THE GOLD BEETLES: THEIR NUPTIAL HABITS
It is admitted that, as an ardent destroyer of caterpillars and Slugs,
the Gold Beetle has pre-eminently earned his title of “Gardener”: he is
the watchful keeper of our kitchen-gardens and our flower-borders. If
my enquiries add nothing to his established reputation in this respect,
they will at least, in what follows, display the insect in an as yet
unsuspected light. The ferocious eater, the ogre devouring any prey not
beyond his powers, is eaten in his turn. And by whom? By his own kin
and many others.
We will begin by naming two of his enemies, the Fox and the Toad, who,
in hard times, for lack of anything better, do not disdain such lean
and caustic mouthfuls. When telling the story of the Trox, I described
how the excreta of the Fox, which are easily recognized by the
Rabbit’s-fur whereof they largely consist, are sometimes encrusted with
Gold Beetles’ wing-cases: the ordure is adorned with sheets of gold.
This testifies to the bill of fare. It is not highly nourishing nor
particularly plentiful and it tastes bitter; but, after all, a few
Carabi help to stay the appetite a little.
As regards the Toad, I have similar evidence. In summer, in the
garden-paths, from time to time I happen on some curious objects whose
origin at first leaves me quite undecided. They are small black
sausages, the thickness of my little finger, which crumble very easily
after drying in the sun. We recognize a conglomeration of Ants’ heads
and nothing besides, unless it be some remnants of slender leg. What
can this singular product be, this granular amalgam consisting of
hundreds and hundreds of heads packed close together?
One’s mind turns to a ball disgorged by the Owl after the nourishing
part has been sorted by the stomach. Further reflection discards the
idea: a nocturnal bird of prey, though fond of insects, does not feed
on such tiny game as this. To catch on the sticky tip of the tongue
such very small fry and to collect them one by one calls for a consumer
endowed with plenty of time and patience. Who is it? Could it be the
Toad? I see no other in the enclosure to whom I can attribute a
salmagundy of Ants. Experiment will solve the riddle for us.
I have an old acquaintance in the garden and I know where he lives. We
often meet at the hour of my evening rounds. He looks at me with his
gold-yellow eyes and gravely passes on to attend to his business. He is
a Toad big enough to fill a saucer, a veteran respected by the whole
household. We call him the Philosopher. I apply to him to elucidate the
question of the conglomerations of Ants’ heads.
I imprison him in a cage, without any food, and wait until the contents
of his sated paunch undergo the labours of digestion. Things do not
take very long. After a few days’ time, the prisoner presents me with a
specimen of black ordure, moulded into a cylinder, exactly resembling
those which I observe on the paths of the enclosure. It is, like the
others, an amalgam of Ants’ heads. I restore the Philosopher to
liberty. Thanks to him, the problem which puzzled me so greatly is
solved: I know for certain that the Toad is a great eater of Ants, a
very small quarry, it is true, but easy to collect and inexhaustible.
It is not always a free choice on his part. He prefers larger mouthfuls
when available. He lives mainly on Ants because they abound in the
enclosure, whereas the other insects running on the surface of the
ground are comparatively scarce. If occasionally the glutton finds more
sumptuous fare, he appreciates the feast all the more highly.
In evidence of these unusual banquets, I will mention certain dejecta
found in the enclosure and composed almost entirely of Gold Beetles’
wing-cases. The remainder of the product, the paste joining the golden
scales together, consisted of Ants’ heads, the authentic work of the
consumer. So the Toad feeds on Carabi when he has the opportunity. He,
our garden helper, robs us of another helper no less valuable. The
useful, from our point of view, destroys the useful: a little lesson
which should modify our ingenuous belief that all things are created
for our service.
There is worse to come. The Gold Beetle, the policeman who, in our
gardens, keeps an eye on the misdeeds of the caterpillar and the Slug,
is guilty of the vice of cannibalism. One day, in the shadow of the
plane-trees outside my door, I see one passing very busily. The pilgrim
is welcome: he will increase by one the colony in my vivarium. As I
capture him, I perceive that the tips of his wing-cases are slightly
damaged. Is this the result of a fight between rivals? There is nothing
to tell me. The great thing is that the Beetle should not be
handicapped by a serious injury. I examine him, find that he is
unwounded and fit for service and put him among the twenty-five
occupants of the glass cage.
Next day, I look for the new inmate. He is dead. His comrades have
attacked him during the night and cleaned out his abdomen, which was
inadequately protected by the injured wing-cases. The operation was
very neatly done, without any mutilation. Legs, head, corselet are all
in their right places; only the abdomen has a wide opening through
which its contents have been removed. What we see is a sort of golden
shell formed of two connected wing-cases. An Oyster-shell emptied of
its mollusc looks no cleaner.
This result astonishes me, for I take very good care that the cage is
never without provisions. The Snail, the Cockchafer, the Praying
Mantis, the Earthworm, the caterpillar and other favourite dishes
alternate in my refectory in more than sufficient quantities. My Gold
Beetles therefore had not the excuse of hunger in devouring a brother
whose damaged armour lent itself to easy attack.
Can it be their custom to finish off the wounded and to ransack the
stomach of an injured kinsman? Pity is unknown among the insects. At
the sight of the desperate struggles of a crippled relation, not one of
the same race will stop, not one will try to help him. With carnivorous
insects, matters may take an even more tragic turn. Sometimes the
passers-by will run up to the invalid. Do they do so in order to assist
him? Not at all: they do it to see what he tastes like and, if they
find him good, to cure his ills thoroughly by devouring him.
It is therefore possible that the Carabus with the damaged wing-cases
tempted his comrades by the sight of his partly denuded body. They saw
in their helpless brother a prey which it was lawful to dissect. But do
they respect one another when there is no previous injury? At first
sight, everything would seem to show that their relations are very
peaceful. There is never any scuffling between the feasters at their
meals, nothing but mouth-to-mouth robberies. Nor are there any quarrels
during the long siestas under the cover of the board. Half-buried in
the cool earth, my five-and-twenty specimens quietly slumber and digest
their food, at no great distance one from the other, each in his little
trench. If I take away the shelter, they awake, make off, run hither
and thither, constantly meeting without molesting one another.
Profound peace therefore prevails and seems likely to last for ever
when, on inspecting the cage during the first heats of June, I find a
dead Carabus. His limbs are intact; he is very neatly reduced to a mere
golden husk; he shows us once more what we saw in the helpless Beetle
who was lately devoured; he reminds us of the shell of the eaten
Oyster. I examine the remains. But for the huge breach in the abdomen,
all is as it should be. So the insect was in good health when the
others gutted it.
A few days later, yet another Carabus is slain and treated like the
others, with all the various pieces of the armour undisturbed. If we
lay him on his belly, he seems as though intact; if we lay him on his
back, he is hollow, without a scrap of flesh left inside his carapace.
A little later I find another empty relic, then another, and yet
another, until my menagerie is rapidly diminishing. If this frenzied
slaughter continues, I shall soon have nothing left in the vivarium.
Can it be that my Gold Beetles, worn out by age, die a natural death or
that the females batten on the corpses, or is the population being
reduced at the expense of hale and hearty subjects? It is not easy to
elucidate the matter, for the disembowelling usually takes place at
night. Nevertheless, by exerting vigilance, I twice succeed in
observing the autopsy by daylight.
In the middle of June, before my eyes a female sets to work upon a
male, whom I recognize as such by his rather smaller size. The
operation begins. Lifting the ends of the wing-cases, the assailant
seizes her victim by the tip of the abdomen, on the dorsal surface.
Eagerly she tugs and munches. The captive, though in the pink of
condition, does not defend himself, does not turn round. He pulls his
hardest in the opposite direction, to release himself from the terrible
mandibles; he moves this way or that, according as he is dragging his
aggressor or being dragged by her; and here his resistance ends. The
combat lasts a quarter of an hour. Other Beetles passing by, stop, as
though to say:
“My turn next.”
At last, redoubling his efforts, the male frees himself and escapes. No
doubt, if he had not succeeded in getting away, he would have had his
belly gutted by the fearsome dame.
A few days later I witness a similar scene, but this time the tragedy
is completed. Once more it is a female who seizes a male from behind.
The bitten one submits with no more protest than his vain efforts to
release himself. The skin at last gives way, the wound widens, the
viscera are rooted out and swallowed by the matron, who empties the
carapace with her head buried in her compeer’s belly. The tremors of
the poor wretch’s legs announce his approaching end. The murderess
takes no notice and continues to rummage as far up as the narrow
entrance to the thorax allows her to go. Nothing is left of the
deceased but the wing-cases, packed boat-wise, and the fore-part of the
body, which is not disjointed. The empty remains are abandoned where
they lie.
So must have perished the Gold Beetles, always males, whose relics I
find from time to time in the cage; thus the survivors too must perish.
Between the middle of June and the first of August, the inmates,
numbering twenty-five at the outset, are reduced to five females. All
the twenty males have disappeared, ripped open and drained dry. And by
whom? Apparently by the females.
This is borne out by the two assaults which chance permitted me to
witness; twice, in broad daylight, I saw the female devour the male
after opening his belly under the wing-cases, or at least trying to do
so. As for the rest of the murders, though direct observation be
lacking, I have one very valuable piece of evidence. As we have seen,
the captive does not retaliate, does not defend himself; he merely
strives to escape by pulling as hard as he can.
If it were a simple fight, an ordinary scuffle such as life’s rivalries
may lead to, the Beetle attacked would obviously turn round, since he
is in a position to do so; in a close tussle, he would retort on the
aggressor and give bite for bite. His strength enables him to wage a
battle which might turn to his advantage; and the fool allows his rump
to be gnawed with impunity. It looks as though an invincible repugnance
prevents him from retaliating by eating a bit of her who is eating him.
This tolerance reminds me of the Languedocian Scorpion, [93] who, after
his wedding, allows himself to be devoured by his mate without using
his weapon, the poisoned sting which is quite capable of killing the
virago; it reminds me of the Praying Mantis’ swain, who is sometimes
reduced to a mere stump and, in spite of all, continues his unfinished
work while he is being chewed in little mouthfuls, without the least
expression of revolt. [94] These are nuptial rites against which the
male is not entitled to protest.
The males in my collection of Gold Beetles, from the first to the last
eviscerated, tell us of similar habits. They are the victims of their
mates when these have had their fill of matrimony. During four months,
from April to July, couples form daily, sometimes only tentatively,
sometimes and more often concluding in effective pairing. There is no
end to it with these fiery temperaments.
The Carabus is expeditious in his love-affairs. A male passing in the
crowd flings himself upon a female, the first that comes, without any
previous flirting. The she thus bestridden lifts her head a little as a
sign of acquiesence, while her rider whips her neck with the tips of
his antennæ. When the coupling is finished—and it does not take
long—the two separate abruptly, recuperate their strength by a mouthful
of the Snail served up for their food, after which they both get
married again, the wedding being repeated so long as males remain
available. After feasting, a brutal wooing; after the wooing, more
feasting: this sums up the Gold Beetle’s life.
The ladies in my menagerie were not in proportion to the number of
suitors: there were five females to twenty males. No matter: there was
no rivalry, no exchange of blows; a most peaceful use and abuse was
made of the passing fair. With this mutual tolerance, sooner or later,
many times over and according to the chance of the encounters, each one
finds the wherewithal to satisfy his ardour.
I should have preferred a more evenly divided assembly. Luck, not
choice, gave me that which I had at my disposal. I collected in early
spring all the Gold Beetles that I could find under the stones around,
without distinction of sex, which is not easy to recognize merely by
external characteristics. Afterwards, as I reared them in my cages, I
learnt that a slight excess in size was the distinctive sign of the
females. My menagerie, so unequal in the numerical relation of the
sexes, was therefore a fortuitous result. It seems likely that this
proportion of males does not exist under natural conditions.
On the other hand, such numerous groups are never seen at liberty,
sheltered under the same stone. The Gold Beetle leads an almost
solitary life; it is rare to find two or three gathered at one spot.
The assembly in my menagerie is therefore exceptional, although it does
not lead to disorder. There is plenty of room in the glass cage for
distant rambles and for all the usual diversions. He who wants to be
alone remains alone; he who wants company soon finds it.
For that matter, captivity does not seem to trouble them unduly, as is
shown by the frequent feasting and their daily repeated mating. They
could thrive no better if at liberty in the fields: perhaps they would
not thrive so well, for food is not so abundant there as in the cage.
As regards comfort, therefore, the prisoners are in a normal condition
favouring the preservation of their usual habits.
Only, meetings of kinsfolk occur more often here than in the open.
This, no doubt, affords the females better opportunities to persecute
the males for whom they have no further use, to grab them by the rump
and disembowel them. This hunting of the bygone lovers is aggravated
but certainly not innovated by the too close vicinity: such customs are
never improvised.
When the mating is over, a female meeting a male in the open must then
treat him as fair game and munch him up in order to close the
matrimonial rites. I have turned over many stones but have never
chanced upon this spectacle; no matter: what I saw in the cage is
enough to convince me. What a world the Gold Beetle lives in, where the
matron devours her partner when she no longer needs him to fertilize
her ovaries! And how lightly do the laws of creation hold the males, to
allow them to be butchered in this way!
Are these fits of cannibalism following upon love widely distributed?
For the moment I know only three really characteristic examples: those
of the Praying Mantis, the Languedocian Scorpion and the Golden
Carabus. The horror of the lover converted into prey is also found in
the Locustian tribe, though accompanied by less brutality, for the
victim devoured is now a dead and not a living insect. The female of
the White-faced Decticus [95] is quite willing to nibble a leg of the
defunct male. The Green Grasshopper [96] behaves likewise.
To a certain degree the nature of the diet acts as an excuse: Dectici
and Grasshoppers are first and foremost carnivores. Coming upon a
corpse of their own species, the matrons consume it more or less
thoroughly, even if it be that of last night’s lover. Considered as
game, one is as good as another.
But what shall we say of the vegetarians? As the laying-season
approaches, the Ephippiger turns upon her companion, still full of
life, and bites him, makes a hole in his belly and eats as much of him
as her appetite allows. The easy-going Cricket suddenly develops a
shrewish character: she beats the mate who lately wooed her in such
impassioned serenades; she rends his wings, breaks his fiddle and even
goes so far as to tear a few mouthfuls from the musician. [97] So it
seems probable that this mortal aversion of the female for the male
after the pairing is fairly common, especially among the carnivorous
insects. What is the reason of these atrocious habits? If circumstances
favour me, I shall not fail to investigate it.
Of the whole colony in the cage I have five females left at the
beginning of August. Their conduct has changed greatly since the eating
of the males. Food has become indifferent to them. They no longer run
up to the Snail, whom I serve half-stripped of his shell; they scorn
the plump Mantis and the Caterpillar, their erstwhile delights; they
doze under the shelter of the board and rarely show themselves. Can
this mean preparation for the laying? I enquire into this day by day,
being most anxious to see the first appearance of the little larvæ, an
artless first appearance, deprived of all solicitude, as I foresee from
the lack of industry in the mother.
I wait in vain: there is no laying. Meanwhile the cool nights of
October arrive. Four females perish, this time by a natural death.
The survivor takes no notice of them. She refuses them burial in her
stomach, a burial at one time accorded to the males, dissected alive.
She cowers as deep down in the ground as the scanty earth of the cage
permits. In November, when Mont Ventoux is white with the first snows,
she grows torpid in her hiding-place. Let us henceforth leave her in
peace. She will live through the winter, everything seems to tell us,
and produce her eggs next spring.
NOTES
[1] One of the wild Bees. Cf. The Mason-bees, by J. Henri Fabre,
translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. viii; and
Bramble-bees and Others, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. ii., iv. and vii.—Translator’s Note.
[2] A parasitic Bee. Cf. The Mason-bees: chap. viii.—Translator’s Note.
[3] For these wild bees, cf. Bramble-bees and others:
passim.—Translator’s Note.
[4] Drone-flies.—Translator’s Note.
[5] Cf. The Hunting Wasps, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos: chap. vii.; and The Mason-Wasps, by J. Henri Fabre,
translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. ix and
x.—Translator’s Note.
[6] Cf. The Life of the Caterpillar, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[7] The Cetonia is also known as the Rose-chafer (C. aurata). Cf. More
Hunting Wasps, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de
Mattos: Translator’s Note.
[8] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. i to vii. and in particular chap.
iv.—Translator’s Note.
[9] This Beetle, also known as C. Oxythyrea, Muls., is black and, in
the males, covered with white spots, suggesting a pall.—Translator’s
Note.
[10] .117 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[11] 732 cubic inches.—Translator’s Note.
[12] The Rhinoceros-Beetle.—Translator’s Note.
[13] René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur (1683–1757), the French
physicist and naturalist, inventor of the Réaumur thermometer and
author of Mémoires pour savoir à l’histoire naturelle des
insectes.—Translator’s Note.
[14] Cf. The Life of the Fly, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. x.—Translator’s Note.
[15] Cf. idem: chaps. xiv. to xvi.—Translator’s Note.
[16] Carolus Linnæus (Karl von Linné, 1707–1778), the celebrated
Swedish botanist and naturalist.—Translator’s Note.
[17] Or Greenbottles. Cf. The Life of the Fly: chap. ix.—Translator’s
Note.
[18] Under carrion: S. subnitidus, De Mars: S. detersus Illig.: S.
maculatus, Ros.: S. æneus, Fab.—Author’s Note.
Under dung: S. speculifer, Latr.: S. virescens, Payk.: S. metallescens,
Erich: S. furvus, Erich: S. rotundatus, Illig.—Author’s Note.
[19] S. carnaria is the Grey Flesh-fly.—Translator’s Note.
[20] Or Burying-beetle. Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles, by J.
Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. xi. and
xii.—Translator’s Note.
[21] Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chaps. xi. and
xii.—Translator’s Note.
[22] An order of insects consisting mainly of Bugs.—Translator’s Note.
[23] The essay on the Masked Reduvius will appear in the following
volume, the last volume of the series.—Translator’s Note.
[24] Or Rove-beetles.—Translator’s Note.
[25] Gustave Doré (1833–1883), the French illustrator of Dante,
Rabelais, La Fontaine and many others.—Translator’s Note.
[26] The Anoxia is a Beetle akin to the Cockchafer.—Translator’s Note.
[27] A genus of Land-Snails.—Translator’s Note.
[28] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. vi. to ix.—Translator’s Note.
[29] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps, xii. to xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[30] Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826), the author of La Physiologie
du Goût.—Translator’s Note.
[31] Or True Ground-beetles. Cf. Chapters XIV and XV of the present
volume.—Translator’s Note.
[32] For the Scarabæus, or Sacred Beetle, the Broad-necked Scarab, the
Spanish Copris and the Lunary Copris, cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others:
chaps. i. to x. and xvi.—Translator’s Note.
[33] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chaps. xi., xvii. and
xviii.—Translator’s Note.
[34] This is a reference to the days when the author was a provincial
schoolmaster. Cf. The Life of the Fly: chaps. xiii., xiv., xix., and
xx.—Translator’s Note.
[35] The Beetle under consideration is known to some nomenclators as
Geotrupes Typhœus.—Translator’s Note.
[36] Cf. The Life of the Caterpillar, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. xi.—Translator’s Note.
[37] A genus of wild Bees. Cf. Bramble-bees and Others, by J. Henri
Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. iv. and vii.
and passim.—Translator’s Note.
[38] François Huber (1750–1831), the Swiss naturalist, author of
Nouvelles Observations sur les Abeilles. He early became blind from
excessive study and thereafter conducted his scientific work with the
aid of his wife.—Translator’s Note.
[39] The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. x., Cf. v.—Translator’s Note.
[40] Cf. idem, chap. viii.—Translator’s Note.
[41] Cf. The Life of the Spider: chap. v. The essays on the Scorpion
will appear in the next, the concluding volume of the
series.—Translator’s Note.
[42] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. xvi.—Translator’s Note.
[43] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chaps. xi., xvii. and
xviii.—Translator’s Note.
[44] Nicolas Joseph Laurent Gilbert (1751–1780), a satirical poet, many
strophes of whose Adieux à la Vie have become classic.—Translator’s
Note.
[45] “And thenceforth, of his wings and scythe despoiled,
Time sleeps, unmoving on the worlds destroyed.”
[46] Voltaire’s story of that name.—Translator’s Note.
[47] “Luxury had reached such a pitch among the Romans that they looked
upon the huge worms of the oak as a delicacy; they called them Cossi.”
[48] Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chap. vii.—Translator’s Note.
[49] Cossus ligniperda, the caterpillar of Xylentes cossus, the Great
Goat-moth.—Translator’s Note.
[50] Marcus Gabius Apicus, a famous Roman epicure who lived in the days
of Augustus and Tiberius.—Translator’s Note.
[51] Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826), the famous French
gastronomer, author of La Physiologie du goût.—Translator’s Note.
[52] The Rhinoceros Beetle. Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chap.
xiii.—Translator’s Note.
[53] Cf. Chapters xiii. and xiv. of the present volume.—Translator’s
Note.
[54] Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chaps. viii. and
xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[55] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. i to v.—Translator’s Note.
[56] For this Beetle cf. The Life of the Fly: chap. xviii.—Translator’s
Note.
[57] Cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chap. viii.—Translator’s
Note.
[58] Also known as the Musk Beetle. The insect emits a strong smell of
musk and is found crawling on decaying willows.—Translator’s Note.
[59] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. xii. and
xiii.—Translator’s Note.
[60] Cf. idem: chaps. xv. and xvi.—Translator’s Note.
[61] Cf. idem: chaps. xiii. and xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[62] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chap. iv.—Translator’s Note.
[63] Cf. The Life of the Spider, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. x.—Translator’s Note.
[64] I do not wish to correct the author; but I find that all the books
of reference in my possession describe the pea-nut (Arachis hypogea) as
a native of Brazil and I am inclined to think that African, in the
French edition, may be a misprint for American.—Translator’s Note.
[65] .156 to .195 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[66] For the Pea-weevil and the Haricot-weevil, cf. The Life of the
Weevil, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos:
chaps. xi. to xiii.—Translator’s Note.
[67] For the Sloe-weevil, cf. idem: chap. x.—Translator’s Note.
[68] Cf. idem: chap. ii.—Translator’s Note.
[69] Cf. idem: chap. vi.—Translator’s Note.
[70] Cf. idem: chap. xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[71] For the Saperda-beetles cf. The Glow-worm and Other Beetles: chap.
viii.—Translator’s Note.
[72] .468 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[73] .702 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[74] ¾ inch.—Translator’s Note.
[75] 1 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[76] .326 inch.—Translator’s Note.
[77] ½ inch.—Translator’s Note.
[78] ¾ inch.—Translator’s Note.
[79] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. ii.—Translator’s Note.
[80] Cf. idem: chap. viii.—Translator’s Note.
[81] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. iii.—Translator’s Note.
[82] Cf. idem: chap. viii.—Translator’s Note.
[83] Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap, xv.—Translator’s Note.
[84] Cf. The Life of the Weevil: chap. xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[85] The Life of the Grasshopper: chap. xvii.—Translator’s Note.
[86] The highest mountain in the neighbourhood of Sérignan; 6,268 feet.
Cf. The Hunting Wasps: by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos: chap. xi.—Translator’s Note.
[87] A wild Bee. Cf. Bramble-dwellers and Others, by J. Henri Fabre,
translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. xii. to
xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[88] Marcus Vitruvius Pollio (fl. sub Augusto), author of De
Architectura.—Translator’s Note.
[89] Cf. The Life of the Caterpillar: chaps. i. to vi.—Translator’s
Note.
[90] Jacques Bénigne Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux (1627–1704),—author of
many famous religious, historical and political works.—Translator’s
Note.
[91] The Pine Processionary is the caterpillar of the Moth known as the
Pine Bombyx.—Translator’s Note.
[92] The larva of the Tiger-moth (Celonia caja) Cf. The Life of the
Caterpillar: chaps. vi. and vii.—Translator’s Note.
[93] The seven essays on the Languedocian Scorpion will appear in the
final volume of the series, entitled The Life of the
Scorpion.—Translator’s Note.
[94] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. vi. to ix. and, in
particular, chap. vii.—Translator’s Note.
[95] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. xi. to xiii. and, in
particular, chap. xi.—Translator’s Note.
[96] Cf. idem: chap. xiv.—Translator’s Note.
[97] Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chap. xvi.—Translator’s Note.