The egg of Sphex flavipennis is white, elongated, and cylindrical,
slightly curved, and measuring three to four millimetres in length.
Instead of being laid fortuitously on any part of the victim, it is
invariably placed on one spot, across the cricket’s breast—a little on
one side, between the first and second pairs of feet. The eggs of the
white bordered, and of the Languedocian Sphex occupy a like
position—the first on the breast of a cricket, the second on that of an
ephippiger. This chosen spot must possess some highly important
peculiarity for the security of the young larva, as I have never known
it vary.
Hatching takes place at the end of two or three days. A most delicate
covering splits, and one sees a feeble maggot, transparent as crystal,
somewhat attenuated and even compressed in front, slightly swelled out
behind, and adorned on either side by a narrow white band formed by the
chief trachea. The feeble creature occupies the same position as the
egg; its head is, as it were, engrafted on the same spot where the
front end of the egg was fixed, and the remainder of its body rests on
the victim without adhering to it. Its transparency allows us readily
to perceive rapid fluctuations within its body, undulations following
one another with mathematical regularity, and which, beginning in the
middle of the body, are impelled, some forward and some backward. These
are due to the digestive canal, which imbibes long draughts of the
juices drawn from the sides of the victim.
Let us pause a moment before a spectacle so calculated to arrest
attention. The prey is laid on its back, motionless. In the cell of
Sphex flavipennis it is a cricket, or three or four, piled up; in that
of the Languedocian Sphex there is a single victim, but proportionately
large, a plump-bodied ephippiger. The grub is a lost grub if torn from
the spot whence it draws nourishment. Should it fall, all is over, for
weak as it is, and without means of locomotion, how would it again find
the spot where it should quench its thirst? The merest trifle would
enable the victim to get rid of the animalcule gnawing at its entrails,
yet the gigantic prey gives itself up without the least sign of
protestation. I am well aware that it is paralysed, and has lost the
use of its feet from the sting of its assassin, but at this early stage
it preserves more or less power of movement and sensation in parts
unaffected by the dart. The abdomen palpitates, the mandibles open and
shut, the abdominal styles and the antennæ oscillate. What would happen
if the grub fixed on one of the spots yet sensitive near the mandibles,
or even on the stomach, which, being tenderer and more succulent, would
naturally suggest itself as fittest for the first mouthfuls of the
feeble grub? Bitten on the quick parts, cicada, cricket, and ephippiger
would display at least some shuddering of the skin, which would detach
and throw off the minute larva, for which probably all would be over,
since it would risk falling into the formidable, pincer-like jaws.
But there is a part of the body where no such peril is to be feared—the
thorax wounded by the sting. There and there only can the experimenter
on a recent victim dig down the point of a needle—nay, pierce through
and through without evoking any sign of pain. And there the egg is
invariably laid—there the young larva always attacks its prey. Gnawed
where pain is no longer felt, the cricket does not stir. Later, when
the wound has reached a sensitive spot, it will move of course as much
as it can; but then it is too late—its torpor will be too deep, and
besides, its enemy will have gained strength. That is why the egg is
always laid on the same spot, near the wounds caused by the sting on
the thorax, not in the middle, where the skin might be too thick for
the new-born grub, but on one side—toward the junction of the feet,
where the skin is much thinner. What a judicious choice! what reasoning
on the part of the mother when, underground, in complete darkness, she
perceives and utilises the one suitable spot for her egg!
I have brought up Sphex larvæ by giving them successively crickets
taken from cells, and have thus been able, day by day, to follow the
rapid progress of my nurslings. The first cricket—that on which the egg
is laid—is attacked, as I have already said, toward the point where the
dart first struck—between the first and second pairs of legs. At the
end of a few days the young larva has hollowed a hole big enough for
half its body in the victim’s breast. One may then sometimes see the
cricket, bitten to the quick, vainly move its antennæ and abdominal
styles, open and close its empty jaws, and even move a foot, but the
larva is safe and searches its vitals with impunity. What an awful
nightmare for the paralysed cricket! This first ration is consumed in
six or seven days; nothing is left but the outer integument, whose
every portion remains in place. The larva, whose length is then twelve
millimetres, comes out of the body of the cricket through the hole it
had made in the thorax. During this operation it moults, and the skin
remains caught in the opening. It rests, and then begins on a second
ration. Being stronger it has nothing to fear from the feeble movements
of the cricket, whose daily increasing torpor has extinguished the last
shred of resistance, more than a week having passed since it was
wounded; so it is attacked with no precautions, and usually at the
stomach, where the juices are richest. Soon comes the turn of the third
cricket, then that of the fourth, which is consumed in ten hours. Of
these three victims there remains only the horny integument, whose
various portions are dismembered one by one and carefully emptied. If a
fifth ration be offered, the larva disdains or hardly touches it, not
from moderation, but from an imperious necessity.
It should be observed that up to now the larva has ejected no
excrement, and that its intestine, in which four crickets have been
engulfed, is distended to bursting. Thus, a new ration cannot tempt its
gluttony, and henceforward it only thinks about making a silken
dwelling. Its repast has lasted from ten to twelve days without a
pause. Its length now measures from twenty-five to thirty millimetres,
and its greatest width from five to six. Its usual shape, somewhat
enlarged behind and narrowed in front, agrees with that general in
larvæ of Hymenoptera. It has fourteen segments, including the head,
which is very small, with weak mandibles seemingly incapable of the
part just played by them. Of these fourteen segments the intermediary
ones are provided with stigmata. Its livery is yellowish-white, with
countless chalky white dots.
We saw that the larva began on the stomach of the second cricket, this
being the most juicy and fattest part. Like a child who first licks off
the jam on his bread, and then bites the slice with contemptuous tooth,
it goes straight to what is best, the abdominal intestines, leaving the
flesh, which must be extracted from its horny sheath, until it can be
digested deliberately. But when first hatched it is not thus dainty: it
must take the bread first and the jam later, and it has no choice but
to bite its first mouthful from the middle of the victim’s chest,
exactly where its mother placed the egg. It is rather tougher, but the
spot is a secure one, on account of the deep inertia into which three
stabs have thrown the thorax. Elsewhere, there would be, generally, if
not always, spasmodic convulsions which would detach the feeble thing
and expose it to terrible risks amid a heap of victims whose hind legs,
toothed like a saw, might occasionally kick, and whose jaws could still
grip. Thus it is motives of security, and not the habits of the grub,
which determine the mother where to place its egg.
A suspicion suggests itself to me as to this. The first cricket, the
ration on which the egg is laid, exposes the grub to more risks than do
the others. First, the larva is still a weakly creature; next, the
victim was only recently stung, and therefore in the likeliest state
for displaying some remains of life. This first cricket has to be as
thoroughly paralysed as possible, and therefore it is stabbed three
times. But the others, whose torpor deepens as time passes,—the others
which the larvæ only attack when grown strong,—have they to be treated
as carefully? Might not a single stab, or two, suffice to bring on a
gradual paralysis while the grub devours its first allowance? The
poison is too precious to be squandered; it is powder and shot for the
Sphex, only to be used economically. At all events, if at one time I
have been able to see a victim stabbed thrice, at another I have only
seen two wounds given. It is true that the quivering point of the
Sphex’s abdomen seemed seeking a favourable spot for a third wound; but
if really given, it escaped my observation. I incline to believe that
the victim destined to be eaten first always is stabbed three times,
but that economy causes the others only to be struck twice. The study
of the caterpillar-hunting Ammophila will later confirm this suspicion.
The last cricket being finished, the larva sets to work to spin a
cocoon. In less than forty-eight hours the work is completed, and
henceforward the skilful worker may yield within an impenetrable
shelter to the overpowering lethargy which is stealing over it—a state
of being which is neither sleeping nor waking, death nor life, whence
it will issue transfigured ten months later. Few cocoons are so complex
as is this one. Besides a coarse outer network, there are three
distinct layers, forming three cocoons, one within another. Let us
examine in detail these various courses of the silken edifice. First
comes an open network, coarse and cobwebby, on which the larva places
itself and hangs as in a hammock to work more easily at the cocoon
properly so called. This incomplete net, hastily spun to serve as a
scaffolding, is made with threads carelessly placed and holding grains
of sand, bits of earth, and remains from the larva’s banquet—cricket’s
thighs, still banded with red, feet, and skull. The next covering,
which is the first of the real cocoon, is a felted wrapper, light red,
very fine, very supple, and somewhat crumpled. A few threads cast here
and there connect it with the preceding scaffolding and the following
covering. It forms a cylindrical purse, with no opening and too large
for what it contains, thus causing the surface to wrinkle. Then comes
an elastic case, markedly smaller than the purse which contains it,
almost cylindrical, and rounded at the upper end, toward which is
turned the head of the larva, while at the lower it makes a blunt cone.
Its colour is light red, except towards the lower end, where the shade
is darker. It is fairly firm, though it yields to a moderate pressure,
except in the conical part, which resists and seems to contain a hard
substance. On opening this sheath it is seen to be formed of two layers
closely pressed together, but easily separable. The outer is a silken
felt precisely like that of the preceding purse, the inner one, the
third of the cocoon, is a kind of lacquer—a brilliant violet-brown
varnish, fragile, very soft to the touch, and of quite a different
nature to the rest of the cocoon. The microscope shows that instead of
being a felt of silky filaments like the other coverings, it is a
homogeneous covering of a peculiar varnish, whose origin is, as we
shall see, sufficiently strange. As for the resistance of the conical
end of the cocoon, one finds it caused by a load of friable matter,
dark violet, and shining with numerous black particles. This load is
the dry mass of excrement, ejected once for all by the larva, inside
its cocoon, and to it is due the darker colour of the conical end. The
average length of this complex dwelling is twenty-seven millimetres,
and its greatest width nine.
Let us return to the purple varnish which covers the interior of the
cocoon. At first, I thought it should be attributed to the silk glands,
which, after serving to spin the double wrapper of silk and the
scaffolding, must finally have secreted it. To convince myself, I
opened larvæ which had just completed their task of weaving, and had
not yet begun to lay on the lacquer. At that period I found no trace of
violet fluid in their glands. It is only seen in the digestive canal,
which is swelled with a purple pulp, and later in the stercorous load
sent down to the lower end of the cocoon. Elsewhere all is white, or
faintly tinged with yellow. I am far from suggesting that the larva
plasters its cocoon with excrement, yet I am convinced that this wash
is produced by the digestive organs, and I suspect—though I cannot
positively assert it, having several times missed the moment to
ascertain it—that the larva disgorges and applies with its mouth the
quintessence of the purple pulp in its stomach to make the wash of
lacquer. Only after this last piece of work would it eject the remains
of digestion in a single mass, and thus is explained the disgusting
necessity of storing the excrement within the larva’s habitation.
At all events the usefulness of this layer is clear; its absolute
impermeability protects the larva from the damp which would certainly
penetrate the poor shelter hollowed for it by its mother. Recollect
that it is buried but a few inches deep in sandy, open ground. To judge
how far cocoons thus varnished are capable of resisting damp, I have
plunged them in water for several days, yet never found any trace of
moisture within them. Let us compare the Sphex cocoon, with manifold
coverings to protect the larva in a burrow itself unprotected, with
that of Cerceris tuberculata, sheltered by a layer of sandstone, more
than half a yard down in the ground. This cocoon has the form of a very
long pear, with the small end cut off. It is composed of a single
silken wrap, so fine that the larva is seen through it. In my many
entomological researches I have always found the labour of larva and
mother supplement each other. In a deep well-sheltered dwelling the
cocoon is of light materials; for a surface abode, exposed to wind and
weather, it is strongly constructed.
Nine months pass, during which a work is done which is quite hidden. I
pass over this period, occupied by the unknown mystery of
transformation, and to come to the nymph, go from the end of September
to the first days of the following July. The larva has thrown aside its
faded vestment, and the chrysalis, a transitory organisation, or
rather, a perfect insect in swaddling bands, awaits motionless the
awakening which is still a month off. Feet, antennæ, the visible
portions of the mouth, and the undeveloped wings, look like clearest
crystal, and are regularly spread out under the thorax and abdomen. The
rest of the body is of an opaque white, slightly tinged with yellow;
the four intermediary segments of the abdomen show on either side a
narrow, blunt prolongation; the last segment has above a blade-like
termination, shaped like the section of a circle, furnished below with
two conical protuberances, side by side, thus making in all eleven
appendages starring the contour of the abdomen. Such is the delicate
creature which, to become a Sphex, must assume a particoloured livery
of black and red, and throw off the fine skin which swaddles it so
closely.
I have been curious to follow day by day the progress and coloration of
the chrysalid, and to experiment whether sunlight—that rich palette
whence Nature draws her colours—could influence their progress. With
this aim I have taken chrysalids out of their cocoon and kept them in
glass tubes, where some, in complete darkness, realised natural
conditions, while others, hung up against a white wall, were all day
long in a strong light. These diametrically opposed conditions did not
affect the colouring, or if there were some slight difference, it was
to the disadvantage of those exposed to light. Quite unlike to what
occurs with plants, light does not influence insect-colouring, nor even
quicken it. It must be so, since in the species most gifted with
splendid colour—Buprestids and Carabids for instance—the wonderful hues
that would seem stolen from a sunbeam are really elaborated in
darkness, deep in the ground, or in the decayed trunk of some aged
tree.
The first indication of colour is in the eyes, whose horny facets pass
successively from white to tawny, then to a slaty hue, and lastly to
black. The simple ones at the top of the forehead share in their turn
in this coloration before the rest of the body has at all lost its
whitish tint. It should be noted that this precocity in the most
delicate of organs, the eye, is general in animals. Later a smoky line
appears in the furrow separating the mesothorax from the metathorax,
and four-and-twenty hours later the whole back of the mesothorax is
black. At the same time the division of the prothorax grows shaded, a
black dot appears in the central and upper part of the metathorax, and
the mandibles are covered with a rusty tint. Gradually a deeper and
deeper shade spreads over the last segments of the thorax, and finally
reaches the head and sides. One day suffices to turn the smoky tint of
the head and the furthest segments of the thorax into deep black. Then
the abdomen shares in the rapidly increasing coloration. The edge of
the anterior segments is tinted with daffodil, while the posterior
segments acquire a band of ashy black. Then the antennæ and feet take a
darker and darker tint, till they become black, all the base of the
abdomen turns orange-red, and the tip black. The livery would then be
complete, but that the tarsi and mouthpieces are transparent red and
the stumps of wings ashy black. Four-and-twenty hours later the
chrysalis will burst its bonds. It only takes six or seven days to
acquire its permanent tints; the eyes have done so a fortnight before
the rest of the body. From this sketch the law of chromatic evolution
is easily apprehended. We see that, omitting the eyes and ocelli, whose
early perfection recalls what takes place in the higher animals, the
starting-point of coloration is a central one, the mesothorax, whence
it invades progressively by centrifugal progression—first the rest of
the thorax, then the head and abdomen, and finally the various
appendages, antennæ, and feet. The tarsi and mouthpieces take colour
later still, and the wings only on coming out of their cases.
Now we have the Sphex in full costume, but she still has to free
herself from the chrysalis case. This is a very fine wrap, enfolding
every smallest detail of structure, and hardly veiling the shape and
colours of the perfect insect. As prelude to the last act of
metamorphosis, the Sphex, rousing suddenly from her torpor, begins to
shake herself violently, as if to call life into her long-benumbed
limbs. The abdomen is alternately lengthened and contracted, the feet
are suddenly spread, then bent, then spread again, and their various
joints are stiffened with effort. The creature, curved backwards on its
head and the point of the abdomen, with ventral surface upward,
distends by vigorous shakes the jointing of its neck and of the petiole
attaching the abdomen to the thorax. At last its efforts are crowned
with success, and after half an hour of these rough gymnastics the
sheath, pulled in every direction, ruptures at the neck, at the
insertion of the feet and petiole, and, in short, wherever the body has
been movable enough to allow of sufficiently violent displacement.
All these tears leave several irregular strips, the chief of which
envelops the abdomen and comes up the back of the thorax. To it belong
the wing sheaths. A second strip covers the head. Lastly, each foot has
its own sheath, more or less dilapidated toward the base. The biggest,
which forms the chief part of the whole covering, is got off by
alternate dilatations and contractions of the abdomen, which gradually
push it back into a little ball connected for some time with the animal
by tracheal filaments. Then the Sphex again becomes motionless, and the
operation is over, though head, antennæ, and feet are still more or
less covered. It is clear that the feet cannot be freed in one piece on
account of the roughnesses and thorns with which they are armed. These
rags of skin dry up and are got rid of later by rubbing the feet
together, and by brushing, smoothing, and combing the whole body with
the tarsi when the Sphex has acquired full vigour.
The way in which the wings come out of their sheaths is the most
remarkable feature in this casting of the skin. In their undeveloped
state they are folded lengthways and much contracted. A little while
before they acquire their normal appearance one can easily draw them
out of their sheaths; but then they do not expand, remaining always
crumpled, while, when the large piece of which the sheaths are a part
is pushed back by the movements of the abdomen, they may be seen
issuing gradually from the sheaths, and immediately they gain freedom,
assuming dimensions out of all proportion to the narrow prison from
which they emerge. They are then the seat of an abundant influx of
vital juices which swell and spread them out, and the turgescence thus
induced must be the chief cause of their coming out of their sheaths.
When freshly expanded the wings are heavy, full of moisture, and of a
very light straw colour. If the influx should take place in an
irregular manner, the point of the wing is seen to be weighed down by a
yellow droplet contained between its under and upper surface.
After denuding itself of the abdominal sheath, which draws away with it
the wing-cases, the Sphex again is motionless for about three days.
During this interval the wings assume their normal colouring, the tarsi
take colour also, and the mouth-parts, at first spread out, assume
their normal position. After twenty-four days as a nymph the insect
attains its perfect state, tears its imprisoning cocoon, opens a way
through the sand, and appears one fine morning in the light as yet
unknown to it. Bathed in sunshine, it brushes wings and antennæ, passes
its feet again and again over its abdomen, washes its eyes with its
forefeet moistened with saliva, like a cat, and, its toilette made,
flies joyfully away. Two months of life are before it.
Beauteous Sphegidæ, hatched under my eyes and brought up by my hand,
ration by ration, on a bed of sand, at the bottom of an old feather
box,—you whose transformations I have followed step by step, waking up
with a start at night for fear of missing the moment when the nymph
breaks through her swaddling bands and the wings issue from their
cases. You have taught me so many things, learning nothing yourselves,
knowing without teachers all that you need to know. Oh, my beautiful
Sphegidæ! fly away without fear of my tubes, my phials, and all my
boxes and cages, and all my prisons for you; fly through the warm
sunshine, beloved by the cicadas! Go, and beware of the Praying Mantis,
who meditates your destruction on the purple thistles; beware of the
lizard watching for you on the sunny slopes. Depart in peace, hollow
out your burrows, stab your crickets scientifically, and continue your
race, so as to afford to others what you have afforded to me—some of
the few moments of happiness in my life.