inquiring way. When it returned the third time, I
said, "That bee wants something of me," which proved to be the
case, for I was lying upon the entrance to its nest. On my
getting up, it alighted and crawled quickly home. I turned over
the stone, which was less than a foot across, when the nest was
partially exposed. It consisted of four cells, built in succession
in a little tunnel that had been excavated in the ground. The
cells, which were about three quarters of an inch long and half as
far through, were made of sections cut from the leaf of the maple,--
cut with the mandibles of the bee, which work precisely like
shears. I have seen the bee at work cutting out these pieces. She
moves through the leaf like the hand of the tailor through a piece
of cloth. When the pattern is detached, she rolls it up, and,
embracing it with her legs, flies home with it, often appearing to
have a bundle disproportionately large. Each cell is made up of a
dozen or more pieces: the larger ones, those that form its walls,
like the walls of a paper bag, are oblong, and are turned down at
one end, so as to form the bottom; not one thickness of leaf
merely, but three or four thicknesses, each fragment of leaf
lapping over another. When the cell is completed, it is filled
about two thirds full of bee-bread,--the color of that in the comb
in the hive, but not so dry, and having a sourish smell. Upon this
the egg is laid, and upon this the young feed when hatched. Is the
paper bag now tied up? No, it is headed up; circular bits of
leaves are nicely fitted into it to the number of six or seven.
They are cut without pattern or compass, and yet they are all
alike, and all exactly fit. Indeed, the construction of this cell
or receptacle shows great ingenuity and skill. The bee is, of
course, unable to manage a single section of a leaf large enough,
when rolled up, to form it, and so is obliged to construct it of
smaller pieces, such as she can carry, lapping them one over
another.
A few days later I saw a smaller species carrying fragments of a
yellow autumn leaf under a stone in a cornfield. On examining the
place about sundown to see if the bee lodged there, I found her
snugly ensconced in a little rude cell that adhered to the under
side of the stone. There was no pollen in it, and I half suspected
it was merely a berth in which to pass the night.
These bees do not live even in pairs, but absolutely alone. They
have large baskets on their legs in which to carry pollen, an
article they are very industrious in collecting.
Why the larger species above described should have waited till
October to build its nest is a mystery to me. Perhaps this was the
second brood of the season, or can it be that the young were not to
hatch till the following spring?