THE SACRED BEETLE

This was how it came about. We were five or six, I the oldest and their

professor, still more their comrade and friend; they, young fellows

with warm hearts and lively imaginations, overflowing with that

youthful vitality which makes one so open to impressions and so eager

for knowledge.

Talking of one thing and another we followed a path bordered with elder

and hawthorn, where already the Rose Beetle was revelling in the

overwhelming scent of the clustering blossoms. We were going to see if

the Sacred Scarabæus had yet appeared on the sandy plateau of Les

Angles, rolling the ball of dung which ancient Egypt looked on as

emblematic of the world; we wanted to discover whether the running

stream at the bottom of the hill might not hide young newts under the

net of water weeds—newts whose branchiæ look like tiny sprays of coral;

to see if that elegant little fish of the rivulet, the stickleback, had

donned his wedding cravat of azure and purple; if the new-come swallows

were dipping on pointed wings over the meadows chasing the midges which

scatter their eggs in their airy dance; to see if the Eyed Lizard was

sunning his blue-spotted body at the mouth of a hole made in the

sandstone; or if the flocks of Laughing Gulls, come up from the sea

after the legions of fish which ascend the Rhône to spawn, were

hovering over the river, and now and again uttering their cry like the

laugh of a maniac. But enough; suffice it to say that, like simple folk

who find much pleasure in living with the brute creation, we were

intending to spend a morning in enjoying the ineffable awakening of

life in springtime.

We were not disappointed. The stickleback was in full dress, his scales

would have made silver look dim; his throat was of the brightest

vermilion. On the approach of a great horse-leech with no good

intentions, up rose the spines on back and side as if moved by a

spring. Thus bravely encountered, the bandit beat an ignominious

retreat down among the water-plants. The dull race of molluscs,

Planorbinæ, and water-snails were sucking in air on the surface of the

water, and the great Water Beetle, with its hideous larva, went by

wringing the neck now of one, now of another, without the stupid band

seeming to notice it. But let us leave the waters of the plain and

climb the steep cliff dividing us from the tableland where sheep are

feeding and horses are being exercised for the approaching races, one

and all bestowing largesse on the rejoicing dung beetles.

For here at work are the scavenger beetles to whom is entrusted the

high office of clearing the ground of impurities. It is impossible to

admire sufficiently the variety of tools with which they are furnished,

both to stir the dung with, to divide and shape it, and to hollow the

deep retreats into which they shut themselves with their booty. These

tools form a kind of technological museum, where there is a specimen of

every kind of digging instrument. Some might be copied from those

devised by human industry, others are of an original type, and might

serve as models for new tools for man. Copris hispanica wears a strong

horn on its head, forked and bent back, like the long spike of a

pickaxe. To a similar horn C. lunaris adds two strong points, shaped

liked a ploughshare, projecting from the thorax, and between them a

sharp-edged protuberance, serving as a wide rake. Bubas bubalus and B.

bison, both exclusively Mediterranean species, have foreheads armed

with two stout, diverging horns, between which projects a horizontal

share from the corslet. Geotrupes typhæus carries three points on the

front of its thorax, parallel and standing straight out, the middle one

shorter than the others. Onthophagus taurus owns as implements two long

curving appendages like the horns of a bull, while the furcate

Onthophagus has a two-pronged fork on its flat head. Even those least

well off have on one part or other hard tubercules—tools blunt indeed,

but which the patient insect knows very well how to utilise. All are

furnished with a shovel, i.e. a large, flat, sharp-edged head; all use

a rake—in other words, they collect materials with their toothed front

legs.

As compensation for their unpleasant work, more than one gives out a

strong scent of musk, and its ventral parts gleam like polished metal.

Geotrupes hypocrita has the under part of its body bright with metallic

lights of copper and gold, and G. stercorarius with amethystine violet.

But the usual colour is black. It is in tropical regions that we find

dung beetles in gorgeous array—absolutely living jewels. Under camel

droppings in Upper Egypt is found a beetle rivalling the dazzling green

of an emerald; Guiana, Brazil, Senegal, can show Copridæ of a metallic

red, rich as the red of copper, bright as that of a ruby. If such a

jewelled race be wanting to our country, still its dung beetles are not

less remarkable for their habits.

What eagerness is displayed around a dropping! Never did adventurers

from the four corners of the world show such eagerness in working a

Californian claim! Before the sun grows too hot there they are by

hundreds, large and small, pell-mell, of every kind and form and shape,

hastening to secure a slice of the cake! Some work in the open air and

rake the surface, some open galleries in the thickest part, seeking

choice morsels, others toil in the under part and bury their treasure

as soon as possible in the adjacent ground, and the smallest crumble

some scrap fallen from the excavations of their strong fellow-workers.

Some again—newcomers, and doubtless the hungriest—eat then and there,

but the aim of the greater number is to lay up a store which will allow

them to pass long days of plenty down in some sure retreat. A fresh

dropping is not to be found just when wanted in a plain where no thyme

grows; such a gift is indeed a piece of good fortune, and only comes to

the lucky. So when found, the wealth is prudently stored. The smell has

carried the good news a couple of miles round, and all have rushed to

gather up provender. Some laggards are still coming in on the wing or

on foot.

What is the one now trotting towards the heap, fearing to arrive too

late? His long legs work with a brusque, awkward action, as if moved by

some machine inside him; his little red antennæ spread their fans—sure

sign of anxious greediness. He is coming, has arrived, not without

upsetting some of the guests. It is the Sacred Beetle, all in black,

the largest and most celebrated of our dung beetles.

Here he is at table, beside his fellow-guests, who are giving last

touches to their balls with the flat of their large front legs, or

enriching them with a last layer before retiring to enjoy the fruit of

their labours in peace. Let us follow this famous ball in each stage of

construction.

The edge of the beetle’s head is large and flat, and armed with six

angular teeth arranged in a semicircle. It is the tool for digging and

dividing, the rake to lift or reject such vegetable fibres as are not

nutritious, to seek out what is best and rake it together. A choice is

thus made, for these keen connoisseurs like one thing better than

another—a somewhat careless choice, indeed, if the beetle alone be

concerned, but one which is rigorously scrupulous if the maternal ball

be in question, with its central hollow where the egg will hatch. Then

every scrap of fibre is rejected, and only the quintessence of the

stercorous matter is used to build the inner layer of the cell. Then,

as soon as it is hatched, the young larva finds in the walls of its

dwelling a dainty food which strengthens digestion and enables it later

to attack the coarse outer layers. For its own needs the beetle is less

fastidious, contenting itself with a general selection. The toothed

head hollows and seeks, rejects and gathers, somewhat at haphazard. The

forelegs aid mightily. They are flattened, bent into the arc of a

circle, are furnished with strong nerves and armed with five stout

teeth. If an effort has to be made, an obstacle overthrown, a path

forced through the thickest part of the heap, the dung beetle elbows

its way; in other words, throws its toothed legs right and left, and

clears a half circle with a vigorous sweep of its rake. Room being

made, these same feet have a new task; they collect bundles of the

material raked up by the head, and pass it under the insect to the four

hind-feet. These are planned for the turner’s trade. The legs,

especially the last pair, are long and slender, slightly bent in an

arc, and ending in a very sharp spur or talon. A glance shows that they

form a spherical compass, capable of holding a globe in the bent legs

to verify and correct its shape. In fact, their mission is to shape the

ball. Bundle after bundle the material accumulates under the insect,

held between the four legs which by a slight pressure lend it their own

curve and something of shape. Then from time to time the rough hewn

ball is set in motion between the legs of the double spherical compass,

turned underneath the beetle, and rolled into a perfect sphere. Should

the outer layer fail in plasticity and threaten to scale off, or if

some part be too fibrous, and refuse to be shaped by rotation, the

faulty part is retouched by the forefeet; little taps of their broad

surface give consistency to the new layer and imbed the recalcitrant

fibre in the general mass. When the sun shines and work is urgent, one

is amazed by the feverish activity with which the turner labours. Work

goes on fast; first there was a pellet, now it is as large as a nut, by

and by it will be of the size of an apple. I have seen some greedy

beetles make up a ball as large as an apple. Assuredly there is food in

the larder for some days to come!

Provender being gathered, the next thing is to retire from the mêlée,

and carry it to a fitting place. Now we see some of the most

characteristic habits of the Scarabæus. He sets out at once, embracing

the ball with the long hind legs, whose talons, planted in the mass,

serve as pivots—leans on the intermediary legs as pivots, and using as

levers the flat of the toothed forefeet, which press the ground

alternately, journeys backward with his load, the body bent, the head

low, and the hinder part upraised. The hind feet, which are the chief

organs in the mechanism, move continually, going and coming and

changing the place where the talons are stuck in, to alter the axis of

rotation, to keep the load balanced and advance by an alternate push

right and left. Thus the ball comes in contact with the ground in every

part of it, which gives it a perfect shape and lends consistency to the

outer layer by a uniform pressure. Courage! it moves, it rolls, and the

journey’s end will be reached, though not without trouble. Here is a

first difficulty. The beetle has to cross a slope, and the heavy ball

would naturally follow the incline, but for reasons best known to

itself, the insect prefers to cross this natural slope—an audacious

plan, which one false step or a grain of sand to upset the balance will

defeat. The false step is made, the ball rolls to the bottom of the

valley, and the insect, upset by the impetus of its load, staggers,

gets again on its legs, and hastens to harness itself afresh. The

mechanism works capitally. But look out, scatterbrain! follow the

hollow of the valley, it will spare labour and misadventure. The road

is good and quite level, and your ball will roll along with no

exertion. Not a bit of it. The insect has made up its mind to remount

the slope already so fatal to it. Perhaps it suits it to return to the

heights. Against that I have nothing to say, the Scarabæus knows better

than I do whether it be advisable to dwell in lofty regions. At all

events, take this path which will lead you up by a gentle incline. Not

at all. If there be near at hand some very stiff slope impossible to

climb, then that slope this wrong-headed insect prefers. Then begins

the labour of Sisyphus. With endless precautions the monstrous load is

painfully hoisted, step by step to a certain height, the beetle always

going tail first. One asks one’s self by what miracle of statics such a

mass can be kept on the slope. Ah! a clumsy movement brings all this

toil to naught. Down goes the ball, dragging the beetle with it. The

escalade is repeated, soon followed by a fresh fall. The attempt is

renewed, and better managed at the difficult points; a nasty

grass-root, which occasioned the previous tumbles, is prudently turned;

we have almost got to the top. But gently! gently! the ascent is

perilous, and a mere nothing may ruin all. A leg slips on a bit of

smooth gravel, and ball and scavenger roll down together. The beetle

begins all over again, with tireless obstinacy. Ten times, twenty

times, will it attempt that further ascent, until persistency

vanquishes all obstacles, or until, better advised, it takes the level

road.

The scavenger does not always roll his ball single-handed, but

frequently takes a partner, or rather, a partner takes him. The affair

is usually managed thus: the ball being prepared, a beetle comes out of

the throng, pushing it backwards. One of the newcomers, whose own work

is hardly begun, leaves its task and runs to the ball, now in motion,

to lend a hand to the lucky proprietor, who appears to accept the

proffered aid in an amiable spirit. The two work as partners, each

doing its best to convey the ball to a place of safety. Was a treaty

made in the workshop, a tacit agreement to share the cake? While one

kneaded and shaped, was the other tapping rich veins whence to extract

choice material for their common use? I have never observed such

collaboration, but have always seen every beetle exclusively occupied

by his own affairs on the field of labour, so that the last comer has

no acquired rights.

Is it, then, an association of the two sexes, a couple about to set up

house? For a time I thought so. The two scavengers pushing a ball, one

before and one behind, with equal zeal, used to remind me of certain

couplets once on a time popular on barrel-organs—

Pour monter notre ménage, hélas comment ferons-nous?

Toi devant, moi derrière, nous pousserons le tonneau.

But the evidence of the scalpel forces me to give up this family idyll.

There is no outward sign of sex in the Scarabæus, but on dissecting a

couple employed on one and the same ball they often turned out to be of

the same sex. In fact, there is neither community of family nor

community of labour. What, then, is the reason of the apparent

partnership? Merely an attempt at filching. The eager fellow-worker,

under pretence of giving a helping hand, cherishes the project of

carrying off the ball at the earliest opportunity. To make one for

itself at the heap demands labour and patience; to abstract a

ready-made one, or at least to foist one’s self in as a sharer of the

feast, is much more convenient. If the owner’s watchfulness should

slacken, one will flee with the treasure; if too closely looked after,

one can at least sit down at table on the pretext of services rendered.

With such tactics all turns to profit, so that pillage is carried on as

one of the most lucrative of trades. Some, as I have just said, play an

underhand game, hastening to the aid of some comrade who has not the

least need of them, and under the cloak of charitable assistance

conceal a highly indelicate greed. Others, bolder or more confident in

their strength, go straight to the goal and rob by main force. Every

moment some such scene as this will take place. A beetle departs alone,

rolling his ball, his own property, acquired by conscientious labour;

another comes flying, whence I know not, drops heavily, folds his smoky

wings under their elytra, and with the back of his toothed feet

oversets the proprietor, which, being hindside before, cannot defend

itself. While the latter struggles to its feet the aggressor stations

itself on the top of the ball, as a point of vantage whence to repel

attack, folds its feet under its breast, ready for action, and awaits

events. The bereaved owner moves round the ball, seeking a favourable

point whence to attempt an assault; the thief revolves on the top of

the citadel, constantly facing him. If the former raises itself for an

escalade, the latter gives it a cuff which stretches it flat on its

back. Secure on the top of the fortress, the besieged would bring to

nought for all time the efforts of its adversary to recover its lost

property if the besieger did not alter his tactics. Sapping threatens

to bring down both citadel and garrison. The ball being undermined,

staggers and rolls, carrying with it the robber, struggling his hardest

to keep at the top, which he generally succeeds in doing, thanks to the

hurried gymnastics that enable him to regain the altitude lost by the

rotation of his standing place. If a false movement should bring him to

the ground, the chances become equal, and the contest turns to a

wrestling match. Robber and robbed grapple body to body, breast to

breast. Their feet twist and untwist, their joints intertwine, their

horny armour clashes and grinds with the harsh sound of filed metal.

Then one will succeed in throwing its adversary on the back, and,

freeing itself, hastily takes up a position on the top of the ball, and

the siege is recommenced, now by the robber, now by the robbed, as the

chances of the fight may have decided. The former, no doubt a hardy

brigand and adventurer, often gets the best of it. After two or three

defeats the ex-owner wearies of the contest and returns philosophically

to the heap and makes a new ball. As for the other, when all fear of a

surprise is over, he harnesses himself to the conquered ball and pushes

it whither it seems good to him. I have occasionally seen a third thief

rob the robber. And upon my word I was not sorry.

Vainly do I ask myself what Prudhon introduced into Scarabæus-morality

the audacious paradox that “Property spells theft,” or what diplomatist

taught the dung-beetle that “they may take who have the power, and they

may keep who can.” I have not the evidence required to lead me to the

origin of these spoliations which have become a habit, or of this abuse

of strength in order to seize a ball of dirt. All that I can affirm is

that among beetles theft is universal. These dung rollers pillage one

another with a cool effrontery really matchless. I leave it to future

observers to elucidate this curious problem in the psychology of

animals, and return to the couple rolling their balls in partnership.

But first let us dissipate an error current in books. In the

magnificent work of M. Emile Blanchard, Metamorphoses, Habits, and

Instincts of Animals, I find the following passage: “Sometimes our

insect is stopped by an insurmountable obstacle: the ball has fallen

into a hole. At such a time the Ateuchus [2] displays a really

astonishing grasp of the situation, and a yet more astonishing power of

communication between individuals of the same species. Recognising the

impossibility of getting the ball over the obstacle, the Ateuchus

seemingly abandons it, and flies away. If you are sufficiently endowed

with that great and noble virtue called Patience, remain near this

forsaken ball. After a while the Ateuchus will return, and not alone;

it will be followed by two, three, or four companions who, alighting at

the appointed spot, will join in trying to lift up the load. The

Ateuchus has been to seek reinforcements, and this explains why several

beetles uniting to transport a single ball is such a common sight in

dry fields.” I also read in Illiger’s Entomological Magazine: “A

Gymnopleurus pilularius, [3] while constructing the ball of dung

destined to contain its eggs, let it roll into a hole, whence the

insect tried long and vainly to extract it. Finding this only waste of

time, he hastened to a neighbouring heap of manure to seek three of his

kind, which, uniting their efforts to his, succeeded in getting out the

ball, and then went back to their own work.”

I humbly beg pardon of my illustrious master, M. Blanchard, but

assuredly things do not happen thus. First, the two accounts are so

much alike that they must have had a common origin. After observations

not followed up closely enough to merit blind confidence, Illiger put

forward the story of his Gymnopleurus, and the same fact has been

attributed to the Scarabæus because it really is a common thing to find

two of these insects busy rolling a ball, or getting it out of some

difficult position. But the partnership does not at all prove that one

went to ask help from the other in some difficulty. I have had a large

measure of the patience recommended by M. Blanchard; I may claim to

have spent long days in the intimacy of Scarabæus sacer; I have tried

every means to comprehend its manners and customs, and to study them

from life, and never did I see anything which suggested that one had

called its companions to its aid. As I shall presently relate, I have

put the dung-beetle to proofs far more serious than that of a ball

fallen into a hole, and into far graver difficulties than having to

climb a slope—a thing which is mere sport for the obstinate Sisyphus,

who seems to enjoy the rough gymnastics required by steep places, as if

the ball grew thereby firmer, and therefore more valuable. I have

invented situations where the insect had extreme need of help, and

never could I detect any proof of good offices between comrades. I have

seen pillaged and pillagers, and nothing else. If a number of beetles

surrounded the same ball, it meant battle. My humble opinion is that

several Scarabæi gathered round a pellet with intent to thieve was what

gave rise to these stories of comrades called in to give a helping

hand. Incomplete observations have turned an audacious robber into a

serviceable companion who put his own work aside to do a friendly turn.

It is no slight thing to admit that an insect has a truly surprising

grasp of the situation and a facility of communication between

individuals more surprising still; therefore I insist on this point,

Are we to suppose that a Scarabæus in distress conceives the idea of

begging for help?—flies off, explores the country round to find

comrades at work on a dropping, and having found them, by some

pantomime, especially by movements of the antennæ, addresses them more

or less thus: “Hullo, you there! My load is upset in a hole yonder;

come and help me to get it out. I will do as much for you another

time.” And are we to suppose too that his colleagues understand him?

And, more wonderful still, that they leave their work, their ball newly

begun, their beloved ball, exposed to the greed of others, and certain

to be filched during their absence, in order to help the supplicant! I

am profoundly incredulous of so much self-sacrifice, and my incredulity

is borne out by all which I have seen during many long years, not in

collection boxes, but on the spots where the Scarabæi work. Outside of

the cares of maternity—cares in which it almost always shows itself

admirable, the Insect—unless, indeed, it lives in society like bees and

ants and some others—thinks and cares for nothing but itself.

Let us drop this discussion, excused by the importance of the subject.

I have already said that a Scarabæus, owner of a ball which it is

pushing backwards, is often joined by another which hastens to its aid

with interested views, ready to rob if it gets the chance. Let us call

the pair associates, though that is hardly the name for them, since one

forces itself on the other, who perhaps only accepts help for fear of

worse. The meeting is, however, perfectly peaceable. The arrival of the

assistant does not distract the proprietor for an instant from his

labours; the newcomer seems animated by the best intentions, and

instantly sets to work. The way they harness themselves is different

for each. The owner of the ball occupies the chief position, the place

of honour; he pushes behind the load, his hind feet upraised, his head

downward. The helper is in front, in a reverse position, head raised,

toothed arms on the ball, long hind legs on the ground. Between the two

moves the ball, pushed before it by the one, dragged towards it by the

other. The efforts of the couple are not always harmonious, especially

as the assistant turns his back to the road to be traversed, and the

view of the owner is bounded by his load. Hence repeated accidents and

ludicrous tumbles, taken cheerfully, each hastening to pick himself up

and resume his former position. On level ground this style of draught

does not answer to the expenditure of energy, for want of precision in

combined movements; the Scarabæus behind would do as well or better

alone, and the assistant, having proved his goodwill at the risk of

disturbing the mechanism, decides to keep quiet of course without

abandoning the precious globe, which he looks on as already his. A ball

touched is a ball acquired. He will not be so imprudent as to let go;

the other would instantly take advantage of it. So he folds his legs

under him, flattens himself, incrusts himself, as it were, on the ball,

and becomes part of it. Ball and beetle roll together, pushed along by

the lawful owner. Whether it should go over the body of the other,

whether he be above, below, or on one side of the rolling load, matters

not—the intruder lies low. A singular helper this, who lets himself be

run over for the sake of a share in the provender! But let them come to

a steep incline, and he gets a chance of displaying his usefulness. On

the steep slope he takes the lead, holding up the heavy load with his

toothed feet while his comrade steadies himself to hoist the load a

little higher. Thus, by a combination of judicious efforts, I have seen

them mount ascents, the one above holding up, the lower one pushing,

where all the obstinate efforts of a single beetle must have failed.

All, however, have not the same zeal in difficult moments; some, just

when their assistance is most wanted on a slope, do not appear in the

least aware that there is anything to overcome. While the unhappy

Sisyphus is exhausting himself in efforts to surmount his difficulties,

the other remains passive, incrusted on the ball, rolling down with it,

and forthwith hoisted up again.

I have often tried the following experiment on two associates in order

to judge of their inventive faculties in a serious predicament. Let us

suppose them on level ground, the assistant firmly seated on the ball,

the other pushing. Without disturbing the latter, I nail the ball to

the ground with a long, strong pin; it comes to a sudden stop. The

beetle, unaware of my treachery, doubtless believes in some rut, some

dandelion root or pebble stopping the way. He redoubles his efforts,

struggles his hardest, but nothing moves. What has happened? Let us go

and see. Twice or thrice he walks round his pellet. Discovering nothing

which can explain its immovableness, he goes behind and pushes again.

The ball remains motionless. Let us look above. He climbs up to find

nothing but his motionless colleague, for I have taken care to drive

the head of the pin in deep enough to hide the head in the mass of the

ball. He examines the summit and again descends; fresh thrusts are

vigorously applied in front and on either side with the same want of

success. Certainly no scavenger beetle ever yet found himself

confronted by such a problem of inertia. It is the very moment for

claiming assistance, a thing all the more easy that the colleague is

close at hand, squatted on the top of the dome. Will the Scarabæus give

him a shake, or address him somewhat thus: What are you about, lazy

bones? Come and look here; something has broken down. Nothing proves

that he does so, for the beetle long persists in trying to move the

immovable, examining now on this side, now on that, now above, now

below, while his friend still remains quiescent. In the end, however,

the latter becomes aware that something unusual is going on; it is

brought home to him by the uneasy comings and goings of his companion

and by the immobility of the ball, so in his turn he comes down to look

into the matter. Double harness does not prove more effectual than

single, and matters grow complicated. The little fans of their antennæ

open and shut, open again, quiver and betray their lively anxiety. Then

a stroke of genius ends their perplexities. Who knows what may be

underneath? They explore below the ball, and a slight excavation

reveals the pin. They recognise at once that the crux is there. Had I a

voice in the matter I should have said, “An excavation must be made,

and the stake which holds the ball must be got out.” This very

elementary proceeding, and one so easy to such expert excavators, was

not adopted nor even attempted. The scavenger beetle was cleverer than

the man. The two colleagues, one on this side, one on that, insinuated

themselves under the ball, which slipped up along the pin in proportion

as the living wedges raised it, the softness of the material allowing

of this clever manœuvre. Soon the ball was suspended at a height equal

to that of the beetles’ bodies. What remained to do was more difficult.

From lying flat they gradually got on their legs and pushed upward with

their backs. It was hard to accomplish, the feet losing strength the

more they stretched upward, but they did it. Then came a moment when

they could no longer use their backs to push, the highest point

possible being reached. There was a last resource, but one much less

favourable to the development of strength. Now in one of the postures

in which it drags a ball, now in the other,—that is to say, either head

downward or the reverse,—the insect pushes with hind or fore feet.

Finally, unless the pin be too long, the ball drops to the ground. The

perforation is repaired as best it can be, and the ball is at once

dragged onward.

But if the pin should be too long, the ball remains suspended at a

height which the insect cannot increase by rearing itself up. In this

case, after vain evolutions around the inaccessible maypole, the

beetles give up the struggle, unless you are kind-hearted enough to

complete the work yourself, and restore their treasure, or unless you

aid them by raising the floor with a little flat stone, a pedestal from

whence the insect can continue its work. Its use does not seem to be

immediately understood, for neither beetle shows any readiness to

profit by it. However, by chance or otherwise, one gets on the stone.

Oh, joy! as it passed it felt the ball touch its back. Thereupon

courage returns, and the struggle begins again. Standing on its

platform the beetle stretches its joints, rounds its back, and hoists

the pellet. When that no longer avails, it manœuvres with its feet, now

upright, now head downward. There is a new pause and new signs of

uneasiness when the limit of extension is reached. Without disturbing

the creature let us put another little stone on the first. By the help

of the new step, which gives a support for its levers, the insect

pursues its task. Adding one step to another as required, I have seen

the Scarabæus, perched on a shaky pile of three or four fingers’

breadth, persisting in its labour until the ball was completely freed.

Had it some vague consciousness of the services rendered by the

elevation of its point of leverage? I cannot believe it, although the

beetle profited very cleverly by my platform of little stones, for if

the very elementary idea of using a higher base to reach something too

elevated was not beyond it, how was it that neither beetle bethought

him of offering his back to the other, thus rendering the task

possible? One assisting the other, they might have doubled the height

attained. They are far indeed from any such combinations. Here, each

pushes the ball with all its might, but pushes as if alone, without

seeming to suspect the happy result which would be brought about by a

combined effort. When the ball is fastened to the ground by a pin, they

behave as they would when the ball is stopped by a loop of dandelion,

or held by some slender bit of stalk which has got into the soft,

rolling mass. My artifice brought about a stoppage not unlike those

which occur when the ball is rolling amid the many inequalities of the

ground, and the insect acts as it would have acted in some

circumstances where I had not interfered. It uses its back as a wedge

and lever and pushes with its feet without at all varying its means of

action, even when it might call a comrade to its help.

If it has to face the difficulties of a ball nailed to the ground with

no assistant, its dynamic manœuvres are exactly the same, and it

succeeds, so long as we give the indispensable help of a platform

gradually built up. Should this help be refused, the Scarabæus, no

longer stimulated by the touch of its beloved ball, loses hope, and

sooner or later, no doubt with bitter regret, flies off, whither I know

not. What I do know is, that it does not return with a squadron of

companions whom it has implored to help it. What could it do with them,

since it cannot utilise even the single comrade when one shares the

ball? Perhaps, however, an experiment which suspends the pellet at a

height inaccessible to the insect when its means of action are

exhausted may be too much outside of ordinary conditions. Let us try a

miniature ditch, deep enough and steep enough to prevent a beetle when

placed at the bottom with its load from rolling it up. These are the

exact conditions named by Blanchard and Illiger. What happens? When

persistent yet fruitless efforts show the beetle that it can do

nothing, it spreads its wings and flies off. Long, very long have I

waited, on the faith of what these learned men say, expecting it to

return with its friends, but I have always waited in vain. Often, too,

many days later I have found the ball just where I tried the

experiment, either at the top of the pin or at the bottom of the hole,

proving that nothing fresh had happened. A pellet abandoned from

necessity is abandoned for good and all, without salvage by the help of

other beetles. Dexterous use of wedge and lever to move the arrested

ball is the highest intellectual effort I have ever seen in the

Scarabæus sacer. As a counterpoise to what experiment refutes, namely,

an appeal for help to brother beetles, I very willingly chronicle this

feat of mechanics for the glorification of the Scarabæus. Straying over

sandy plains thickset with thyme, ruts, and slopes, the ball is rolled

for a while by the two partners, the material thus acquiring a firmness

which they probably find palatable. By and by a favourable spot is

selected. The proprietor, who has always kept the place of honour

behind the ball and is the one who performs almost the whole work of

draught, begins to hollow out the dining-room. Beside him is the ball,

to which his associate clings, motionless. Head and toothed legs attack

the sand, flinging quantities backward, and the excavation advances

rapidly. Soon the insect disappears therein. Each time that he brings a

load to upper air he never fails to glance at the ball to make sure

that all is going on well. Now and again he brings it nearer to the

edge of the cavity, feels it, and seems to gain new zeal from its

contact. The other beetle, hypocrite that he is, continues to inspire

confidence by his motionless attitude on the ball. Meanwhile, the

underground hall grows larger and deeper, and the excavator appears

more rarely, hindered by the extent of his labours. The moment is

favourable, the sleeper rouses up. The crafty partner decamps with the

ball, dragging it behind him with the haste of a thief fearing to be

caught in the act. This abuse of trust rouses my ire, but I let it pass

in the interest of the story—time enough to interfere on behalf of

morality if the upshot threaten to turn out ill.

Already the thief is some yards away. The robbed beetle comes up from

his hole, looks, and finds nothing. No doubt he has himself had a hand

in like proceedings. Scent and sight soon put him on the track and he

hurriedly comes up with the robber, whereupon this sly dog promptly

changes his position, gets on his hind legs and clasps the ball with

his toothed arms as he does when acting helper. Ah, you rascal! I see

through you! you would excuse yourself by declaring that the ball

rolled down the slope, and that you are trying to stop it and take it

home. I, however, who am an impartial witness, assert that the ball,

being well balanced at the mouth of the hole, did not move of its own

accord. Besides, the ground is level. I affirm that I saw you set it in

motion and make off with unequivocal intentions. It was an attempt at

larceny or I know nothing about it. My evidence not being taken into

consideration, the owner listens mildly to his companion’s excuses, and

the two roll the ball back as if nothing had happened.

But if the thief can get far enough away, or can conceal his track by

adroitly doubling back, the loss is irreparable. To have collected

provisions under a fiery sun, to have conveyed them a weary way, to

have hollowed out a comfortable banqueting hall in the sand, and then,

just when all is ready, and appetite whetted by toil lends charms to

the prospect of the approaching feast, to find one’s self suddenly

robbed by a companion is certainly a reverse of fortune that would try

most people’s courage. But the dung beetle does not allow itself to be

cast down by this malicious blow of fate; it rubs its cheeks, spreads

its antennæ, sniffs the air, and flies to the nearest heap to begin

again. This is a trait of character which I admire and envy.

Let us suppose the Scarabæus lucky enough to have met with a reliable

partner, or, better still, that he has no self-invited associate. The

hole is ready, made in friable earth, usually in sand, rather shallow,

about the size of one’s fist, communicating with the outer air by a

short passage, just wide enough to let the ball pass. As soon as the

provender is introduced, the Scarabæus shuts itself in, stopping up the

mouth of the passage with fragments kept in reserve in a corner. Once

the door is closed, nothing outside betrays the banqueting hall. And

now hurrah! all is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.

The table is sumptuously laid, the ceiling tempers the heat of the sun,

only allowing a gentle moist heat to penetrate; the calm, the darkness,

the concert given by the field-cricket overhead, all favour digestion.

Carried away by my interest, I have caught myself listening at the

door, believing that I heard sung at table the famous

Ah! how sweet ’tis nought to do

When all around is endless stir.

from the opera of Galathea.

Who would dare disturb the beatitude of such a banquet? Alas! the

desire for knowledge makes one capable of anything, and I have not

shrunk from even this. I now give the result of thus violating the

sanctity of home-life. The ball filled almost the whole space, the

magnificent store of victuals rising from floor to ceiling, a narrow

passage separated it from the walls. In this sat the banqueters, two at

most, often but one, their faces to the table, their backs to the wall.

When once they have taken their places nobody stirs, all their vital

powers are absorbed by the digestive faculties. No little movement

which might cause the loss of a mouthful, no daintiness which might

waste the food—everything must be done decently and in order. To see

them thus absorbed round a lump of dung, one would say that they were

aware of their rôle as earth-cleansers, and consciously devoted

themselves to that marvellous chemistry which out of impurity brings

the flower that gladdens the eye, and the wing-cases of the Scarabæus

which adorn the turf in springtime. To fit it for this all-important

work, which turns into living matter the residue that horse and sheep

cannot utilise, in spite of the perfection of their digestive organs,

the dung beetle needs special tools. Accordingly anatomy shows the

immense length of its intestine, which, folded repeatedly on itself,

slowly deals with the material in its manifold circuits, and exhausts

the very last atom capable of being used. Where the stomach of the

herbivorous animal can extract nothing, this powerful alembic draws

riches which under its influence become the ebony mail of the Scarabæus

sacer, and a cuirass of gold and rubies for other species. Sanitary

principles require that this marvellous change be made as rapidly as

possible; therefore the Scarabæus is endowed with a matchless power of

digestion. Once shut up with food, it never ceases to eat and digest

until the whole store is devoured. Proof of this is easily come by.

Open the cell where it has retired from the world at any hour and you

find the insect eating, and behind it, still attached to the creature,

is a continuous cord, rolled carelessly like a bundle of cables.

Without going into particulars, we can guess what this cord represents.

Mouthful by mouthful the great ball passes into the digestive organs,

yielding up its nutritive principle, and reappearing spun into a rope.

Now this unbroken cord, often without a joint and always hanging from

the orifice, proves, with absolute certainty, how continuous is the

action of digestion. By the time that the food is nearly eaten, the

rope is astonishingly long. Where else could one find another stomach,

that, to avoid any loss in the debit and credit ledger of life, can

feast for a week or a fortnight on such miserable cheer? When the whole

mass has been digested, the hermit returns to daylight, seeks, finds,

and shapes a new ball, and begins all over again. This royal life lasts

one or two months, from June to July; then, with the coming of the

fierce heat, which the grasshoppers love, the Scarabæi take up summer

quarters and bury themselves in the cool earth. With the first rains

they reappear, less numerous and less active than in spring, but

apparently taken up by the all-important task of continuing their race.