Bees and wasps—A bee’s masonry—What happens to
caterpillars—Living food—Variations in instinct—A wasp’s
implement—Unreal distinctions—A cautious observer—Bees that
make tunnels—A wonderful instinct—Leaf-cutting bees—Nests
made of poppy-leaves—Born in the purple—Commercial
philosophy—The appreciative white man—Economy of labour—Bees
and rats—Busy shadows—A bee double.
THE consideration of ants naturally leads to that of bees, but of the
life and doings of the hive-bee—made common now in a hundred practical
treatises and bee-keeper’s manuals—it is not the design of this little
book to treat. Wasps are less written about, but even here, in a work
which can only deal with a very few insects out of a very great many, a
choice may be permitted one, so I will merely observe, in regard to the
common species, that in my opinion wasps are much less irascible than
bees—in fact, quite good-natured compared to them—but at the same time,
owing to their room-entering, table-pillaging propensities, much greater
nuisances, so that they deserve stern treatment, but a more charitable
estimate of their character. Hornets, again—which seldom offend in this
way—appear to me to be very peaceable insects, as though, wielding a
mighty weapon, they felt that they had no need to use it except on “a
striking emergency.” Such a definition would apply to the running of a
stage-coach, diligence, omnibus, waggon, etc.—in fact, any large
vehicle—into their nest on the highway, in which case the consequences,
one may well believe, would be appalling. Never having been in such a
position myself, and being without trustworthy information on the
subject, my powers of description are useless here, but there is a way
of dealing with this emergency also. This reminds me, however, of an
account which I have read somewhere or other of hornets having once
stopped a Roman army. This may seem surprising nowadays, but we must
remember that in classical times armies did not possess artillery. There
is therefore nothing invidious in the opinion which I here express, that
however much they may have stopped the Romans, they would never stop the
Japanese.
In both ants and bees we find solitary and social species, so as in ants
we have been considering the latter only, we will now reverse the
process with bees. There are many interesting species of solitary bees,
but it must be premised that the word “solitary” is to be understood
here in a special rather than in a general sense. As far as mere numbers
are concerned, there is often a large community of bees building their
cells in close proximity all at the same time, but each builds its cell
for itself alone, or rather for its family—no one thinks of helping its
neighbour. There is no co-operation, in fact, and that makes all the
difference. It would be all the same to every one of the bees that are
building so close together if all the rest went away and left it to work
alone. And yet we cannot even quite say this, because, in one case, at
any rate, though every individual bee makes its own cell and thinks only
of that and of its own family, yet, when all the cells are finished, the
whole community join in making one mud roof over the whole of them. By
this we see how difficult it is to find quite separate places for allied
animals, and how the habits of one are apt to slide gradually into those
of another. Still, we must do the best we can, and take words as we find
them, remembering that the locusts, as already explained, do _not_
belong to the _locustidæ_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: DRIVEN OUT BY HORNETS.]
[Illustration]
Aelian, in his “Natural History,” says that a city in Crete
was attacked by such a plague of hornets that the
inhabitants were driven to abandon it, and build a new city
on another site. A hornet is shown to the right of this
inscription.
Amongst the best known of the solitary species of bees are the Carpenter
Bees, the Carding and Tapestry Bees, and the Mason Bees. Of the latter a
great French observer, who, though he lives now, belongs really to the
days of Réaumur and Swammerdam, has something to tell us. Speaking not
of Réaumur’s maison bee—that “splendid Hymenopteron with its dark violet
wings and costume of black velvet”[86]—but of a smaller
species—_Chalicodoma sicula_—he says: “You should see the active bee at
work when the road is dazzling white in the hot sunshine. Between the
neighbouring farm where she is building and the road where the mortar is
prepared there is a deep hum of the bees perpetually crossing each other
as they come and go. The air seems traversed by constant trails of
smoke, so rapid and direct is their flight. Those who go carry away a
pellet of mortar as big as small shot: those who come settle on the
hardest and driest spots. Their whole body vibrates as they scratch with
the tips of their mandibles and rake with their forefeet to extract
atoms of earth and grains of sand, which, being rolled between their
teeth, become moist with saliva, and unite. They work with such ardour
that they will let themselves be crushed under the foot of a passer-by
rather than move.”[86] Then comes the making of the actual nest, or
little collection of cells. “After choosing a boulder,” says Fabre, “she
comes with a pellet of mortar in her mandibles, and arranges it in a
ring on the surface of the pebble. The forefeet, and, above all, the
mandibles, which are her most important tools, work the material, which
is kept plastic by the gradually disgorged saliva. To consolidate the
unbaked clay, angular pieces of gravel as large as a small bean are
worked in singly on the outside of the still soft mass. This is the
foundation of the edifice. Other layers are added, until the cell has
the required height of three or four centimetres. The masonry is formed
by stones laid on one another and cemented with lime, and can stand
comparison with our own. Layers of mortar sparingly used hold them
together. The cell completed, the bee sets to work at once to store it.
The neighbouring flowers, especially those of _Genista scorpius_, which
in May turn the alluviums of the torrents golden, furnish sugared
liquids and pollen. She comes with her crop swelled with honey, and all
yellow underneath with pollen dust, and plunges head first into the
cell, where for some moments one may see her work her body in a way
which tells that she is disgorging honey. Her crop emptied, she comes
out, but only to go in again at once, this time backwards. With her two
hind feet she now frees herself from her load of pollen by brushing
herself underneath. Again she goes out, and returns head first. She must
stir the materials with her mandibles for a spoon, and mix all
thoroughly together. When the cell is half full it is stored; an egg
must be laid on the honey paste, and the door has to be closed. This is
all done without delay. The orifice is closed by a cover of undiluted
mortar, worked from the circumference to the centre. Two days, at most,
seem required for the whole work.”[86] Afterwards several more
cells—making a continuous group of from six to ten—are added, and when
all is completed, the mason bee “builds a thick cover over the whole
group, which, being of a material impermeable to water, and almost a
non-conductor, is at once a defence against heat and cold and damp. This
material is the usual mortar, made of earth and saliva, only with no
small stones in it. The nest is now a rude dome, about as big as half an
orange; one would take it for a clod of mud flung against a stone, where
it had dried. Nothing outside betrays its contents—no suggestion of
cells, none of labour. To the ordinary eye it is only a chance splash of
mud.”
Of course, when the eggs are hatched, the bee larvæ feed on the stored
pollen and honey, a pleasing picture which suggests another something
like it, though not altogether the same. I allude to certain species of
solitary wasps, which, urged by the same feelings of maternal
solicitude, choose a living caterpillar, grasshopper, spider, etc., for
the future sustenance of their young. Take, for instance, _Ammophila
urnaria_ of North America, whose habits in this respect have been
carefully studied. This wasp is about an inch long, with very long legs,
and a waist even exaggeratedly wasp-like. It is black in colour, but
with a red mark running round the fore part of the abdomen. At the
proper time she—for, of course, we are dealing with the female—may be
seen running about the ground, and eagerly searching the various plants
and grasses that come in her way. Occasionally, as though in lightness
both of heart and body, she gives a leap off the ground, and at other
times will fly up from it more deliberately, to make an examination of
some overhanging leaf. At last, as a result of these little aerial
excursions, let us say, she knocks down a certain green caterpillar of
the kind wanted, and with maternal devotion full upon her, at once sets
to work. The caterpillar, however, though taken by surprise, and
assaulted the instant it has touched the ground, resists strenuously, as
though instinctively knowing, and highly disapproving of, the fate in
store for it. It is larger and more bulky than the wasp, and its
contortions are so powerful that the latter is several times repulsed in
her assaults. She is not discouraged, however, but continues
perseveringly to fly at the caterpillar, till at last she takes it at a
disadvantage, possibly in a moment of weariness, and alighting with her
long legs on each side of the large, soft body, seizes it by the neck
with her mandibles, and holds it fast. Now the caterpillar, stimulated
doubtless by the painful, or at least unwelcome nip, struggles with
redoubled energy; but it is beneath its oppressor, who, straddling over
it and never relaxing her grasp, lifts it at last, with an effort, a
little from the ground, and inserting her curved abdomen like a fish
hook beneath it, strikes in a more effective and certain way than did
ever the most benevolently contemplative member of all the fishing
fraternity. The result is instantly apparent, for with the entry of that
deadly sting into its body, all struggles on the part of the caterpillar
cease, and it lies a living corpse at the feet of its cruel oppressor.
The latter, after remaining still for some moments as though to give her
victim time to realise and appreciate its situation, stings it again and
then again, each time choosing, as she has done before, for the locality
of the operation, the junction of two out of the dozen or so segments
into which the long length of the caterpillar is divided. Then she flies
up, but after circling a little above the scene of her triumph, she
descends again, and gives her victim, though now helpless and paralysed,
a taste or two more of her quality. The first part of her business is
now done, and well done. She has earned a rest, or rather she may
exchange one form of activity for another. Accordingly she proceeds to
indulge in the pleasures of the toilette, and it is not till this is
completely finished that she flies with, or drags, her victim to the
neat little burial-place, representing also her future nursery, which
she has already provided for it.[87]
The above illustration is taken from the account of a particular case
which fell under the keen observation of G. W. and E. G. Peckham, two
well-known American entomologists. On other occasions, however, this
wasp—that is to say, various individuals of the same species—besides
stinging the caterpillar, went through another and more curious process.
This consisted in biting and squeezing the anterior upper portion—the
neck as we may call it—of their victim.[87] The same operation was also
observed by Fabre when he watched his good mothers, but though I have
called it biting and squeezing, that is not the right term for a
_savant_ to employ. _He_ calls it malaxation, which, perhaps, means
doing both at the same time. Biting, however, would seem to imply no
less, but, perhaps in order to bite scientifically, it is necessary to
take a piece out, or at least to make the blood come, though in common
parlance this does not, or did not, hold good, since Sampson bit his
thumb at Abram and Balthasar, in the first scene of _Romeo and Juliet_,
but it cannot be supposed—nor does the context support such a view—that
he bit it so hard as that. Malaxation, however, let it be; but why such
a process on the part of the wasp should be necessary it is not easy to
see, since the mandibles are not poisonous like the sting, and the
latter is all in all sufficient to produce the paralysis required, as is
apparent in the instance already given, where the sting alone was
employed. To me it seems possible that this malaxation may be a
happiness to the wasp merely, as the shaking of a rat certainly is to a
terrier, whatever other advantages accrue from it. That insects, like
other animals, including man—who, indeed, is the crowning instance—take
a savage pleasure in overpowering and killing their prey, I have myself
very little doubt.
We have seen that this wasp stung the caterpillar between the segments
of its body, and, as we will assume—for the result seems to warrant the
inference—in the central part of it, so that the sting, entering the
great nervous cord or ganglion, which is situated in this region, with
little swellings at each of the segmental rings, produced the described
paralysis. It was Fabre’s view that this must always be the case, and he
thought likewise, in accordance with his own observation, that the
caterpillar received a sting at the junction of all or nearly all the
segments of its body. Otherwise it would be imperfectly stung, and in
consequence not sufficiently paralysed to prevent its struggling, and so
detaching the young larva, or perhaps the egg, which, as it would seem,
is laid on, and not inside, the body of its living provisions. On the
other hand, were the caterpillar stung too severely, so as to be killed
outright, the grub when hatched would only have putrid meat to feed
upon, and this again, it was assumed, would be fatal to its existence.
On these grounds Fabre concluded that we had here an instinct which must
have been perfect from the beginning, since as anything short of such
perfection would be followed by the death of the larva, those gradual
steps by which, on the theory of natural selection, all excellence
either of structure or instinct has been attained, could not in a case
like this have had any existence.
But all this has been exploded by subsequent observation. What Fabre saw
he knew, but in all that he inferred without seeing he was entirely
mistaken. As observed by the Peckhams, a caterpillar may be either stung
so slightly as to be quite lively, and yet not succeed in shaking off
the wasp larva hatched on its body, or so severely as to die almost
immediately, yet without detriment to the larva who feeds on its
discoloured and more or less putrified body, with the same gusto, and
apparent benefit, as though it were warm with life.[87] Thus the
question seems not so much to be, how can such perfection of instinct as
was observed by Fabre have been attained through the process of natural
selection, as why it should have been attained; or perhaps we may even
go further and ask if this supposed perfection exists at all, and
whether Fabre did not deceive himself. A wasp having secured a
caterpillar is, of course, at liberty to sting it as often as it
pleases. Why, then, should one wasp behave quite like another one in
this respect? Here, as elsewhere, there would be some amount—perhaps a
considerable amount—of variation in individual disposition, and wasps of
milder or less savage mood would sting less frequently than their
fiercer fellows. There might, therefore, as it appears to me, be a large
amount of fluctuation both in the number and degree of severity of the
stings—if indeed there is any regulation in this respect—and also in the
consequent injury to the caterpillar or other insect, without any
particular scope being offered for natural selection to play a part.
What room, indeed, for such a force can there be if it makes no
difference to the wasp-grub whether the caterpillar which is to be its
food, is stung badly or slightly, or whether it lives or dies?
That this is really the case seems to be implied in the following
paragraph which I quote from the same interesting work that I have
before referred to[87] “The conclusions that we draw from the study of
this genus differ in the most striking manner from those of Fabre. The
one pre-eminent, unmistakable, and ever-present fact” (the invariable
fact, as one might say) “is variability. Variability in every
particular—in the shape of the nest and the manner of digging it, in the
condition of the nest (whether closed or open) when left temporarily, in
the method of stinging the prey, in the degree of malaxation, in the
manner of carrying the victim, in the way of closing the nest, and last
and most important of all, in the condition produced in the victims of
the stinging, some of them dying and becoming ‘veritable cadavers,’ to
use an expressive term of Fabre’s, long before the larva is ready to
begin on them, while others live long past the time at which they would
have been attacked and destroyed if we had not interfered with the
natural course of events. And all this variability we get from the study
of nine wasps and fifteen caterpillars”![87] Fabre’s ideas therefore
seem totally disproved, but though natural selection—the counter-theory
to his own—has no doubt produced the _Sphex_ and _Ammophila_, with their
habit of stinging and storing caterpillars, to serve as food for their
young, it does not follow that it has done anything more than this; for
though variation be the stuff in which natural selection works, it need
not always work in it—any more than a tailor need always make clothes
because there is an abundance of cloth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: SOLITARY WASPS]
In the upper part of the picture a solitary wasp is seen
attacking a caterpillar on a leaf. Beneath is another of the
same species busy pounding the entrance to its burrow with a
pebble.
In the digging and closing of her burrow—her nesting-habits, as we may
call them—our _Ammophila_ is almost as interesting to watch as in her
mode of proceeding with caterpillars, though here a certain well-known
stimulus to human enjoyment which I need not enlarge upon is wanting.
Having found a convenient spot for her nursery, she digs, with her
mandibles and front pair of legs, a little tunnel in the ground, to
about the length of her own body, and at the end of it hollows out a
round chamber or cavern just large enough to make comfortable quarters
for a pair of invalid caterpillars—a hospital for incurables, we may
call it to begin with, but soon to become their tomb. Having dug to
about her middle, the wasp backs out, with a little pellet of collected
earth held firmly in her mandibles. With this she flies to a little
distance and then, letting it drop, alights on the ground and takes a
little rest before returning to continue her work. She may either fly or
run back, for her legs are as highly developed as her wings—she is in
fact a very perfect athlete. The process of excavation is now continued,
there is more burrowing, more flying away with the earth dug out, and
before long the nursery-vault is completed. The next thing is to find
caterpillars for it, but before flying away to look for one, _Ammophila_
carefully conceals the entrance to her tunnel with pellets of earth,
which she often brings from a distance, and will not be satisfied with
unless they seem well adapted for their purpose. At last, when the
aperture is both blocked and hidden, she starts off upon the still more
important undertaking which has been already described, and after a
longer or shorter interval—if her quest is successful—returns with a
nicely stung caterpillar. As two are required there must be another
journey and another stopping up of the burrow, before the final one,
which is of a more solid nature, occupying, sometimes, as much as twenty
minutes. In thus bringing her labours to a conclusion, _Ammophila_ often
shows a wonderful degree of intelligent foresight—foresight we must term
it if we admit the intelligence; for sometimes she will drag a leaf over
the entrance to the tunnel, though now filled in, or taking a stone as
large as her head in her mandibles, will pound down the earth with it to
make it firm and compact.[87]
It used to be said—and may be still by that large class of people who
are for ever making false parallels and artificial distinctions—that man
was the only animal that made intelligent use of an instrument, but
Darwin instanced a monkey cracking a nut with a stone, and an elephant
breaking off a bough to fan itself with. Here, in an insect, we have a
case which is perhaps even more to the point—more extraordinary, that is
to say; for certainly the idea of flattening and pressing down earth
over a general surface, and of taking something to do it with, seems a
little less obvious than that of cracking a nut, in a similar manner,
and therefore to require more thought in the planner of such a process.
No wonder that the delighted witnesses of this interesting fact flung
themselves on the ground on each side of the unconscious inspirer of
their wonder, in order to have a better sight of it; but that a previous
observer of the same thing should have waited a year before publishing
what he had seen, because he feared such a statement would not be
believed,[87] is to my mind a display of prudence almost as wonderful,
though not nearly so edifying, as that of _Ammophila_ herself. If we are
not to make known what we see, because people who believe in their own
and nobody else’s eyesight are not likely to credit it, how is evidence
to accumulate for the benefit of the more intelligent part of the
community? It is only of this small minority that we should think, or,
rather, we should not think of anything but the truth, where truth is
concerned.
Returning to bees of the solitary kind, “the operations of the
wood-piercers,” says Bingley, “merit our careful attention.” They shall
have it for a moment, but space is against them. However, the female of
the species, _Xylocopa violacea_, which for some reason is disliked by
householders, bores in the springtime, by the aid of her strong
mandibles alone, neat little circular tunnels in such objects as
garden-seats, gates, front doors, arbours, window-shutters, rustic
tables, and the like. At first, it is stated, she “bores
perpendicularly, but when she has advanced about half an inch she
changes her direction, and then proceeds nearly parallel with its sides
for twelve or fifteen inches. If the wood of the seat, door, table,
etc., be sufficiently thick, she sometimes forms three or four of these
long holes in its interior, a labour which for a single insect seems
prodigious, and in the execution of it some weeks are sometimes
employed. On the ground, for about a foot from the place in which one of
these bees is working, little heaps of timber-dust are to be seen. These
heaps daily increase in size, and the particles that compose them are
almost as large as those produced by a hand-saw.”[88] When the tunnels
are finished, the mother bee divides them into some dozen little rooms
about an inch deep, making the divisions of wood-dust, which she cements
together by aid of a glutinous secretion with which she is furnished.
Before each cell is closed it is filled with a paste composed of the
farina of flowers, mixed with honey (it makes one envy the grub), and an
egg is deposited in it. As each cell takes some time to make and
provision, it is obvious that the egg in the lower one will hatch a
little sooner than the one above it, and so on right up to the top. If,
therefore, any one of the larvæ “were to force its way upwards, which it
could easily do, it would not only disturb, but would infallibly destroy
all those lodged in the superior cells.”[88] Here, however, natural
selection (called Providence in Bingley’s time) steps in, and “has
wisely prevented this devastation, for the head of the nymph
(chrysalis), and consequently of the emerging bee, is always placed in a
downward direction.”[88] Of course, therefore, the insect moves forward
in the direction towards which it looks at birth—its new birth, that is
to say; and, moreover—this is the really astonishing thing—“the mother
digs a hole at the bottom of the long tube, which makes a communication
between the undermost cell and the open air. By this contrivance, as all
the bees instinctively endeavour to cut their way downward, they find an
easy and convenient passage, for they have only to pierce the floor of
their cells in order to make their escape, and this they do with their
teeth very readily.” As regards this communicating passage, however, it
is presumably a mere continuation of the tunnel, and was probably once
occupied with cells, like the upper portion. Why the lower end of the
tunnel should have come in time to be left empty—what advantage, that is
to say, its being so represents—it is not easy to see, but possibly it
stood in danger of being reached by a bird’s beak, through what has now
become the exit of escape merely.
As there is a leaf-cutting ant, so, too, there is a leaf-cutting bee,
but here the resemblance ends, since no thought of food or fungus enters
the mind of the latter insect. Her more simple and direct object is to
make the severed leaves into cells, and this she does with wonderful
skill and ingenuity. The cells, which are made by rolling the pieces of
leaves round within a tunnel or gallery, previously excavated in the
earth, are separated from one another by a circular piece, which fits
into the tube with extreme nicety, making at once the ceiling of each
lower compartment and the floor of that above it. As each is finished
the bee, as in the other instances, fills it with a mixture of honey and
pollen, upon which she then lays an egg, and finally closes the mouth of
the tunnel. The leaf principally used for the manufacture of these
pretty cradles is the rose leaf, and the paste which fills them is of a
rose-red colour, owing to the pollen having been collected for the most
part from thistles.
The children of the leaf-cutting bee, therefore, are delicately housed,
but what are they, in this respect, to those of the poppy or tapestry
bee, who are born like the Byzantine princes in a “purple[89] chamber”
made of the rich leaves of poppies? Here they lie, or crawl, in state,
one to each royal apartment, which is filled, almost to the brim, with
the sweet food of bees. Yet when they come forth, at last, it is not as
gorgeous imperial creatures clothed in “purple and pall,” but only
little ordinary-looking black bees covered all over with dirty grey
hair. And their beautiful purple poppy chamber has been seen by no
one—not even by themselves probably—buried as it is full three inches
deep in the earth. Wallace, somewhere in his _Malay Archipelago_,
moralises over the beautiful little kingbird of paradise, sparkling out
its life amidst the forest solitudes of a remote island, unseen by human
eyes, save those of savages, till once or twice, perhaps, in a century,
some wandering white man, who alone is capable of appreciating its
beauty, comes to bang its life out and bear away its skin. The thought
of this dainty little crimson-tapestried bower lying in black darkness,
like a grave beneath one’s feet, rouses a similar train of reflection in
the mind, but perhaps it would do so more strongly were it associated in
the same degree with ideas of sport or profitable collecting.
The carding-bee is interesting, not so much for the nest which it makes,
as for the wonderful way in which it makes it—or, to express it more
justly, it is more especially interesting on this account. Having either
made or found a suitable cavity, these bees under-roof it with a thick
thatching of moss. To carry this, bit by bit, to the place, would take
them a very long time, so, instead of doing so, they stand one behind
another, with their backs toward the nest, in a line that reaches from
the moss to its entrance. The furthest bee then pulls out a piece with
her mandibles, cards it with her fore feet, and, with the others, passes
it on, beneath her body, to the second bee, who passes it to the third,
the third to the fourth, and so on, all down the line, the last bee
entering the nest with it. Thus these bees do with moss exactly what
rats have been seen to do with eggs, when transporting them to their
burrows. A most interesting anecdote of this is quoted by Romanes,[90]
from Jesse’s _Gleanings_, but it does not appear to be in my edition,
which I had thought was a complete one. All I can find is a bare
reference to their having been known to “convey” eggs from a box, in
this way—“convey the wise it call.” This is an annoying discovery, for I
detest all selections, not made by myself, from Palgrave’s _Golden
Treasury_ to any man’s “Hundred Rest Books.” But if my edition _is_ a
complete one, then the thing should be looked into, for the anecdote
quoted by Romanes is not there—at least it is untraceable through the
index.
Like ants, bees are subject to parasites, and as some belonging to the
former are ants themselves, so with bees we have the same thing, but
developed to a still more striking extent; for there is no ant that I
know of that lives with another which it so closely resembles that the
latter is unable to distinguish it from itself. Such bees, however,
there are. Some of our humble bees, for instance, go through life thus
attended by a double whose existence it never for one moment suspects.
The two, indeed, are linked in the closest bonds of social intimacy.
Together they leave the nest, together they fly from flower to flower,
together they re-enter it. Together, too, they seem to glow in
industry—to emulate each other’s toil. But all the while that the true
industrious bee is collecting pollen and nectar the double is only
pretending to do so—or rather, let us say, seeming—and whilst the former
bustles about, feeding the larvæ and making the cells, the latter only
bustles about, like the shadow of a busy person on the wall. But when
the true bee lays an egg, the double lays one too, almost at the same
moment, and in the very same cell. Both are then hatched, together, and
the two larvæ grow up in the same cradle, nourished by the same food,
make their transformation side by side, and so creep forth into the
nest. The two, as I say, are hardly to be distinguished one from
another, yet all the while one is a real true-hearted humble bee, and
the other a mere show, a stage make-up, an outer shell without any of
the proper qualities inside. And the best of the joke is, that,
probably, the false or cuckoo bee, as it is called, is as much deceived
as its foster relatives, and imagines itself a good honest sterling
member of the community. It is forced by nature to cheat, but the fraud
is unconscious, and the impostor is imposed on in its turn.
Thus in the insect world we have something which can only be brought
about, amongst ourselves, through a conscious disguise, by means of
wigs, false moustaches, etc.—what we call an impersonation—but here is a
life-long impersonation which costs the “born actor” no trouble. Why is
this? What is the meaning of it? Why should one bee—or any other insect
or creature—look just like another one, and yet have a Latin name of its
own, which the other has no right to? Why should the individuals of one
species be hardly more like each other than they are like the
individuals of another species, even though—as is often the case—these
two species are widely separated in the system of nature? Such are the
questions to which a consideration of these cuckoo-bees, as they are
called, give rise. They will be answered, if at all, in the following
chapter.
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Footnote 86:
Fabre, Insect Life, pp. 275-283.
Footnote 87:
Peckham, The Instincts and Habits of the Solitary Wasps.
Footnote 88:
Bingley, Animal Biography.
Footnote 89:
The real purple of the ancients was a rich red—crimson or vermilion.
Footnote 90:
Romanes, Animal Intelligence, pp. 361, 362.
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