THE HALICTI: THE PORTRESS
The home dug by the solitary Bee in early spring remains, when summer
comes, the joint inheritance of the members of the family. There were
ten cells, or thereabouts, underground. Now from these cells there have
issued none but females. This is the rule among the three species of
Halicti. They have two generations in each year. That of the spring
consists of females only; that of the summer comprises both males and
females, in almost equal numbers.
The household, therefore, if not reduced by accidents, especially by
the famine-producing Gnat, would consist of half-a-score of sisters,
nothing but sisters, all equally industrious and all capable of
procreating without a nuptial partner. On the other hand, the maternal
dwelling is no hovel; far from it: the entrance-gallery, the principal
room of the house, will serve very well, after a few odds and ends of
refuse have been swept away. This will be so much gained in time, ever
precious to the Bee. The cells at the bottom, the clay cabins, are also
nearly intact. To make use of them, it will be enough to freshen up the
stucco with the polisher of the tongue.
Well, which of the survivors, all equally entitled to the succession,
will inherit the house? There are six of them, seven, or more,
according to the chances of mortality. To whose share will the maternal
dwelling fall?
There is no quarrel between the interested parties. The mansion is
recognized as common property without dispute. The sister Bees come and
go peacefully through the same door, attend to their business, pass and
let the others pass. Down at the bottom of the pit, each has her little
demesne, her group of cells dug at the cost of fresh toil, when the old
ones, now insufficient in number, are occupied. In these recesses, the
rights of individual property prevail: each mother works privately,
jealous of her belongings and her isolation. Every elsewhere, traffic
is free to all.
The exits and entrances in the working fortress provide a spectacle of
the highest interest. A harvester arrives from the fields, the brushes
of her legs dusted with pollen. If the door be open, the Bee at once
dives underground. To tarry on the threshold would mean waste of time;
and the business is urgent. Sometimes, several appear upon the scene
almost at the same moment. The passage is too narrow for two,
especially when they have to avoid any inopportune contact that would
make the floury burden fall to the floor. The nearest to the opening
enters quickly. The others, drawn up on the threshold in the order of
their arrival, respectful of one another’s rights, await their turn. As
soon as the first disappears, the second follows after her and is
herself swiftly followed by the third and then the others, one by one.
Sometimes, again, there is a meeting between a Bee about to come out
and a Bee about to go in. Then the latter draws back a little and makes
way for the former. The politeness is reciprocal. I see some who, when
on the point of emerging from the pit, go down again and leave the
passage free for the one who has just arrived. Thanks to this mutual
spirit of accommodation, the traffic of the household proceeds without
impediment.
Let us keep our eyes open. There is something better than the
well-preserved order of the entrances. When an Halictus appears,
returning from her round of the flowers, we see a sort of trap-door,
which closed the house, suddenly fall and give a free passage. As soon
as the new arrival has entered, the trap rises back into its place,
almost level with the ground, and closes the door anew. The same thing
happens when the Bees go out. At a request from within, the trap
descends, the door opens and the Bee flies away. The outlet is closed
forthwith.
What can this shutter be which, descending or ascending in the cylinder
of the pit, after the fashion of a piston, opens and closes the house
at each departure and at each arrival? It is an Halictus, who has
become the portress of the establishment. With her large head, she
makes an impassable barrier at the top of the entrance-hall. If any one
belonging to the house wants to go in or out, she “pulls the cord,”
that is to say, she withdraws to a spot where the gallery widens and
leaves room for two. The other passes. She then at once returns to the
orifice and blocks it with the top of her head. Motionless, ever on the
look-out, she does not leave her post save to drive away importunate
visitors.
Let us profit by her brief appearances outside. We recognize in her an
Halictus similar to the others, who are now busy harvesting; but the
top of her head is bald and her dress is dingy and threadbare. The
handsome striped belts, alternately brown and ruddy-brown, have almost
vanished from her half-stripped back. Her old, tattered clothes,
well-worn with work, explain the matter clearly.
The Bee who mounts guard and performs the office of a portress at the
entrance to the burrow is older than the others. She is the foundress
of the establishment, the mother of the actual workers, the grandmother
of the present grubs. In the spring-time of her life, three months ago,
she wore herself out in solitary works. Now that her ovaries are dried
up, she takes a well-earned rest. No, rest is hardly the word. She
still works, she assists the household to the best of her power.
Incapable of being a mother for the second time, she becomes a
portress, opens the door to the members of her family and makes
strangers keep their distance.
The suspicious kid, looking through the chink, said to the wolf:
“Show me a white foot, or I shan’t open the door.”
No less suspicious, the grandmother says to each comer:
“Show me the yellow foot of an Halictus, or you won’t be let in.”
None is admitted to the dwelling unless she be recognized as a member
of the family.
See for yourself. Near the burrow passes an Ant, an unscrupulous
adventuress, who would not be sorry to know the meaning of the honeyed
fragrance that rises from the bottom of the cellar.
“Be off, or mind yourself!” says the portress, with a movement of her
neck.
As a rule, the threat suffices. The Ant decamps. Should she insist, the
watcher leaves her sentry-box, flings herself upon the saucy jade,
buffets her and drives her away. The moment the punishment has been
administered, she returns on guard and resumes her sentry-go.
Next comes the turn of a Leaf-cutter (Megachile Albocincta, Pérez),
who, unskilled in the art of burrowing, utilizes, after the manner of
her kind, the old galleries dug by others. Those of Halictus Zebrus
suit her very well, when the terrible Gnat of spring has left them
vacant for lack of heirs. Seeking for a home wherein to stack her
robinia-leaf honey-pots, she often makes a flying inspection of my
colonies of Halicti. A burrow seems to take her fancy; but, before she
sets foot on earth, her buzzing is noticed by the watchwoman, who
suddenly darts out and makes a few gestures on the threshold of her
door. That is all. The Leaf-cutter has understood. She removes herself.
Sometimes, the Megachile has time to alight and insert her head into
the mouth of the pit. In a moment, the portress is there, comes a
little higher and bars the way. Follows a not very serious contest. The
stranger quickly recognizes the rights of the first occupant and,
without insisting, goes to seek an abode elsewhere.
A consummate marauder (Cælioxys Caudata, Spinola), a parasite of the
Megachile, receives a sound drubbing under my eyes. She thought, the
scatter-brain, that she was entering the Leaf-cutter’s establishment!
She soon finds out her error; she meets the portress Halictus, who
administers a severe correction. She makes off at full speed. And so
with the others who, by mistake or ambition, seek to enter the burrow.
The same intolerance exists among grandmothers. About the middle of
July, when the animation of the colony is at its height, two categories
of Halicti are easily distinguishable: the young mothers and the old.
The former, much more numerous, brisk of movement and smartly arrayed,
come and go unceasingly from the burrows to the fields and from the
fields to the burrows. The latter, faded and dispirited, wander idly
from hole to hole. They look as though they had lost their way and were
incapable of finding their homes. Who are these vagabonds? I see
afflicted ones bereft of a family through the act of the odious spring
Gnat. Many burrows have gone under altogether. At the awakening of
summer, the mother found herself alone. She left her empty house and
set off in search of a dwelling where there were cradles to defend, a
guard to mount. But those fortunate nests already have their overseer,
the foundress, who, jealous of her rights, gives her unemployed
neighbour a cold reception. One sentry is enough; two would simply
block the narrow guard-room.
I am privileged at times to witness a fight between two grandmothers.
When the tramp in quest of employment appears outside the door, the
lawful occupant does not move from her post, does not withdraw into the
passage, as she would before an Halictus returning from the fields. Far
from making way, she threatens with her feet and mandibles. The other
hits back, tries to enter notwithstanding. Cuffs are exchanged. The
fray ends by the defeat of the stranger, who goes off to pick a quarrel
elsewhere.
These little scenes afford us a glimpse of certain details of the
highest interest in the manners of Halictus Zebrus. The mother who
builds her nest in the spring no longer leaves her home, once her works
are finished. Shut up at the bottom of the burrow, busied with the
minute cares of housekeeping, or else drowsing, she waits for her
daughters to come out. When, in the summer heats, the life of the
colony recommences, having naught to do outside as a harvester, she
stands sentry at the entrance to the hall, so as to let none in save
the workers of the home, her own daughters. She wards off the
ill-intentioned. None can enter without the door-keeper’s consent.
There is nothing to tell us that the watcher at moments deserts her
post. I never see her leave her house to go and refresh herself at the
flowers. Her age and her sedentary occupation, which implies no great
fatigue, relieve her perhaps of the need of nourishment. Perhaps, also,
the young ones returning from pillage disgorge a drop of the contents
of their crops for her benefit, from time to time. Fed or not, the old
one no longer goes out.
But what she does need is the joys of an active family. Many are
deprived of these. The Dipteron’s burglary has destroyed the household.
The sorely-tried Bees then abandon the deserted burrow. It is these
who, ragged and careworn, wander through the hamlet. They move in short
flights; more often, they remain motionless. It is they who, embittered
in their natures, offer violence to their acquaintances and seek to
dislodge them. They grow rarer and more languid from day to day; then
they disappear for good. What has become of them? The little grey
lizard had his eye on them: they are easy mouthfuls.
Those settled in their own demesne, those who guard the honey-factory
wherein their daughters, the heiresses of the maternal establishment,
work display a wonderful vigilance. The more I visit them, the more I
admire them. In the cool hours of the early morning, when the
harvesters, not finding the pollen-flour sufficiently ripened by the
sun, remain indoors, I see the portresses at their posts, at the top of
the gallery. Here, motionless, their heads flush with the earth, they
bar the door to all invaders. If I look at them too closely, they
retreat a little way and, in the shadow, await the indiscreet
observer’s departure.
I return when the harvest is in full swing, between eight o’clock and
twelve. There is now, as the Halicti go in or out, a succession of
prompt descents to open the door and ascents to close it. The portress
is in the busy exercise of her functions.
In the afternoon, the heat is too great, the workers do not go to the
fields. Retiring to the bottom of the house, they varnish the new
cells, they bake the round loaf that is to receive the egg. The
grandmother is still upstairs, stopping the door with her bald head.
For her, there is no nap during the stifling hours: the general safety
will not allow of it.
I come back again at night-fall, or even later. By the light of a
lantern, I rebehold the overseer, as zealous and assiduous as in the
day-time. The others are resting, but not she, for fear, apparently, of
nocturnal dangers known to herself alone. Does she nevertheless end by
descending to the quiet of the floor below? It seems probable, so
essential must rest be, after the fatigue of such a watch!
It is evident that, guarded in this manner, the burrow is exempt from
calamities similar to those which, too often, dispeople it in May. Let
the Gnat come now, if she dare, to steal the Halictus’ loaves! Her
audacity, her stubborn lurking ways will not conceal her from the
watchful one, who will put her to flight with a threatening gesture or,
if she persist, crush her with her nippers. She will not come; and we
know the reason: until spring returns, she is underground in the pupa
state.
But, in her absence, there is no lack, among the Muscid rabble, of
further sweaters of other insects’ labour. There are parasites for
every sort of business, for every sort of theft. And yet my daily
visits do not catch one of these in the neighbourhood of the July
burrows. How well the rascals know their trade! How well-aware are they
of the guard who keeps watch at the Halictus’ door! There is no foul
deed possible nowadays; and the result is that no Muscid puts in an
appearance and the tribulations of last spring are not repeated.
The grandmother who, dispensed by age from maternal worries, mounts
guard at the entrance of the home and watches over the safety of the
family tells us of sudden births in the genesis of the instincts; she
shows us an immediate capacity which nothing, either in her own past
conduct or in the actions of her daughters, could have led us to
suspect. Timorous in her prime, in the month of May, when she lived
alone in the burrow of her making, she has become gifted, in her
decline, with a superb contempt of danger and dares, in her impotence,
what she never dared do in her strength.
Formerly, when her tyrant, the Gnat, entered her home in her presence,
or, more often, stood at the entrance, face to face with herself, the
silly Bee did not stir, did not even threaten the red-eyed bandit, the
dwarf whose doom she could so easily have sealed. Was it terror on her
part? No, for she attended to her duties with her usual
punctiliousness; no, for the strong do not allow themselves to be thus
petrified by the weak. It was ignorance of the danger, it was sheer
foolishness.
And behold, to-day, the ignoramus of three months ago, without serving
any apprenticeship, knows the peril, knows it well. Every stranger that
appears is kept at a distance, without distinction of size or race. If
the threatening gesture be not enough, the keeper sallies forth and
flings herself upon the persistent one. Poltroonery has developed into
courage.
How has this change been brought about? I should like to picture the
Halictus gaining wisdom from the misfortunes of spring and capable
thenceforth of looking out for danger; I would gladly credit her with
having learnt in the stern school of experience the advantages of a
guard. I must give up the idea. If, by dint of gradual little acts of
progress, the Bee has gradually achieved the glorious invention of a
portress, how comes it that the fear of thieves is intermittent? It is
true that, alone, in May, she cannot stand permanently at her door: the
business of the house takes precedence of everything. But she ought, at
least, as soon as her offspring are persecuted, to know the parasite
and give chase when, at every moment, she finds her almost under her
feet and even in her house. Yet she pays no attention to her.
The harsh trials of the ancestors, therefore, have bequeathed naught to
her of a nature to alter her placid character; and her own tribulations
have nothing to say to the sudden awakening of her vigilance in July.
Like ourselves, the animal has its joys and its troubles. It uses the
former eagerly; it bothers but little about the latter, which is, when
all is said, the best way of realizing an animal enjoyment of life. To
mitigate these troubles and protect the progeny there is the
inspiration of the instinct, which is able to give a portress to the
Halictus without the counsels of experience.
When the victualling is finished, when the Halicti no longer sally
forth on harvesting intent nor return all floured over with their
burden, the old Bee is still at her post, as vigilant as ever. The
final preparations for the brood are made below; the cells are closed.
The door is kept until everything is finished. Then grandmother and
mothers leave the house. Exhausted by the performance of their duty,
they go, somewhere or other, to die.
In September appears the second generation, comprising both males and
females.
THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION