THE SELF-DENIAL OF THE SPANISH COPRIS
You remember, I hope, the Sacred Beetle, who spends her time in making
balls, both to serve as food and also to be the foundation of her
pear-shaped nest. I pointed out the advantages of this shape for the
young Beetles, since the globe is the best form that could be invented
to keep their provisions from becoming dry and hard.
After watching this Beetle at work for a long time I began to wonder if
I had not perhaps been mistaken in admiring her instinct so greatly.
Was it really care for her grubs, I asked myself, that taught her to
provide them with the tenderest and most suitable food? It is the trade
of the Sacred Beetle to make balls. Is it wonderful that she should
continue her ball-making underground? A creature built with long curved
legs, very useful for rolling balls across the fields, will go on with
her favourite occupation wherever she may be, without regard to her
grubs. Perhaps the shape of the pear is mere chance.
To settle this question satisfactorily in my own mind I should need to
be shown a Scavenger Beetle who was utterly unfamiliar with the
ball-making business in everyday life, and who yet, when laying-time
was at hand, made an abrupt change in her habits and stored her
provisions in the form of a round lump. That would show me that it was
not merely custom, but care for her grubs, that made her choose the
globular shape for her nest.
Now in my neighbourhood there is a Beetle of this very kind. She is one
of the handsomest and largest, though not so imposing as the Sacred
Beetle. Her name is the Spanish Copris, and she is remarkable for the
sharp slope of her chest and the size of the horn surmounting her head.
Being round and squat, the Spanish Copris is certainly incapable of
such gymnastics as are performed by the Sacred Beetle. Her legs, which
are insignificant in length, and which she folds under her body at the
slightest alarm, are not in the least like the stilts of the
pill-rollers. Their stunted form and their lack of flexibility are
enough in themselves to tell us that their owner would not care to roam
about burdened with a rolling ball.
The Copris, indeed, is not of an active nature. Once she has found her
provisions, at night or in the evening twilight, she begins to dig a
burrow on the spot. It is a rough cavern, large enough to hold an
apple. Here is introduced, bit by bit, the stuff that is just overhead,
or at any rate lying on the threshold of the cave. An enormous supply
of food is stored in a shapeless mass, plain evidence of the insect’s
gluttony. As long as the hoard lasts the Copris remains underground.
When the larder is empty the insect searches out a fresh supply of
food, and scoops out another burrow.
For the time being the Copris is merely a scavenger, a gatherer of
manure. She is evidently quite ignorant, at present, of the art of
kneading and modelling a round loaf. Besides, her short clumsy legs
seem utterly unsuited for any such art.
In May or June, however, comes laying-time. The insect becomes very
particular about choosing the softest materials for her family’s food.
Having found what pleases her, she buries it on the spot, carrying it
down by armfuls, bit by bit. There is no travelling, no carting, no
preparation. I observe, too, that the burrow is larger and better built
than the temporary abodes in which the Copris takes her own meals.
Finding it difficult to observe the insect closely in its wild state, I
resolved to place it in my insect-house, and there watch it at my ease.
The poor creature was at first a little nervous in captivity, and when
she had made her burrow was very cautious about entering it. By
degrees, however, she was reassured, and in a single night she stored a
supply of the food I had provided for her.
Before a week was out I dug up the soil in my insect-house, and brought
to light the burrow I had seen her storing with provisions. It was a
spacious hall, with an irregular roof and an almost level floor. In a
corner was a round hole leading to a slanting gallery, which ran up to
the surface of the soil. The walls of this dwelling, which was hollowed
out of fresh earth, had been carefully compressed, and were strong
enough to resist the earthquake caused by my experiments. It was easy
to see that the insect had put forth all her skill, all her
digging-powers, in the making of this permanent home, whereas her own
dining-room had been a mere cave, with walls that were none too safe.
I suspect she is helped, in the building of this architectural
masterpiece, by her mate: at least I often see him with her in the
burrows. I also believe that he lends his partner a hand with the
collecting and storing of the provisions. It is a quicker job when
there are two to work. But once the home is well stocked he retires: he
makes his way back to the surface and settles down elsewhere. His part
in the family mansion is ended.
Now what do I find in this mansion, into which I have seen so many tiny
loads of provisions lowered? A mass of small pieces, heaped together
anyhow? Not a bit of it. I always find a simple lump, a huge mass which
fills the dwelling except for a narrow passage.
This lump has no fixed shape. I come across some that are like a
Turkey’s egg in form and size; some the shape of a common onion; I find
some that are almost round, and remind me of a Dutch cheese; I see some
that are circular, with a slight swelling on the upper surface. In
every case the surface is smooth and nicely curved.
There is no mistaking what has happened. The mother has collected and
kneaded into one lump the numerous fragments brought down one after the
other. Out of all those particles she has made a single lump, by
mashing them, working them together, and treading on them. Time after
time I have seen her on top of the colossal loaf which is so much
larger than the ball of the Sacred Beetle—a mere pill in comparison.
She strolls about on the convex surface, which sometimes measures as
much as four inches across; she pats the mass, and makes it firm and
level. I only catch a sight of the curious scene, for the moment she
sees me she slips down the curved slope and hides away.
With the help of a row of glass jars, all enclosed in opaque sheaths of
cardboard, I can find out a good many interesting things. In the first
place I have found that the big loaf does not owe its curve—which is
always regular, no matter how much the slope may vary—to any rolling
process. Indeed I already knew that so large a mess could not have been
rolled into a hole that it nearly fills. Besides, the strength of the
insect would be unequal to moving so great a load.
Every time I go to the jar the evidence is the same. I always see the
mother Beetle twisted on top of the lump, feeling here and feeling
there, giving little taps, and making the thing smooth. Never do I
catch her looking as if she wanted to turn the block. It is clear as
daylight that rolling has nothing to do with the matter.
At last it is ready. The baker divides his lump of dough into smaller
lumps, each of which will become a loaf. The Copris does the same
thing. By making a circular cut with the sharp edge of her forehead,
and at the same time using the saw of her fore-legs, she detaches from
the mass a piece of the size she requires. In giving this stroke she
has no hesitation: there are no after-touches, adding a bit here and
taking off a bit there. Straight away, with one sharp, decisive cut,
she obtains the proper-sized lump.
Next comes the question of shaping it. Clasping it as best she can in
her short arms, so little adapted, one would think, for work of this
kind, the Copris rounds her lump of food by pressure, and pressure
only. Solemnly she moves about on the still shapeless mass, climbs up,
climbs down, turns to right and left, above and below, touching and
re-touching with unvarying patience. Finally, after twenty-four hours
of this work, the piece that was all corners has become a perfect
sphere, the size of a plum. There in her cramped studio, with scarcely
room to move, the podgy artist has completed her work without once
shaking it on its base: by dint of time and patience she has obtained
the exact sphere which her clumsy tools and her confined space seemed
to render impossible.
For a long time she continues to polish up the globe with affectionate
touches of her foot, but at last she is satisfied. She climbs to the
top, and by simple pressure hollows out a shallow cavity. In this basin
she lays an egg.
Then, with extreme caution and delicacy, she brings together the sides
of the basin so as to cover the egg, and carefully scrapes the sides
towards the top, which begins to taper a little and lengthen out. In
the end the ball has become ovoid, or egg-shaped.
The insect next helps herself to a second piece of the cut loaf, which
she treats in the same way. The remainder serves for a third ovoid, or
even a fourth. The Sacred Beetle, you remember, made a single
pear-shaped nest in a way that was familiar to her, and then left her
egg underground while she engaged in fresh enterprises. The Copris
behaves very differently.
Her burrow is almost filled by three or four ovoid nests, standing one
against the other, with the pointed end upwards. After her long fast
one would expect her to go away, like the Sacred Beetle, in search of
food. On the contrary, however, she stays where she is. And yet she has
eaten nothing since she came underground, for she has taken good care
not to touch the food prepared for her family. She will go hungry
rather than let her grubs suffer.
Her object in staying is to mount guard over the cradles. The pear of
the Sacred Beetle suffers from the mother’s desertion. It soon shows
cracks, and becomes scaly and swollen. After a time it loses its shape.
But the nest of the Copris remains perfect, owing to the mother’s care.
She goes from one to the other, feels them, listens to them, and
touches them up at points where my eye can detect no flaw. Her clumsy
horn-shod foot is more sensitive in the darkness than my sight in broad
daylight: she feels the least threatening of a crack and attends to it
at once, lest the air should enter and dry up her eggs. She slips in
and out of the narrow spaces between the cradles, inspecting them with
the utmost care. If I disturb her she sometimes rubs the tip of her
body against the edge of her wing-cases, making a soft rustling sound,
like a murmur of complaint. In this way, caring industriously for her
cradles, and sometimes snatching a brief sleep beside them the mother
waits.
The Copris enjoys in her underground home a rare privilege for an
insect: the pleasure of knowing her family. She hears her grubs
scratching at the shell to obtain their liberty; she is present at the
bursting of the nest which she has made so carefully. And when the
little captive, stiffening his legs and humping his back, tries to
split the ceiling that presses down on him, it is quite possible that
the mother comes to his assistance by making an assault on the nest
from the outside. Being fitted by instinct for repairing and building,
why should she not also be fitted for demolishing? However, I will make
no assertions, for I have been unable to see.
Now it is possible to say that the mother Copris, being imprisoned in
an enclosure from which she cannot escape, stays in the midst of her
nest because she has no choice in the matter. Yet, if this were so,
would she trouble about her work of polishing and constant inspection?
These cares evidently are natural to her: they form part of her habits.
If she were anxious to regain her liberty, she would surely roam
restlessly round the enclosure, whereas I always see her very quiet and
absorbed.
To make certain, I have inspected my glass jars at different times. She
could go lower down in the sand and hide anywhere she pleased, if rest
were what she wanted; she could climb outside and sit down to fresh
food, if refreshment became necessary. Neither the prospect of rest in
a deeper cave nor the thought of the sun and of food makes her leave
her family. Until the last of them has burst his shell she sticks to
her post. I always find her beside her cradles.
For four months she is without food of any kind. She was no better than
a glutton at first, when there was no family to consider, but now she
becomes self-denying to the point of prolonged fasting. The Hen sitting
on her eggs forgets to eat for some weeks; the watchful Copris mother
forgets food for a third part of the year.
The summer is over. The rains so greatly desired by man and beast have
come at last, soaking the ground to some depth. After the torrid and
dusty days of our Provençal summer, when life is in suspense, we have
the coolness that revives it. The heath puts out its first pink bells;
the autumnal squill lifts its little spike of lilac flowers; the
strawberry-tree’s coral bells begin to soften; the Sacred Beetle and
the Copris burst their shells, and come to the surface in time to enjoy
the last fine weather of the year.
The newly released Copris family, accompanied by their mother,
gradually emerge from underground. There are three or four of them,
five at most. The sons are easily recognised by the greater length of
their horns; but there is nothing to distinguish the daughters from the
mother. For that matter, the same confusion exists among themselves. An
abrupt change has taken place. The mother whose devotion was lately so
remarkable is now utterly indifferent to the welfare of her family.
Henceforward each looks after his own home and his own interests. They
no longer have anything to do with one another.
The present indifference of the mother Beetle must not make us forget
the wonderful care she has lavished for four months on end. Except
among the Bees, Wasps, and Ants, who spoon-feed their young and bring
them up with every attention to their health, I know of no other such
case of maternal self-denial. Alone and unaided she provides each of
her children with a cake of food, whose crust she constantly repairs,
so that it becomes the safest of cradles. So intense is her affection
that she loses all desire and need of food. In the darkness of the
burrow she watches over her brood for four months, attending to the
wants of the egg, the grub, the undeveloped Beetle, and the full-grown
insect. She does not return to the glad outer life till all her family
are free. Thus we see one of the most brilliant examples of maternal
instinct in a humble scavenger of the fields. The Spirit breatheth
where He will.