Of all the insects which occasionally claim our attention in our
country rambles, there is probably no example more entitled to our
distinguished consideration than the plebeian, commonly despised, but
admittedly amusing beetle known the country over as the funny
"tumble-bug." As we see him now, so he has always been--the same in
appearance, the same in habits; yet how has he fallen from grace! how
humbled in the eyes of man from that original high estate when, in
ancient Egypt, he enjoyed the prestige above all insects--where, as
the sacred "scarabaeus," he was dignified as the emblem of immortality,
and worshipped as a god! The archaeological history of Egypt is rich in
reminders of his former eminence. Not only do we see his familiar
shape (as shown in our initial design) everywhere among those ancient
hieroglyphs engraved in the rock or pictured on the crumbling papyrus;
but it is especially in association with death and the tomb that his
important significance is emphasized. The dark mortuary passages and
chambers hewn in solid rock, often hundreds of feet below the surface,
where still sleep the mummied remains of an entire ancient people, and
which honeycomb the earth beneath the feet of the traveller in certain
parts of Egypt, are still eloquent in tribute to the sacred scarab.
The lantern of the antiquarian explorer in those dark dungeons of
death discloses the suggestive figure of this beetle everywhere
engraved in high relief upon the walls, perhaps enlivened with
brilliant color still as fresh as when painted three thousand years
ago, emblazoned in gold and gorgeous hues upon the sarcophagus and the
mummy-case within, and again upon the outer covers of the
winding-sheet; finally, in the form of small ornaments the size of
nature, beautifully carved on precious stones enclosed within the
wrappings of the mummy itself.
What other insect has been thus glorified and immortalized? For the
sake of its proud lineage, if nothing else, is not our poor tumble-bug
deserving of our more than passing attention? An insect which has thus
been distinguished by an entire great people of antiquity has some
claims on our respect and consideration.
But aside from his historical fame, he will well repay our careful
study, and serve to while away a pleasant hour in the observance of
his queer habits. He is now no longer the awe-inspiring sacred scarab,
but Mr. Tumble-bug, or, rather, "Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug," for a
tumble-bug always pictured in the ancient hieroglyph is rarely to be
seen in its natural haunts. Mr. and Mrs. Tumble-bug are devoted and
inseparable, and, as a rule, vie with each other in the solicitude for
that precious rolling ball with which the insects are always
associated. From June to autumn we may find our tumble-bugs. There are
a number of species included in the group of Scarabaeus to which they
belong. Two species are particularly familiar, one of a lustrous
bronzy hue, with a very rounded back, usually found at work on the
country highway in the track of the horse, and the other, the true
typical tumble-bug, a flat-backed, jet-black lustrous species which we
naturally associate with the barn-yard and cow-pasture. The latter may
be taken as an illustrative example of his class, and his ways are
identical with those of his ancient sacred congener and present
inhabitant of Egypt.
When we first see them they are generally manipulating the ball--a
small mass of manure in which an egg has been laid, and which by
rolling in the dust has now become round and firmly incrusted and
smooth. Let us follow the couple in their apparently aimless though no
less expeditious and vehement labors. They have now brought their
globular charge through the grassy stubble, and have reached a clear
spot of earth with scattered weeds. Of course we all know from the
books that their intention is to find a suitable spot in which to bury
this ball, and such being the case, with what astonishing stupidity do
they urge on that labor! Here certainly is just the right spot for
you, Mrs. Tumble-bug! Stop rolling and dig! But no, she will not
listen to reason. She mounts the top of the ball, and, creeping far
out upon it, pulls it over forward with her back feet, while Mr.
Tumble-bug helps her in a most singular fashion. Does he stand up on
his hind legs on the opposite side, and push with his powerful front
feet? Oh no; he stands on his head, and pushes with his hind legs. As
he pushes, and as the ball rolls merrily on, Mrs. Tumble-bug is
continually rolled around with it, and must needs climb backward at a
lively rate to keep her place. A foot or two is thus travelled without
special incident, when a slight trouble occurs. The ball has struck an
obstacle which neither Mrs. Tumble-bug's pull nor Mr. Tumble-bug's
push can overcome. Then follow an apparent council and interchange of
Tumble-bug talk, until at length both put their shovel-shaped heads
together beneath the sphere, and over it goes among the weeds. It is
soon out again upon the open. Now, Mrs. Tumble-bug, everything is
plain-sailing for you; here is a long down grade over the smooth clean
dirt! Why, the ball would roll down itself if you would only let it;
but, no, she will _not_ let it. She pauses, and the ball rests, and
both beetles now creep about, shovelling up the dirt here and there
with their very queer little flat heads. Ah, perhaps they are going to
start that _hole_ which all the books tell us about. But no; the place
is evidently not quite satisfactory, both of them seem so to conclude,
like two souls with but a single thought. Mrs. T. is up on the bridge
in a jiffy, and Mr. T. takes his place at the helm; and now what an
easy time they will have of it down this little slope; but, no, again;
tumble-bugs don't seem to care for an easy time. A hundred times on
their travels will they pass the very best possible spot for that
burrow, a hundred times will they persist in guiding that little world
of theirs over an obstruction, when a clear path lies an inch to the
right or left of them. And here, when their labors might be so easily
lightened by a downward grade, what do they do? they deliberately turn
the ball about and hustle it along _up hill_, and that, too, over dirt
that is not half as promising. Tip they go! Mrs. T. now seems to have
the best of it, and I sometimes have my suspicions whether she is not
playing a prank on that unsuspecting spouse working so hard at her
back, for he now has not only the ball, but Mrs. T. as well, to shove
along, for the most that she can do is to throw the weight of her body
forward, which in a steep up grade amounts to nothing as a help.
But if she is imposing on Mr. T. in thus guiding the ball up hill, she
soon gets the Roland for her Oliver. Mr. T. is put to great extra
labor by this whimsical decision of hers, and woe to Mrs. T. when that
little chance valley or inequality of surface is reached. Even though
she can see it coming and holds the wheel, she rarely seems to take
advantage of it to save herself or her ship, while Mr. T., going
backward in the rear, of course cannot be expected to know what is
coming, nor be blamed for the consequences. With kick after kick from
his powerful hind feet, united with the push of his mighty pair in
front, the ball speeds up the slope. Now, for some reason, he gives a
backward shove of more than usual force when it was least necessary.
The ball had chanced upon the crest of a slope, when, kick! over it
goes with a pitch and a bound, and Mrs. T. with it, though this time
not on top. Happy is she if the ball simply rolls upon her and pins
her down. Such, indeed, is a frequent episode in her experience of
keeping the ball a-rolling, but occasionally the tumble-ball thus
started, and out of the control of her spouse at the rear, may roll
over and over for a long distance, but never alone. No amount of
demoralization of this sort ever surprises her into losing her grip on
her precious globular bundle. When at last it fetches up against a
stone or stick, and she assures herself that she and her charge are
safe and sound, no doubt she immediately mounts to its crest to signal
the lone Mr. T. afar off, who is quickly back of her again, and both
are promptly off on a fresh journey. And so they keep it up,
apparently for sport, perhaps for an hour.
At length, when they have played long enough--for there is no other
reason apparent to _homo sapiens_--they decide to plant their big,
dirty pellet. The place which they have chosen is not half as
promising as many they have passed, but that doesn't seem to matter.
Mrs. T. has said, "It shall go here," and that ends it.
Then follows a most singular exhibition of excavation and burial. The
ball is now resting quietly on the dirt, and the two beetles are
apparently rummaging around beneath it, trying the ground with the
sharp edge of their shovel-shaped faces. And now, to avoid confusion,
we will dismiss Mr. T., and confine our observation strictly to the
female, who usually (in my experience) conducts the rest of the work
alone.
She has evidently found a spot that suits her, and we expect her to
fulfil the directions of the books and entomological authorities. She
must "dig a deep hole first, and then roll the ball into it, and fill
it up again." But we will look in vain for such obedience. Instead of
this she persists in ploughing around beneath the ball, which seems at
times almost balanced on her back, until all the earth at this point
is soft and friable, and she is out of sight under it. Presently she
appears again at the surface, and as quickly disappears again, this
time going in upsidedown beneath the ball, which she pulls downward
with her pair of middle feet, while at the same time, with hind legs
and powerful digging front legs, she pushes outward and upward the
loose earth which she has accumulated. Visibly the ball sinks into the
cavity moment by moment as the earth is lowered for a space of half an
inch in the surrounding soil, and continually forced upward outside of
its circumference. In a few moments the pellet has sunk level with the
ground, and in a few moments more the loose earth pushed upward has
overtopped it and it is out of sight. Still, for hours this busy
excavator continues to dig her hole and pull the ball in after her,
with shovel head and mole-like digging feet scooping out a circular
well much larger than the diameter of the ball, which slowly sinks by
its own weight, aided by her occasional downward pull, as this same
loosened earth is pushed upward above it. The burrow is thus sunk
several inches, when the beetle ploughs her way to the surface and is
ready for another similar experience.
The remaining history of the ball and its change is soon told. The egg
within it soon hatches, the larva finding just a sufficiency of food
to carry it to its full growth, when it transforms to a chrysalis, and
at length to the tumble-bug like its parent. The formerly loose earth
above him is now firmly packed, but he seems to know by instinct why
those powerful front feet were given to him, and he is quickly working
his way to the surface, and in a day or so is seen in the barn-yard
rolling his ball as skilfully as his mother had done before him.
Such is the method always employed by the tumble-bug as I have seen
him. And yet I have read in many natural histories, and have heard
careful observers claim, that the hole is dug first and the ball
rolled in. Perhaps they vary their plan, but I doubt it. Here is a
matter for some of our boys and girls to look into.