THE PRAYING MANTIS
I
HER HUNTING
There is an insect of the south that is quite as interesting as the
Cicada, but much less famous, because it makes no noise. Had it been
provided with cymbals, its renown would have been greater than the
celebrated musician’s, for it is most unusual both in shape and habits.
A long time ago, in the days of ancient Greece, this insect was named
Mantis, or the Prophet. The peasant saw her on the sun-scorched grass,
standing half-erect in a very imposing and majestic manner, with her
broad green gossamer wings trailing like long veils, and her fore-legs,
like arms, raised to the sky as though in prayer. To the peasant’s
ignorance the insect seemed like a priestess or a nun, and so she came
to be called the Praying Mantis.
There was never a greater mistake! Those pious airs are a fraud; those
arms raised in prayer are really the most horrible weapons, which slay
whatever passes within reach. The Mantis is fierce as a tigress, cruel
as an ogress. She feeds only on living creatures.
There is nothing in her appearance to inspire dread. She is not without
a certain beauty, with her slender, graceful figure, her pale-green
colouring, and her long gauze wings. Having a flexible neck, she can
move her head freely in all directions. She is the only insect that can
direct her gaze wherever she will. She almost has a face.
Great is the contrast between this peaceful-looking body and the
murderous machinery of the fore-legs. The haunch is very long and
powerful, while the thigh is even longer, and carries on its lower
surface two rows of sharp spikes or teeth. Behind these teeth are three
spurs. In short, the thigh is a saw with two blades, between which the
leg lies when folded back.
This leg itself is also a double-edged saw, provided with a greater
number of teeth than the thigh. It ends in a strong hook with a point
as sharp as a needle, and a double blade like a curved pruning-knife. I
have many painful memories of this hook. Many a time, when
Mantis-hunting, I have been clawed by the insect and forced to ask
somebody else to release me. No insect in this part of the world is so
troublesome to handle. The Mantis claws you with her pruning-hooks,
pricks you with her spikes, seizes you in her vice, and makes
self-defence impossible if you wish to keep your captive alive.
When at rest, the trap is folded back against the chest and looks quite
harmless. There you have the insect praying. But if a victim passes by,
the appearance of prayer is quickly dropped. The three long divisions
of the trap are suddenly unfolded, and the prey is caught with the
sharp hook at the end of them, and drawn back between the two saws.
Then the vice closes, and all is over. Locusts, Grasshoppers, and even
stronger insects are helpless against the four rows of teeth.
It is impossible to make a complete study of the habits of the Mantis
in the open fields, so I am obliged to take her indoors. She can live
quite happily in a pan filled with sand and covered with a gauze
dish-cover, if only she be supplied with plenty of fresh food. In order
to find out what can be done by the strength and daring of the Mantis,
I provide her not only with Locusts and Grasshoppers, but also with the
largest Spiders of the neighbourhood. This is what I see.
A grey Locust, heedless of danger, walks towards the Mantis. The latter
gives a convulsive shiver, and suddenly, in the most surprising way,
strikes an attitude that fills the Locust with terror, and is quite
enough to startle any one. You see before you unexpectedly a sort of
bogy-man or Jack-in-the-box. The wing-covers open; the wings spread to
their full extent and stand erect like sails, towering over the
insect’s back; the tip of the body curls up like a crook, rising and
falling with short jerks, and making a sound like the puffing of a
startled Adder. Planted defiantly on its four hind-legs, the Mantis
holds the front part of its body almost upright. The murderous legs
open wide, and show a pattern of black-and-white spots beneath them.
In this strange attitude the Mantis stands motionless, with eyes fixed
on her prey. If the Locust moves, the Mantis turns her head. The object
of this performance is plain. It is intended to strike terror into the
heart of the victim, to paralyse it with fright before attacking it.
The Mantis is pretending to be a ghost!
The plan is quite successful. The Locust sees a spectre before him, and
gazes at it without moving. He to whom leaping is so easy makes no
attempt at escape. He stays stupidly where he is, or even draws nearer
with a leisurely step.
As soon as he is within reach of the Mantis she strikes with her claws;
her double saws close and clutch; the poor wretch protests in vain; the
cruel ogress begins her meal.
The pretty Crab Spider stabs her victim in the neck, in order to poison
it and make it helpless. In the same way the Mantis attacks the Locust
first at the back of the neck, to destroy its power of movement. This
enables her to kill and eat an insect as big as herself, or even
bigger. It is amazing that the greedy creature can contain so much
food.
The various Digger-wasps receive visits from her pretty frequently.
Posted near the burrows on a bramble, she waits for chance to bring
near her a double prize, the Hunting-wasp and the prey she is bringing
home. For a long time she waits in vain; for the Wasp is suspicious and
on her guard: still, now and then a rash one is caught. With a sudden
rustle of wings the Mantis terrifies the new-comer, who hesitates for a
moment in her fright. Then, with the sharpness of a spring, the Wasp is
fixed as in a trap between the blades of the double saw—the toothed
fore-arm and toothed upper-arm of the Mantis. The victim is then gnawed
in small mouthfuls.
I once saw a Bee-eating Wasp, while carrying a Bee to her storehouse,
attacked and caught by a Mantis. The Wasp was in the act of eating the
honey she had found in the Bee’s crop. The double saw of the Mantis
closed suddenly on the feasting Wasp; but neither terror nor torture
could persuade that greedy creature to leave off eating. Even while she
was herself being actually devoured she continued to lick the honey
from her Bee!
I regret to say that the meals of this savage ogress are not confined
to other kinds of insects. For all her sanctimonious airs she is a
cannibal. She will eat her sister as calmly as though she were a
Grasshopper; and those around her will make no protest, being quite
ready to do the same on the first opportunity. Indeed, she even makes a
habit of devouring her mate, whom she seizes by the neck and then
swallows by little mouthfuls, leaving only the wings.
She is worse than the Wolf; for it is said that even Wolves never eat
each other.
II
HER NEST
After all, however, the Mantis has her good points, like most people.
She makes a most marvellous nest.
This nest is to be found more or less everywhere in sunny places: on
stones, wood, vine-stocks, twigs, or dry grass, and even on such things
as bits of brick, strips of linen, or the shrivelled leather of an old
boot. Any support will serve, as long as there is an uneven surface to
form a solid foundation.
In size the nest is between one and two inches long, and less than an
inch wide; and its colour is as golden as a grain of wheat. It is made
of a frothy substance, which has become solid and hard, and it smells
like silk when it is burnt. The shape of it varies according to the
support on which it is based, but in all cases the upper surface is
convex. One can distinguish three bands, or zones, of which the middle
one is made of little plates or scales, arranged in pairs and
overlapping like the tiles of a roof. The edges of these plates are
free, forming two rows of slits or little doorways, through which the
young Mantis escapes at the moment of hatching. In every other part the
wall of the nest is impenetrable.
The eggs are arranged in layers, with the ends containing the heads
pointed towards the doorways. Of these doorways, as I have just said,
there are two rows. One half of the grubs will go out through the right
door, and the other half through the left.
It is a remarkable fact that the mother Mantis builds this
cleverly-made nest while she is actually laying her eggs. From her body
she produces a sticky substance, rather like the Caterpillar’s
silk-fluid; and this material she mixes with the air and whips into
froth. She beats it into foam with two ladles that she has at the tip
of her body, just as we beat white of egg with a fork. The foam is
greyish-white, almost like soapsuds, and when it first appears it is
sticky; but two minutes afterwards it has solidified.
In this sea of foam the Mantis deposits her eggs. As each layer of eggs
is laid, it is covered with froth, which quickly becomes solid.
In a new nest the belt of exit-doors is coated with a material that
seems different from the rest—a layer of fine porous matter, of a pure,
dull, almost chalky white, which contrasts with the dirty white of the
remainder of the nest. It is like the mixture that confectioners make
of whipped white of egg, sugar, and starch, with which to ornament
their cakes. This snowy covering is very easily crumbled and removed.
When it is gone the exit-belt is clearly visible, with its two rows of
plates. The wind and rain sooner or later remove it in strips or
flakes, and therefore the old nests show no traces of it.
But these two materials, though they appear different, are really only
two forms of the same matter. The Mantis with her ladles sweeps the
surface of the foam, skimming the top of the froth, and collecting it
into a band along the back of the nest. The ribbon that looks like
sugar-icing is merely the thinnest and lightest portion of the sticky
spray, which appears whiter than the nest because its bubbles are more
delicate, and reflect more light.
It is truly a wonderful piece of machinery that can, so methodically
and swiftly, produce the horny central substance on which the first
eggs are laid, the eggs themselves, the protecting froth, the soft
sugar-like covering of the doorways, and at the same time can build
overlapping plates, and the narrow passages leading to them! Yet the
Mantis, while she is doing all this, hangs motionless on the foundation
of the nest. She gives not a glance at the building that is rising
behind her. Her legs act no part in the affair. The machinery works by
itself.
As soon as she has done her work the mother withdraws. I expected to
see her return and show some tender feeling for the cradle of her
family, but it evidently has no further interest for her.
The Mantis, I fear, has no heart. She eats her husband, and deserts her
children.
III
THE HATCHING OF HER EGGS
The eggs of the Mantis usually hatch in bright sunshine, at about ten
o’clock on a mid-June morning.
As I have already told you, there is only one part of the nest from
which the grub can find an outlet, namely the band of scales round the
middle. From under each of these scales one sees slowly appearing a
blunt, transparent lump, followed by two large black specks, which are
the creature’s eyes. The baby grub slips gently under the thin plate
and half releases itself. It is reddish yellow, and has a thick,
swollen head. Under its outer skin it is quite easy to distinguish the
large black eyes, the mouth flattened against the chest, the legs
plastered to the body from front to back. With the exception of these
legs the whole thing reminds one somewhat of the first state of the
Cicada on leaving the egg.
Like the Cicada, the young Mantis finds it necessary to wear an overall
when it is coming into the world, for the sake of convenience and
safety. It has to emerge from the depths of the nest through narrow,
winding ways, in which full-spread slender limbs could not find enough
room. The tall stilts, the murderous harpoons, the delicate antennæ,
would hinder its passage, and indeed make it impossible. The creature
therefore appears in swaddling-clothes, and has the shape of a boat.
When the grub peeps out under the thin scales of its nest its head
becomes bigger and bigger, till it looks like a throbbing blister. The
little creature alternately pushes forward and draws back, in its
efforts to free itself, and at each movement the head grows larger. At
last the outer skin bursts at the upper part of the chest, and the grub
wriggles and tugs and bends about, determined to throw off its overall.
Finally the legs and the long antennæ are freed, and a few shakes
complete the operation.
It is a striking sight to see a hundred young Mantes coming from the
nest at once. Hardly does one tiny creature show its black eyes under a
scale before a swarm of others appears. It is as though a signal passed
from one to the other, so swiftly does the hatching spread. Almost in a
moment the middle zone of the nest is covered with grubs, who run about
feverishly, stripping themselves of their torn garments. Then they drop
off, or clamber into the nearest foliage. A few days later a fresh
swarm appears, and so on till all the eggs are hatched.
But alas! the poor grubs are hatched into a world of dangers. I have
seen them hatching many times, both out of doors in my enclosure, and
in the seclusion of a greenhouse, where I hoped I should be better able
to protect them. Twenty times at least I have watched the scene, and
every time the slaughter of the grubs has been terrible. The Mantis
lays many eggs, but she will never lay enough to cope with the hungry
murderers who lie in wait until the grubs appear.
The Ants, above all, are their enemies. Every day I find them visiting
my nests. It is in vain for me to interfere; they always get the better
of me. They seldom succeed in entering the nest; its hard walls form
too strong a fortress. But they wait outside for their prey.
The moment that the young grubs appear they are grabbed by the Ants,
pulled out of their sheaths, and cut in pieces. You see piteous
struggles between the little creatures who can only protest with wild
wrigglings and the ferocious brigands who are carrying them off. In a
moment the massacre is over; all that is left of the flourishing family
is a few scattered survivors who have escaped by accident.
It is curious that the Mantis, the scourge of the insect race, should
be herself so often devoured at this early stage of her life, by one of
the least of that race, the Ant. The ogress sees her family eaten by
the dwarf. But this does not continue long. So soon as she has become
firm and strong from contact with the air the Mantis can hold her own.
She trots about briskly among the Ants, who fall back as she passes, no
longer daring to tackle her: with her fore-legs brought close to her
chest, like arms ready for self-defence, she already strikes awe into
them by her proud bearing.
But the Mantis has another enemy who is less easily dismayed. The
little Grey Lizard, the lover of sunny walls, pays small heed to
threatening attitudes. With the tip of his slender tongue he picks up,
one by one, the few stray insects that have escaped the Ant. They make
but a small mouthful, but to judge from the Lizard’s expression they
taste very good. Every time he gulps down one of the little creatures
he half-closes his eyelids, a sign of profound satisfaction.
Moreover, even before the hatching the eggs are in danger. There is a
tiny insect called the Chalcis, who carries a probe sharp enough to
penetrate the nest of solidified foam. So the brood of the Mantis
shares the fate of the Cicada’s. The eggs of a stranger are laid in the
nest, and are hatched before those of the rightful owner. The owner’s
eggs are then eaten by the invaders. The Mantis lays, perhaps, a
thousand eggs. Possibly only one couple of these escapes destruction.
The Mantis eats the Locust: the Ant eats the Mantis: the Wryneck eats
the Ant. And in the autumn, when the Wryneck has grown fat from eating
many Ants, I eat the Wryneck.
It may well be that the Mantis, the Locust, the Ant, and even lesser
creatures contribute to the strength of the human brain. In strange and
unseen ways they have all supplied a drop of oil to feed the lamp of
thought. Their energies, slowly developed, stored up, and handed on to
us, pass into our veins and sustain our weakness. We live by their
death. The world is an endless circle. Everything finishes so that
everything may begin again; everything dies so that everything may
live.
In many ages the Mantis has been regarded with superstitious awe. In
Provence its nest is held to be the best remedy for chilblains. You cut
the thing in two, squeeze it, and rub the afflicted part with the juice
that streams out of it. The peasants declare that it works like a
charm. I have never felt any relief from it myself.
Further, it is highly praised as a wonderful cure for toothache. As
long as you have it on you, you need never fear that trouble. Our
housewives gather it under a favourable moon; they keep it carefully in
the corner of a cupboard, or sew it into their pocket. The neighbours
borrow it when tortured by a tooth. They call it a tigno.
“Lend me your tigno; I am in agony,” says the sufferer with the swollen
face.
The other hastens to unstitch and hand over the precious thing.
“Don’t lose it, whatever you do,” she says earnestly to her friend.
“It’s the only one I have, and this isn’t the right time of moon.”
This simplicity of our peasants is surpassed by an English physician
and man of science who lived in the sixteenth century. He tells us
that, in those days, if a child lost his way in the country, he would
ask the Mantis to put him on his road. “The Mantis,” adds the author,
“will stretch out one of her feet and shew him the right way and
seldome or never misse.”