BEES, CATS AND RED ANTS
I wished to know something more about my Mason-bees. I had heard that
they knew how to find their nests even if carried away from them. One
day I managed to capture forty Bees from a nest under the eaves of
my shed, and to put them one by one in screws of paper. I asked my
daughter Aglaé to stay near the nest and watch for the return of the
Bees. Things being thus arranged, I carried off my forty captives to a
spot two and a half miles from home.
I had to mark each captive with a mixture of chalk and gum arabic
before I set her free. It was no easy business. I was stung many times,
and sometimes I forgot myself and squeezed the Bee harder than I should
have. As a result, about twenty out of my forty Bees were injured. The
rest started off, in different directions at first; but most of them
seemed to me to be making for their home.
Meanwhile a stiff breeze sprang up, making things still harder for the
Bees. They must have had to fly close to the ground; they could not
possibly go up high and get a view of the country.
Under the circumstances, I hardly thought, when I reached home, that
the Bees would be there. But Aglaé greeted me at once, her cheeks
flushed with excitement:
“Two!” she cried. “Two arrived at twenty minutes to three, with a load
of pollen under their bellies!” I had released my insects at about two
o’clock; these first arrivals had therefore flown two miles and a half
in less than three quarters of an hour, and lingered to forage on the
way.
As it was growing late, we had to stop our observations. Next day,
however, I took another count of my Mason-bees and found fifteen with
a white spot as I had marked them. At least fifteen out of the twenty
then had returned, in spite of having the wind against them, and in
spite of having been taken to a place where they had almost certainly
never been before. These Bees do not go far afield, for they have
all the food and building material they want near home. Then how did
my exiles return? What guided them? It was certainly not memory, but
some special faculty which we cannot explain, it is so different from
anything we ourselves possess.
MY CATS
The Cat is supposed to have the same power as the Bee to find its way
home. I never believed this till I saw what some Cats of my own could
do. Let me tell you the story.
[Illustration]
One day there appeared upon my garden wall a wretched-looking Cat, with
matted coat and protruding ribs; so thin that his back was a jagged
ridge. My children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery.
Bread soaked in milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took
it. And the mouthfuls succeeded one another to such good purpose that
at last he had had enough and went, paying no attention to the “Puss!
Puss!” of his compassionate friends. But after a while he grew hungry
again, and reappeared on top of the wall. He received the same fare of
bread soaked in milk, the same soft words. He allowed himself to be
tempted. He came down from the wall. The children were able to stroke
his back. Goodness, how thin he was!
It was the great topic of conversation. We discussed it at table: we
would tame the tramp, we would keep him, we would make him a bed of
hay. It was a most important matter: I can see to this day, I shall
always see, the council of rattleheads deliberating on the Cat’s fate.
They were not satisfied until the savage animal remained. Soon he grew
into a magnificent Tom. His large, round head, his muscular legs, his
reddish fur, flecked with darker patches, reminded one of a little
jaguar. He was christened Ginger because of his tawny hue. A mate
joined him later, picked up in almost similar circumstances. Such was
the beginning of my series of Gingers, which I have kept for almost
twenty years, in spite of various movings.
The first time we moved we were anxious about our Cats. We were all
of us attached to them and should have thought it nothing short of
criminal to abandon the poor creatures, whom we had so often petted,
to distress and probably to thoughtless persecution. The shes and the
kittens would travel without any trouble: all you have to do is to put
them in a basket; they will keep quiet on the journey. But the old
Tom-cats were a serious problem. I had two, the head of the family and
one of his descendants, quite as strong as himself. We decided to take
the grandfather, if he consented to come, and to leave the grandson
behind, after finding him a home.
My friend Dr. Loriol offered to take the younger cat. The animal was
carried to him at nightfall in a closed hamper. Hardly were we seated
at the evening meal, talking of the good fortune of our Tom-cat, when
we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The shapeless bundle
came and rubbed itself against our legs, purring with happiness. It was
the Cat.
I heard his story next day. On arriving at Dr. Loriol’s, he was locked
up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the unfamiliar
room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture, against the
window panes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, threatening to
make short work of everything. Mrs. Loriol was frightened by the little
lunatic; she hastened to open the window; and the Cat leapt out among
the passers-by. A few minutes later, he was back at home. And it was no
easy matter: he had to cross the town almost from end to end; he had
to make his way through a long labyrinth of crowded streets, among a
thousand dangers, including boys and dogs; lastly—and this perhaps was
even harder—he had to pass over a river which ran through the town.
There were bridges at hand, many, in fact; but the animal, taking the
shortest cut, had used none of them, bravely jumping into the water, as
the streaming fur showed.
[Illustration]
I had pity on the poor Cat, so faithful to his home. We agreed to
take him with us. We were spared the worry: a few days later, he was
found lying stiff and stark under a shrub in the garden. Some one had
poisoned him for me. Who? It was not likely that it was a friend!
There was still the old Cat. He could not be found when we left our
home, so the carter was promised an extra two dollars if he would
bring the Cat to us at our new home with one of his loads. On his last
journey with our goods he brought him, stowed away under the driver’s
seat. I scarcely knew my old Tom when we opened the moving prison in
which he had been kept since the day before. He came out looking a most
alarming beast, scratching and spitting, with bristling hair, bloodshot
eyes, lips white with foam. I thought him mad and watched him closely
for a time. I was wrong: he was merely bewildered and frightened. Had
there been trouble with the carter when he was caught? Did he have a
bad time on the journey? I do not know. What I do know is that the very
nature of the Cat seemed changed: there was no more friendly purring,
no more rubbing against our legs; nothing but a wild expression and the
deepest gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe him. One day I found him
lying dead in the ashes on the hearth. Grief, with the help of old age,
had killed him. Would he have gone back to our old home, if he had had
the strength? I would not venture to say so. But, at least, I think it
very remarkable that an animal should let itself die of homesickness
because the weakness of old age prevented it from returning to its
former haunts.
The next time we move, the family of Gingers have been renewed: the
old ones have passed away, new ones have come, including a full-grown
Tom, worthy in every way of his ancestors. He alone will give us some
trouble in moving; the others, the babies and the mothers, can be
removed easily. We put them into baskets. The Tom has one to himself,
so that the peace may be kept. The journey is made by carriage. Nothing
striking happens before our arrival. When we let the mother Cats out of
their hampers, they inspect the new home, explore the rooms one by one;
with their pink noses they recognize the furniture: they find their own
seats, their own tables, their own armchairs; but the surroundings are
different. They give little surprised miaows and questioning glances.
We pet them and give them saucers of milk, and by the next day they
feel quite at home.
It is a different matter with the Tom. We put him in the attic, where
he will find plenty of room for his capers; we take turns keeping him
company; we give him a double portion of plates to lick; from time to
time we bring some of the other Cats to him, to show him that he is not
alone in the house; we do everything we can to make him forget the old
home. He seems, in fact, to forget it: he is gentle under the hand that
pets him, he comes when called, purrs, arches his back. We have kept
him shut up for a week, and now we think it is time to give him back
his liberty. He goes down to the kitchen, stands by the table like the
others, goes out into the garden, under the watchful eye of my daughter
Aglaé, who does not lose sight of him; he prowls all around with the
most innocent air. He comes back. Victory! The Tom-cat will not run
away.
Next morning:
“Puss! Puss!”
Not a sign of him! We hunt, we call. Nothing. Oh, the hypocrite, the
hypocrite! How he has tricked us! He has gone, he is at our old home.
So I declare, but the family will not believe it.
My two daughters went back to the old home. They found the Cat, as I
said they would, and brought him back in a hamper. His paws and belly
were covered with red clay; and yet the weather was dry, there was no
mud. The Cat, therefore, must have swum the river, and the moist fur
had kept the red earth of the fields through which he had passed. The
distance between our two homes was four and a half miles.
We kept the deserter in our attic for two weeks, and then we let him
out again. Before twenty-four hours had passed he was back at his old
home. We had to leave him to his fate. A neighbor out that way told
me that he saw him one day hiding behind a hedge with a rabbit in his
mouth. He was no longer provided with food; he had to hunt for it as
best he could. I heard no more of him. He came to a bad end, no doubt;
he had become a robber and must have met with a robber’s fate.
These true stories prove that Cats have in their fashion the instinct
of my Mason-bees. So, too, have Pigeons, who, transported for hundreds
of miles, are able to find their way back to their own dove-cot; so
have the Swallows and many other birds. But to go back to the insects.
I wished to find out if Ants, who are insects closely related to the
Bees, have the same sense of direction that they have.
[Illustration]
THE RED ANTS
Among the treasures of my piece of waste ground is an ant-hill
belonging to the celebrated Red Ants, the slave-hunting Amazons. If
you have never heard about these Ants, their practices seem almost too
wonderful to believe. They are unable to bring up their own families,
to look for their food, to take it even when it is within their reach.
Therefore they need servants to feed them and keep house for them. They
make a practice of stealing children to wait on the community. They
raid the neighboring ant-hills, the home of a different species; they
carry away the Ant-babies, who are in the nymph or swaddling-clothes
stage, that is, wrapped in the cocoons. These grow up in the Red Ants’
house and become willing and industrious servants.
When the hot weather of June and July sets in, I often see the Amazons
leave their barracks of an afternoon and start on an expedition.
The column is five or six yards long. At the first suspicion of an
ant-hill, the front ones halt and spread out in a swarming throng,
which is increased by the others as they come up hurriedly. Scouts are
sent out; the Amazons recognize that they are on a wrong track; and the
column forms again. It resumes its march, crosses the garden paths,
disappears from sight in the grass, reappears farther on, threads its
way through the heap of dead leaves, comes out again and continues its
search.
At last, a nest of Black Ants is discovered. The Red Ants hasten down
to the dormitories, enter the burrows where the Ant-grubs lie and
soon come out with their booty. Then we have, at the gates of the
underground city, a bewildering scrimmage between the defending Blacks
and the attacking Reds. The struggle is too unequal to remain in doubt.
Victory falls to the Reds, who race back home, each with her prize, a
swaddled baby, dangling from her jaws.
I should like to go on with the story of the Amazons, but I have no
time at present. Their return to the nest is what I am interested in.
Do they know their way as the Bees do?
Apparently not; for I find that the Ants always take exactly the same
path home that they did coming, no matter how difficult it was or how
many short cuts might be taken. I came upon them one day when they were
advancing on a raid by the side of a garden pond. The wind was blowing
hard and blew whole rows of the Ants into the water, where the Fish
gobbled them up. I thought that on the way back they would avoid this
dangerous bit. Not at all: they came back the same way, and the Fish
received a double windfall, the Ants and their prizes.
[Illustration]
As I had not time to watch the Ants for whole afternoons, I asked my
granddaughter Lucie, a little rogue who likes to hear my stories of
the Ants, to help me. She had been present at the great battle between
the Reds and the Blacks and was much impressed by the stealing of the
long-clothes babies, and she was willing to wander about the garden
when the weather was fine, keeping an eye on the Red Ants for me.
One day, while I was working in my study, there came a banging at my
door.
“It’s I, Lucie! Come quick: the Reds have gone into the Blacks’ house.
Come quick!”
“And do you know the road they took?”
“Yes, I marked it.”
“What! Marked it? And how?”
“I did what Hop-o’-My-Thumb did: I scattered little white stones along
the road.”
I hurried out. Things had happened as my six-year-old helper had said.
The Ants had made their raid and were returning along the track of
telltale pebbles. When I took some of them up on a leaf and set them
a few feet away from the path, they were lost. The Ant relies on her
sight and her memory for places to guide her home. Even when her raids
to the same ant-hill are two or three days apart, she follows exactly
the same path each time. The memory of an Ant! What can that be? Is it
like ours? I do not know; but I do know that, though closely related to
the Bee, she has not the same sense of direction that the Bee possesses.
[Illustration]