Produced by Sue Asscher
BRAMBLE-BEES AND OTHERS
by J. HENRI FABRE
TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS, F.Z.S.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
In this volume I have collected all the essays on Wild Bees scattered
through the "Souvenirs entomologiques," with the exception of those on
the Chalicodomae, or Mason-bees proper, which form the contents of a
separate volume entitled "The Mason-bees."
The first two essays on the Halicti (Chapters 12 and 13) have already
appeared in an abbreviated form in "The Life and Love of the Insect,"
translated by myself and published by Messrs. A. & C. Black (in America
by the Macmillan Co.) in 1911. With the greatest courtesy and kindness,
Messrs. Black have given me their permission to include these two
chapters in the present volume; they did so without fee or consideration
of any kind, merely on my representation that it would be a great pity
if this uniform edition of Fabre's Works should be rendered incomplete
because certain essays formed part of volumes of extracts previously
published in this country. Their generosity is almost unparalleled in my
experience; and I wish to thank them publicly for it in the name of
the author, of the French publishers and of the English and American
publishers, as well as in my own.
Of the remaining chapters, one or two have appeared in the "English
Review" or other magazines; but most of them now see the light in
English for the first time.
I have once more, as in the case of "The Mason-bees," to thank Miss
Frances Rodwell for the help which she has given me in the work
of translation and research; and I am also grateful for much kind
assistance received from the staff of the Natural History Museum and
from Mr. Geoffrey Meade-Waldo in particular.
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS.
Chelsea, 1915.
CONTENTS.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
CHAPTER 1. BRAMBLE-DWELLERS.
CHAPTER 2. THE OSMIAE.
CHAPTER 3. THE DISTRIBUTION OF THE SEXES.
CHAPTER 4. THE MOTHER DECIDES THE SEX OF THE EGG.
CHAPTER 5. PERMUTATIONS OF SEX.
CHAPTER 6. INSTINCT AND DISCERNMENT.
CHAPTER 7. ECONOMY OF ENERGY.
CHAPTER 8. THE LEAF-CUTTERS.
CHAPTER 9. THE COTTON-BEES.
CHAPTER 10. THE RESIN-BEES.
CHAPTER 11. THE POISON OF THE BEE.
CHAPTER 12. THE HALICTI: A PARASITE.
CHAPTER 13. THE HALICTI: THE PORTRESS.
CHAPTER 14. THE HALICTI: PARTHENOGENESIS.
INDEX.
CHAPTER 1. BRAMBLE-DWELLERS.
The peasant, as he trims his hedge, whose riotous tangle threatens to
encroach upon the road, cuts the trailing stems of the bramble a foot
or two from the ground and leaves the root-stock, which soon dries up.
These bramble-stumps, sheltered and protected by the thorny brushwood,
are in great demand among a host of Hymenoptera who have families to
settle. The stump, when dry, offers to any one that knows how to use it
a hygienic dwelling, where there is no fear of damp from the sap; its
soft and abundant pith lends itself to easy work; and the top offers a
weak spot which makes it possible for the insect to reach the vein of
least resistance at once, without cutting away through the hard
ligneous wall. To many, therefore, of the Bee and Wasp tribe, whether
honey-gatherers or hunters, one of these dry stalks is a valuable
discovery when its diameter matches the size of its would-be
inhabitants; and it is also an interesting subject of study to the
entomologist who, in the winter, pruning-shears in hand, can gather in
the hedgerows a faggot rich in small industrial wonders. Visiting the
bramble-bushes has long been one of my favourite pastimes during the
enforced leisure of the wintertime; and it is seldom but some new
discovery, some unexpected fact, makes up to me for my torn fingers.
My list, which is still far from being complete, already numbers nearly
thirty species of bramble-dwellers in the neighbourhood of my house;
other observers, more assiduous than I, exploring another region and one
covering a wider range, have counted as many as fifty. I give at foot an
inventory of the species which I have noted.
(Bramble-dwelling insects in the neighbourhood of Serignan [Vaucluse]:
1. MELLIFEROUS HYMENOPTERA.
Osmia tridentata, DUF. and PER.
Osmia detrita, PEREZ.
Anthidium scapulare, LATR.
Heriades rubicola, PEREZ.
Prosopis confusa, SCHENCK.
Ceratina chalcites, GERM.
Ceratina albilabris, FAB.
Ceratina callosa, FAB.
Ceratina coerulea, VILLERS.
2. HUNTING HYMENOPTERA.
Solenius vagus, FAB. (provisions, Diptera).
Solenius lapidarius, LEP. (provisions, Spiders?).
Cemonus unicolor, PANZ. (provisions, Plant-lice).
Psen atratus (provisions, Black Plant-lice).
Tripoxylon figulus, LIN. (provisions, Spiders).
A Pompilus, unknown (provisions, Spiders).
Odynerus delphinalis, GIRAUD.
3. PARASITICAL HYMENOPTERA.
A Leucopsis, unknown (parasite of Anthidium scapulare).
A small Scoliid, unknown (parasite of Solenius vagus).
Omalus auratus (parasite of various bramble-dwellers).
Cryptus bimaculatus, GRAV. (parasite of Osmia detrita).
Cryptus gyrator, DUF. (parasite of Tripoxylon figulus).
Ephialtes divinator, ROSSI (parasite of Cemonus unicolor).
Ephialtes mediator, GRAV. (parasite of Psen atratus).
Foenus pyrenaicus, GUERIN.
Euritoma rubicola, J. GIRAUD (parasite of Osmia detrita).
4. COLEOPTERA.
Zonitis mutica, FAB. (parasite of Osmia tridentata).
Most of these insects have been submitted to a learned expert, Professor
Jean Perez, of Bordeaux. I take this opportunity of renewing my thanks
for his kindness in identifying them for me.--Author's Note.)
They include members of very diverse corporations. Some, more
industrious and equipped with better tools, remove the pith from the dry
stem and thus obtain a vertical cylindrical gallery, the length of which
may be nearly a cubit. This sheath is next divided, by partitions, into
more or less numerous storeys, each of which forms the cell of a larva.
Others, less well-endowed with strength and implements, avail themselves
of the old galleries of other insects, galleries that have been
abandoned after serving as a home for their builder's family. Their only
work is to make some slight repairs in the ruined tenement, to clear the
channel of its lumber, such as the remains of cocoons and the litter of
shattered ceilings, and lastly to build new partitions, either with
a plaster made of clay or with a concrete formed of pith-scrapings
cemented with a drop of saliva.
You can tell these borrowed dwellings by the unequal size of the
storeys. When the worker has herself bored the channel, she economizes
her space: she knows how costly it is. The cells, in that case, are all
alike, the proper size for the tenant, neither too large nor too small.
In this box, which has cost weeks of labour, the insect has to house the
largest possible number of larvae, while allotting the necessary amount
of room to each. Method in the superposition of the floors and economy
of space are here the absolute rule.
But there is evidence of waste when the insect makes use of a bramble
hollowed by another. This is the case with Tripoxylon figulus. To obtain
the store-rooms wherein to deposit her scanty stock of Spiders, she
divides her borrowed cylinder into very unequal cells, by means of
slender clay partitions. Some are a centimetre (.39 inch.--Translator's
Note.) deep, the proper size for the insect; others are as much as two
inches. These spacious rooms, out of all proportion to the occupier,
reveal the reckless extravagance of a casual proprietress whose
title-deeds have cost her nothing.
But, whether they be the original builders or labourers touching up the
work of others, they all alike have their parasites, who constitute
the third class of bramble-dwellers. These have neither galleries to
excavate nor victuals to provide; they lay their egg in a strange cell;
and their grub feeds either on the provisions of the lawful owner's
larva or on that larva itself.
At the head of this population, as regards both the finish and the
magnitude of the structure, stands the Three-pronged Osmia (Osmia
tridentata, DUF. and PER.), to whom this chapter shall be specially
devoted. Her gallery, which has the diameter of a lead pencil, sometimes
descends to a depth of twenty inches. It is at first almost exactly
cylindrical; but, in the course of the victualling, changes occur which
modify it slightly at geometrically determined distances. The work of
boring possesses no great interest. In the month of July, we see the
insect, perched on a bramble-stump, attack the pith and dig itself a
well. When this is deep enough, the Osmia goes down, tears off a few
particles of pith and comes up again to fling her load outside. This
monotonous labour continues until the Bee deems the gallery long enough,
or until, as often happens, she finds herself stopped by an impassable
knot.
Next comes the ration of honey, the laying of the egg and the
partitioning, the last a delicate operation to which the insect proceeds
by degrees from the base to the top. At the bottom of the gallery, a
pile of honey is placed and an egg laid upon the pile; then a partition
is built to separate this cell from the next, for each larva must
have its special chamber, about a centimetre and a half (.58
inch.--Translator's Note.) long, having no communication with the
chambers adjoining. The materials employed for this partition are
bramble-sawdust, glued into a paste with the insects' saliva. Whence are
these materials obtained? Does the Osmia go outside, to gather on the
ground the rubbish which she flung out when boring the cylinder? On the
contrary, she is frugal of her time and has better things to do than to
pick up the scattered particles from the soil. The channel, as I said,
is at first uniform in size, almost cylindrical; its sides still retain
a thin coating of pith, forming the reserves which the Osmia, as a
provident builder, has economized wherewith to construct the partitions.
So she scrapes away with her mandibles, keeping within a certain radius,
a radius that corresponds with the dimensions of the cell which she is
going to build next; moreover, she conducts her work in such a way as to
hollow out more in the middle and leave the two ends contracted. In this
manner, the cylindrical channel of the start is succeeded, in the worked
portion, by an ovoid cavity flattened at both ends, a space resembling a
little barrel. This space will form the second cell.
As for the rubbish, it is utilized on the spot for the lid or cover
that serves as a ceiling for one cell and a floor for the next. Our own
master-builders could not contrive more successfully to make the best
use of their labourers' time. On the floor thus obtained, a second
ration of honey is placed; and an egg is laid on the surface of the
paste. Lastly, at the upper end of the little barrel, a partition is
built with the scrapings obtained in the course of the final work on the
third cell, which itself is shaped like a flattened ovoid. And so the
work goes on, cell upon cell, each supplying the materials for the
partition separating it from the one below. On reaching the end of the
cylinder, the Osmia closes up the case with a thick layer of the same
mortar. Then that bramble-stump is done with; the Bee will not return
to it. If her ovaries are not yet exhausted, other dry stems will be
exploited in the same fashion.
The number of cells varies greatly, according to the qualities of the
stalk. If the bramble-stump be long, regular and smooth, we may count
as many as fifteen: that, at least, is the highest figure which my
observations have supplied. To obtain a good idea of the internal
distribution, we must split the stalk lengthwise, in the winter, when
the provisions have long been consumed and when the larvae are wrapped
in their cocoons. We then see that, at regular intervals, the case
becomes slightly narrower; and in each of the necks thus formed a
circular disk is fixed, a partition one or two millimetres thick.
(.039 to.079 inch.--Translator's Note.) The rooms separated by these
partitions form so many little barrels or kegs, each compactly filled
with a reddish, transparent cocoon, through which the larva shows,
bent into a fish-hook. The whole suggests a string of rough, oval amber
beads, touching at their amputated ends.
In this string of cocoons, which is the oldest, which the youngest? The
oldest is obviously the bottom one, the one whose cell was the first
built; the youngest is the one at the top of the row, the one in the
cell last built. The oldest of the larvae starts the pile, down at the
bottom of the gallery; the latest arrival ends it at the top; and those
in between follow upon one another, according to age, from base to apex.
Let us next observe that there is no room in the shaft for two Osmiae at
a time on the same level, for each cocoon fills up the storey, the keg
that belongs to it, without leaving any vacant space; let us also remark
that, when they attain the stage of perfection, the Osmiae must all
emerge from the shaft by the only orifice which the bramble-stem
boasts, the orifice at the top. There is here but one obstacle, easy
to overcome: a plug of glued pith, of which the insect's mandibles make
short work. Down below, the stalk offers no ready outlet; besides, it is
prolonged underground indefinitely by the roots. Everywhere else is the
ligneous fence, generally too hard and thick to break through. It is
inevitable therefore that all the Osmiae, when the time comes to quit
their dwelling, should go out by the top; and, as the narrowness of
the shaft bars the passage of the preceding insect as long as the next
insect, the one above it, remains in position, the removal must begin at
the top, extend from cell to cell and end at the bottom. Consequently,
the order of exit is the converse to the order of birth: the younger
Osmiae leave the nest first, their elders leave it last.
The oldest, that is to say, the bottom one, was the first to finish her
supply of honey and to spin her cocoon. Taking precedence of all her
sisters in the whole series of her actions, she was the first to burst
her silken bag and to destroy the ceiling that closes her room: at
least, that is what the logic of the situation takes for granted. In
her anxiety to get out, how will she set about her release? The way
is blocked by the nearest cocoons, as yet intact. To clear herself a
passage through the string of those cocoons would mean to exterminate
the remainder of the brood; the deliverance of one would mean the
destruction of all the rest. Insects are notoriously obstinate in their
actions and unscrupulous in their methods. If the Bee at the bottom of
the shaft wants to leave her lodging, will she spare those who bar her
road?
The difficulty is great, obviously; it seems insuperable. Thereupon we
become suspicious: we begin to wonder if the emergence from the cocoon,
that is to say, the hatching, really takes place in the order of
primogeniture. Might it not be--by a very singular exception, it
is true, but one which is necessary in such circumstances--that the
youngest of the Osmiae bursts her cocoon first and the oldest last; in
short, that the hatching proceeds from one chamber to the next in the
inverse direction to that which the age of the occupants would lead us
to presume? In that case, the whole difficulty would be removed: each
Osmia, as she rent her silken prison, would find a clear road in front
of her, the Osmiae nearer the outlet having gone out before her. But is
this really how things happen? Our theories very often do not agree with
the insect's practice; even where our reasoning seems most logical,
we should be more prudent to see what happens before venturing on any
positive statements. Leon Dufour was not so prudent when he, the first
in the field, took this little problem in hand. He describes to us the
habits of an Odynerus (Odynerus rubicola, DUF.) who piles up clay cells
in the shaft of a dry bramble-stalk; and, full of enthusiasm for his
industrious Wasp, he goes on to say:
'Picture a string of eight cement shells, placed end to end and closely
wedged inside a wooden sheath. The lowest was undeniably made first and
consequently contains the first-laid egg, which, according to rules,
should give birth to the first winged insect. How do you imagine
that the larva in that first shell was bidden to waive its right of
primogeniture and only to complete its metamorphosis after all its
juniors? What are the conditions brought into play to produce a result
apparently so contrary to the laws of nature? Humble yourself in the
presence of the reality and confess your ignorance, rather than attempt
to hide your embarrassment under vain explanations!
'If the first egg laid by the busy mother were destined to be the
first-born of the Odyneri, that one, in order to see the light
immediately after achieving wings, would have had the option either of
breaking through the double walls of his prison or of perforating, from
bottom to top, the seven shells ahead of him, in order to emerge through
the truncate end of the bramble-stem. Now nature, while refusing any
way of escape laterally, was also bound to veto any direct invasion, the
brutal gimlet-work which would inevitably have sacrificed seven members
of one family for the safety of an only son. Nature is as ingenious in
design as she is fertile in resource, and she must have foreseen and
forestalled every difficulty. She decided that the last-built cradle
should yield the first-born child; that this one should clear the road
for his next oldest brother, the second for the third and so on. And
this is the order in which the birth of our Odyneri of the Brambles
actually takes place.'
Yes, my revered master, I will admit without hesitation that the
bramble-dwellers leave their sheath in the converse order to that of
their ages: the youngest first, the oldest last; if not invariably, at
least very often. But does the hatching, by which I mean the emergence
from the cocoon, take place in the same order? Does the evolution of
the elder wait upon that of the younger, so that each may give those who
would bar his passage time to effect their deliverance and to leave
the road clear? I very much fear that logic has carried your deductions
beyond the bounds of reality. Rationally speaking, my dear sir, nothing
could be more accurate than your inferences; and yet we must forgo
the theory of the strange inversion which you suggest. None of the
Bramble-bees with whom I have experimented behaves after that fashion.
I know nothing personal about Odynerus rubicola, who appears to be a
stranger in my district; but, as the method of leaving must be almost
the same when the habitation is exactly similar, it is enough, I think,
to experiment with some of the bramble-dwellers in order to learn the
history of the rest.
My studies will, by preference, bear upon the Three-pronged Osmia, who
lends herself more readily to laboratory experiments, both because she
is stronger and because the same stalk will contain a goodly number of
her cells. The first fact to be ascertained is the order of hatching.
I take a glass tube, closed at one end, open at the other and of a
diameter similar to that of the Osmia's tunnel. In this I place, one
above the other, exactly in their natural order, the ten cocoons, or
thereabouts, which I extract from a stump of bramble. The operation is
performed in winter. The larvae, at that time, have long been enveloped
in their silken case. To separate the cocoons from one another, I employ
artificial partitions consisting of little round disks of sorghum, or
Indian millet, about half a centimetre thick. (About one-fifth of an
inch.--Translator's Note.) This is a white pith, divested of its fibrous
wrapper and easy for the Osmia's mandibles to attack. My diaphragms are
much thicker than the natural partitions; this is an advantage, as we
shall see. In any case, I could not well use thinner ones, for these
disks must be able to withstand the pressure of the rammer which places
them in position in the tube. On the other hand, the experiment showed
me that the Osmia makes short work of the material when it is a case of
drilling a hole through it.
To keep out the light, which would disturb my insects destined to spend
their larval life in complete darkness, I cover the tube with a thick
paper sheath, easy to remove and replace when the time comes for
observation. Lastly, the tubes thus prepared and containing either
Osmiae or other bramble-dwellers are hung vertically, with the opening
at the top, in a snug corner of my study. Each of these appliances
fulfils the natural conditions pretty satisfactorily: the cocoons from
the same bramble-stick are stacked in the same order which they occupied
in the native shaft, the oldest at the bottom of the tube and the
youngest close to the orifice; they are isolated by means of partitions;
they are placed vertically, head upwards; moreover, my device has
the advantage of substituting for the opaque wall of the bramble a
transparent wall which will enable me to follow the hatching day by day,
at any moment which I think opportune.
The male Osmia splits his cocoon at the end of June and the female at
the beginning of July. When this time comes, we must redouble our watch
and inspect the tubes several times a day if we would obtain exact
statistics of the births. Well, during the six years that I have studied
this question, I have seen and seen again, ad nauseam; and I am in a
position to declare that there is no order governing the sequence of
hatchings, absolutely none. The first cocoon to burst may be the one at
the bottom of the tube, the one at the top, the one in the middle or
in any other part, indifferently. The second to be split may adjoin the
first or it may be removed from it by a number of spaces, either above
or below. Sometimes several hatchings occur on the same day, within the
same hour, some farther back in the row of cells, some farther forward;
and this without any apparent reason for the simultaneity. In short, the
hatchings follow upon one another, I will not say haphazard--for each
of them has its appointed place in time, determined by impenetrable
causes--but at any rate contrary to our calculations, based on this or
the other consideration.
Had we not been deceived by our too shallow logic, we might have
foreseen this result. The eggs are laid in their respective cells at
intervals of a few days, of a few hours. How can this slight difference
in age affect the total evolution, which lasts a year? Mathematical
accuracy has nothing to do with the case. Each germ, each grub has its
individual energy, determined we know not how and varying in each germ
or grub. This excess of vitality belongs to the egg before it leaves the
ovary. Might it not, at the moment of hatching, be the cause why this
or that larva takes precedence of its elders or its juniors, chronology
being altogether a secondary consideration? When the hen sits upon her
eggs, is the oldest always the first to hatch? In the same way, the
oldest larva, lodged in the bottom storey, need not necessarily reach
the perfect state first.
A second argument, had we reflected more deeply on the matter, would
have shaken our faith in any strict mathematical sequence. The same
brood forming the string of cocoons in a bramble-stem contains
both males and females; and the two sexes are divided in the series
indiscriminately. Now it is the rule among the Bees for the males to
issue from the cocoon a little earlier than the females. In the case
of the Three-pronged Osmia, the male has about a week's start.
Consequently, in a populous gallery, there is always a certain number
of males, who are hatched seven or eight days before the females and who
are distributed here and there over the series. This would be enough to
make any regular hatching-sequence impossible in either direction.
These surmises accord with the facts: the chronological sequence of
the cells tells us nothing about the chronological sequence of the
hatchings, which take place without any definite order. There is,
therefore, no surrender of rights of primogeniture, as Leon Dufour
thought: each insect, regardless of the others, bursts its cocoon when
its time comes; and this time is determined by causes which escape our
notice and which, no doubt, depend upon the potentialities of the egg
itself. It is the case with the other bramble-dwellers which I have
subjected to the same test (Osmia detrita, Anthidium scapulare, Solenius
vagus, etc.); and it must also be the case with Odynerus rubicola: so
the most striking analogies inform us. Therefore the singular exception
which made such an impression on Dufour's mind is a sheer logical
illusion.
An error removed is tantamount to a truth gained; and yet, if it were
to end here, the result of my experiment would possess but slight value.
After destruction, let us turn to construction; and perhaps we shall
find the wherewithal to compensate us for an illusion lost. Let us begin
by watching the exit.
The first Osmia to leave her cocoon, no matter what place she occupies
in the series, forthwith attacks the ceiling separating her from the
floor above. She cuts a fairly clean hole in it, shaped like a truncate
cone, having its larger base on the side where the Bee is and its
smaller base opposite. This conformation of the exit-door is a
characteristic of the work. When the insect tries to attack the
diaphragm, it first digs more or less at random; then, as the boring
progresses, the action is concentrated upon an area which narrows
until it presents no more than just the necessary passage. Nor is the
cone-shaped aperture special to the Osmia: I have seen it made by the
other bramble-dwellers through my thick disks of sorghum-pith. Under
natural conditions, the partitions, which, for that matter, are very
thin, are destroyed absolutely, for the contraction of the cell at
the top leaves barely the width which the insect needs. The truncate,
cone-shaped breach has often been of great use to me. Its wide base made
it possible for me, without being present at the work, to judge which
of the two neighbouring Osmiae had pierced the partition; it told me the
direction of a nocturnal migration which I had been unable to witness.
The first-hatched Osmia, wherever she may be, has made a hole in her
ceiling. She is now in the presence of the next cocoon, with her head
at the opening of the hole. In front of her sister's cradle, she usually
stops, consumed with shyness; she draws back into her cell, flounders
among the shreds of the cocoon and the wreckage of the ruined ceiling;
she waits a day, two days, three days, more if necessary. Should
impatience gain the upper hand, she tries to slip between the wall of
the tunnel and the cocoon that blocks the way. She even undertakes the
laborious work of gnawing at the wall, so as to widen the interval, if
possible. We find these attempts, in the shaft of a bramble, at places
where the pith is removed down to the very wood, where the wood itself
is gnawed to some depth. I need hardly say that, although these lateral
inroads are perceptible after the event, they escape the eye at the
moment when they are being made.
If we would witness them, we must slightly modify the glass apparatus.
I line the inside of the tube with a thick piece of whity-brown
packing-paper, but only over one half of the circumference; the other
half is left bare, so that I may watch the Osmia's attempts. Well,
the captive insect fiercely attacks this lining, which to its eyes
represents the pithy layer of its usual abode; it tears it away by tiny
particles and strives to cut itself a road between the cocoon and the
glass wall. The males, who are a little smaller, have a better chance of
success than the females. Flattening themselves, making themselves thin,
slightly spoiling the shape of the cocoon, which, however, thanks to
its elasticity, soon recovers its first condition, they slip through the
narrow passage and reach the next cell. The females, when in a hurry
to get out, do as much, if they find the tube at all amenable to the
process. But no sooner is the first partition passed than a second
presents itself. This is pierced in its turn. In the same way will the
third be pierced and others after that, if the insect can manage them,
as long as its strength holds out. Too weak for these repeated borings,
the males do not go far through my thick plugs. If they contrive to cut
through the first, it is as much as they can do; and, even so, they
are far from always succeeding. But, in the conditions presented by
the native stalk, they have only feeble tissues to overcome; and then,
slipping, as I have said, between the cocoon and the wall, which is
slightly worn owing to the circumstances described, they are able to
pass through the remaining occupied chambers and to reach the outside
first, whatever their original place in the stack of cells. It is just
possible that their early eclosion forces this method of exit upon them,
a method which, though often attempted, does not always succeed. The
females, furnished with stronger tools, make greater progress in my
tubes. I see some who pierce three or four partitions, one after the
other, and are so many stages ahead before those whom they have left
behind are even hatched. While they are engaged in this long and
toilsome operation, others, nearer to the orifice, have cleared a
passage whereof those from a distance will avail themselves. In this
way, it may happen that, when the width of the tube permits, an Osmia in
a back row will nevertheless be one of the first to emerge.
In the bramble-stem, which is of exactly the same diameter as
the cocoon, this escape by the side of the column appears hardly
practicable, except to a few males; and even these have to find a wall
which has so much pith that by removing it they can effect a passage.
Let us then imagine a tube so narrow as to prevent any exit save in the
natural sequence of the cells. What will happen? A very simple thing.
The newly-hatched Osmia, after perforating his partition, finds himself
faced with an unbroken cocoon that obstructs the road. He makes a few
attempts upon the sides and, realizing his impotence, retires into his
cell, where he waits for days and days, until his neighbour bursts her
cocoon in her turn. His patience is inexhaustible. However, it is not
put to an over long test, for within a week, more or less, the whole
string of females is hatched.
When two neighbouring Osmiae are released at the same time, mutual
visits are paid through the aperture between the two rooms: the one
above goes down to the floor below; the one below goes up to the floor
above; sometimes both of them are in the same cell together. Might not
this intercourse tend to cheer them and encourage them to patience?
Meanwhile, slowly, doors are opening here and there through the
separating walls; the road is cleared by sections; and a moment arrives
when the leader of the file walks out. The others follow, if ready; but
there are always laggards who keep the rear-ranks waiting until they are
gone.
To sum up, first, the hatching of the larvae takes place without any
order; secondly, the exodus proceeds regularly from summit to base, but
only in consequence of the insect's inability to move forward so long
as the upper cells are not vacated. We have here not an exceptional
evolution, in the inverse ratio to age, but the simple impossibility of
emerging otherwise. Should a chance occur of going out before its turn,
the insect does not fail to seize it, as we can see by the lateral
movements which send the impatient ones a few ranks ahead and even
release the more favoured altogether. The only remarkable thing that
I perceive is the scrupulous respect shown to the as yet unopened
neighbouring cocoon. However eager to come out, the Osmia is most
careful not to touch it with his mandibles: it is taboo. He will
demolish the partition, he will gnaw the side-wall fiercely, even though
there be nothing left but wood, he will reduce everything around him to
dust; but touch a cocoon that obstructs his way? Never! He will not make
himself an outlet by breaking up his sisters' cradles.
It may happen that the Osmia's patience is in vain and that the
barricade that blocks the way never disappears at all. Sometimes, the
egg in a cell does not mature; and the unconsumed provisions dry up and
become a compact, sticky, mildewed plug, through which the occupants
of the floors below could never clear themselves a passage. Sometimes,
again, a grub dies in its cocoon; and the cradle of the deceased, now
turned into a coffin, forms an everlasting obstacle. How shall the
insect cope with such grave circumstances?
Among the many bramble-stumps which I have collected, some few have
presented a remarkable peculiarity. In addition to the orifice at the
top, they had at the side one and sometimes two round apertures that
looked as though they had been punched out with an instrument. On
opening these stalks, which were old, deserted nests, I discovered the
cause of these very exceptional windows. Above each of them was a cell
full of mouldy honey. The egg had perished and the provisions remained
untouched: hence the impossibility of getting out by the ordinary road.
Walled in by the unsurmountable obstacle, the Osmia on the floor below
had contrived an outlet through the side of the shaft; and those in the
lower storeys had benefited by this ingenious innovation. The usual
door being inaccessible, a side-window had been opened by means of the
insect's jaws. The cocoons, torn, but still in position in the lower
rooms, left no doubt as to this eccentric mode of exit. The same fact,
moreover, was repeated, in several bramble-stumps, in the case of Osmia
tridentata; it was likewise repeated in the case of Anthidium scapulare.
The observation was worth confirming by experiment.
I select a bramble-stem with the thinnest rind possible, so as to
facilitate the Osmiae's work. I split it in half, thus obtaining a
smooth-sided trough which will enable me to judge better of future
exits. The cocoons are next laid out in one of the troughs. I separate
them with disks of sorghum, covering both surfaces of the disk with a
generous layer of sealing-wax, a material which the Osmia's mandibles
are not able to attack. The two troughs are then placed together and
fastened. A little putty does away with the joint and prevents the
least ray of light from penetrating. Lastly, the apparatus is hung up
perpendicularly, with the cocoons' heads up. We have now only to wait.
None of the Osmiae can get out in the usual manner, because each of them
is confined between two partitions coated with sealing-wax. There is but
one resource left to them if they would emerge into the light of day,
that is, for each of them to open a side-window, provided always that
they possess the instinct and the power to do so.
In July, the result is as follows: of twenty Osmiae thus immured, six
succeed in boring a round hole through the wall and making their way
out; the others perish in their cells, without managing to release
themselves. But, when I open the cylinder, when I separate the two
wooden troughs, I realize that all have attempted to escape through the
side, for the wall of each cell bears traces of gnawing concentrated
upon one spot. All, therefore, have acted in the same way as their more
fortunate sisters; they did not succeed, because their strength failed
them. Lastly, in my glass tubes, part-lined with a thick piece of
packing-paper, I often see attempts at making a window in the side of
the cell: the paper is pierced right through with a round hole.
This then is yet another result which I am glad to record in the history
of the bramble-dwellers. When the Osmia, the Anthidium and probably
others are unable to emerge through the customary outlet, they take
an heroic decision and perforate the side of the shaft. It is the last
resource, resolved upon after other methods have been tried in vain. The
brave, the strong succeed; the weak perish in the attempt.
Supposing that all the Osmiae possessed the necessary strength of jaw as
well as the instinct for this sideward boring, it is clear that egress
from each cell through a special window would be much more advantageous
than egress through the common door. The Bee could attend to his release
as soon as he was hatched, instead of postponing it until after the
emancipation of those who come before him; he would thus escape long
waits, which too often prove fatal. In point of fact, it is no uncommon
thing to find bramble-stalks in which several Osmiae have died in their
cells, because the upper storeys were not vacated in time. Yes, there
would be a precious advantage in that lateral opening, which would not
leave each occupant at the mercy of his environment: many die that would
not die. All the Osmiae, when compelled by circumstances, resort to this
supreme method; all have the instinct for lateral boring; but very few
are able to carry the work through. Only the favourites of fate succeed,
those more generously endowed with strength and perseverance.
If the famous law of natural selection, which is said to govern and
transform the world, had any sure foundation; if really the fittest
removed the less fit from the scene; if the future were to the
strongest, to the most industrious, surely the race of Osmiae, which
has been perforating bramble-stumps for ages, should by this time have
allowed its weaker members, who go on obstinately using the common
outlet, to die out and should have replaced them, down to the very last
one, by the stalwart drillers of side-openings. There is an opportunity
here for immense progress; the insect is on the verge of it and is
unable to cross the narrow intervening line. Selection has had ample
time to make its choice; and yet, though there be a few successes, the
failures exceed them in very large measure. The race of the strong has
not abolished the race of the weak: it remains inferior in numbers,
as doubtless it has been since all time. The law of natural selection
impresses me with the vastness of its scope; but, whenever I try to
apply it to actual facts, it leaves me whirling in space, with nothing
to help me to interpret realities. It is magnificent in theory, but it
is a mere gas-bubble in the face of existing conditions. It is majestic,
but sterile. Then where is the answer to the riddle of the world? Who
knows? Who will ever know?
Let us waste no more time in this darkness, which idle theorizing will
not dispel; let us return to facts, humble facts, the only ground that
does not give way under our feet. The Osmia respects her neighbour's
cocoon; and her scruples are so great that, after vainly trying to slip
between that cocoon and the wall, or else to open a lateral outlet, she
lets herself die in her cell rather than effect an egress by forcing
her way through the occupied cells. When the cocoon that blocks the way
contains a dead instead of a live grub, will the result be the same?
In my glass tubes, I let Osmia-cocoons containing a live grub alternate
with Osmia-cocoons in which the grub has been asphyxiated by the fumes
of sulphocarbonic acid. As usual, the storeys are separated by disks of
sorghum. The anchorites, when hatched, do not hesitate long. Once the
partition is pierced, they attack the dead cocoons, go right through
them, reducing the dead grub, now dry and shrivelled, to dust, and at
last emerge, after wrecking everything in their path. The dead cocoons,
therefore, are not spared; they are treated as would be any other
obstacle capable of attack by the mandibles. The Osmia looks upon them
as a mere barricade to be ruthlessly overturned. How is she apprised
that the cocoon, which has undergone no outward change, contains a dead
and not a live grub? It is certainly not by sight. Can it be by sense of
smell? I am always a little suspicious of that sense of smell of
which we do not know the seat and which we introduce on the slightest
provocation as a convenient explanation of that which may transcend our
explanatory powers.
My next test is made with a string of live cocoons. Of course, I cannot
take all these from the same species, for then the experiment would not
differ from the one which we have already witnessed; I take them
from two different species which leave their bramble-stem at separate
periods. Moreover, these cocoons must have nearly the same diameter to
allow of their being stacked in a tube without leaving an empty space
between them and the wall. The two species adopted are Solenius vagus,
which quits the bramble at the end of June, and Osmia detrita, which
comes a little earlier, in the first fortnight of the same month. I
therefore alternate Osmia-cocoons and Solenius-cocoons, with the
latter at the top of the series, either in glass tubes or between two
bramble-troughs joined into a cylinder.
The result of this promiscuity is striking. The Osmiae, which mature
earlier, emerge; and the Solenius-cocoons, as well as their inhabitants,
which by this time have reached the perfect stage, are reduced to
shreds, to dust, wherein it is impossible for me to recognize a vestige,
save perhaps here and there a head, of the exterminated unfortunates.
The Osmia, therefore, has not respected the live cocoons of a foreign
species: she has passed out over the bodies of the intervening Solenii.
Did I say passed over their bodies? She has passed through them,
crunched the laggards between her jaws, treated them as cavalierly as
she treats my disks. And yet those barricades were alive. No matter:
when her hour came, the Osmia went ahead, destroying everything upon
her road. Here, at any rate, is a law on which we can rely: the supreme
indifference of the animal to all that does not form part of itself and
its race.
And what of the sense of smell, distinguishing the dead from the living?
Here, all are alive; and the Bee pierces her way as through a row of
corpses. If I am told that the smell of the Solenii may differ from that
of the Osmiae, I shall reply that such extreme subtlety in the insect's
olfactory apparatus seems to me a rather far-fetched supposition. Then
what is my explanation of the two facts? The explanation? I have none
to give! I am quite content to know that I do not know, which at least
spares me many vain lucubrations. And so I do not know how the Osmia,
in the dense darkness of her tunnel, distinguishes between a live cocoon
and a dead cocoon of the same species; and I know just as little how
she succeeds in recognizing a strange cocoon. Ah, how clearly this
confession of ignorance proves that I am behind the times! I am
deliberately missing a glorious opportunity of stringing big words
together and arriving at nothing.
The bramble-stump is perpendicular, or nearly so; its opening is at the
top. This is the rule under natural conditions. My artifices are able
to alter that state of things; I can place the tube vertically or
horizontally; I can turn its one orifice either up or down; lastly, I
can leave the channel open at both ends, which will give two outlets.
What will happen under these several conditions? That is what we shall
examine with the Three-pronged Osmia.
The tube is hung perpendicularly, but closed at the top and open at the
bottom; in fact, it represents a bramble-stump turned upside down. To
vary and complicate the experiment, the strings of cocoons are arranged
differently in different tubes. In some of them, the heads of the
cocoons are turned downwards, towards the opening; in others, they are
turned upwards, towards the closed end; in others again, the cocoons
alternate in direction, that is to say, they are placed head to head and
rear to rear, turn and turn about. I need not say that the separating
floors are of sorghum.
The result is identical in all these tubes. If the Osmiae have their
heads pointing upwards, they attack the partition above them, as happens
under normal conditions; if their heads point downwards, they turn round
in their cells and set to work as usual. In short, the general outward
trend is towards the top, in whatever position the cocoon be placed.
We here see manifestly at work the influence of gravity, which warns
the insect of its reversed position and makes it turn round, even as it
would warn us if we ourselves happened to be hanging head downwards.
In natural conditions, the insect has but to follow the counsels of
gravity, which tells it to dig upwards, and it will infallibly reach the
exit-door situated at the upper end. But, in my apparatus, these same
counsels betray it: it goes towards the top, where there is no outlet.
Thus misled by my artifices, the Osmiae perish, heaped up on the higher
floors and buried in the ruins.
It nevertheless happens that attempts are made to clear a road
downwards. But it is rare for the work to lead to anything in this
direction, especially in the case of the middle or upper cells. The
insect is little inclined for this progress, the opposite to that to
which it is accustomed; besides, a serious difficulty arises in
the course of this reversed boring. As the Bee flings the excavated
materials behind her, these fall back of their own weight under
her mandibles; the clearance has to be begun anew. Exhausted by her
Sisyphean task, distrustful of this new and unfamiliar method, the Osmia
resigns herself and expires in her cell. I am bound to add, however,
that the Osmiae in the lower storeys, those nearest the exit--sometimes
one, sometimes two or three--do succeed in escaping. In that case, they
unhesitatingly attack the partitions below them, while their companions,
who form the great majority, persist and perish in the upper cells.
It was easy to repeat the experiment without changing anything in the
natural conditions, except the direction of the cocoons: all that I had
to do was to hang up some bramble-stumps as I found them, vertically,
but with the opening downwards. Out of two stalks thus arranged and
peopled with Osmiae, not one of the insects succeeded in emerging. All
the Bees died in the shaft, some turned upwards, others downwards.
On the other hand, three stems occupied by Anthidia discharged their
population safe and sound. The outgoing was effected at the bottom, from
first to last, without the least impediment. Must we take it that
the two sorts of Bees are not equally sensitive to the influences of
gravity? Can the Anthidium, built to pass through the difficult obstacle
of her cotton wallets, be better-adapted than the Osmia to make her way
through the wreckage that keeps falling under the worker's feet; or,
rather, may not this very cotton-waste put a stop to these cataracts of
rubbish which must naturally drive the insect back? This is all quite
possible; but I can say nothing for certain.
Let us now experiment with vertical tubes open at both ends. The
arrangements, save for the upper orifice, are the same as before. The
cocoons, in some of the tubes, have their heads turned down; others,
up; in others again, their positions alternate. The result is similar to
what we have seen above. A few Osmiae, those nearest the bottom orifice,
take the lower road, whatever the direction first occupied by the
cocoon; the others, composing by far the larger number, take the higher
road, even when the cocoon is placed upside down. As both doors are
free, the outgoing is effected at either end with success.
What are we to conclude from all these experiments? First, that gravity
guides the insect towards the top, where the natural door is, and makes
it turn in its cell when the cocoon has been reversed. Secondly, I seem
to suspect an atmospheric influence and, in any case, some second cause
that sends the insect to the outlet. Let us admit that this cause is
the proximity of the outer air acting upon the anchorite through the
partitions.
The animal then is subject, on the one hand, to the promptings of
gravity, and this to an equal degree for all, whatever the storey
inhabited. Gravity is the common guide of the whole series from base to
top. But those in the lower boxes have a second guide, when the bottom
end is open. This is the stimulus of the adjacent air, a more powerful
stimulus than that of gravity. The access of the air from without is
very slight, because of the partitions; while it can be felt in the
nethermost cells, it must decrease rapidly as the storeys ascend.
Wherefore the bottom insects, very few in number, obeying the
preponderant influence, that of the atmosphere, make for the lower
outlet and reverse, if necessary, their original position; those above,
on the contrary, who form the great majority, being guided only by
gravity when the upper end is closed, make for that upper end. It goes
without saying that, if the upper end be open at the same time as the
other, the occupants of the top storeys will have a double incentive to
take the ascending path, though this will not prevent the dwellers on
the lower floors from obeying, by preference, the call of the adjacent
air and adopting the downward road.
I have one means left whereby to judge of the value of my explanation,
namely, to experiment with tubes open at both ends and lying
horizontally. The horizontal position has a twofold advantage. In
the first place, it removes the insect from the influence of gravity,
inasmuch as it leaves it indifferent to the direction to be taken, the
right or the left. In the second place, it does away with the descent
of the rubbish which, falling under the worker's feet when the boring is
done from below, sooner or later discourages her and makes her abandon
her enterprise.
There are a few precautions to be observed for the successful conduct of
the experiment; I recommend them to any one who might care to make the
attempt. It is even advisable to remember them in the case of the tests
which I have already described. The males, those puny creatures, not
built for work, are sorry labourers when confronted with my stout disks.
Most of them perish miserably in their glass cells, without succeeding
in piercing their partitions right through. Moreover, instinct has been
less generous to them than to the females. Their corpses, interspersed
here and there in the series of the cells, are disturbing causes,
which it is wise to eliminate. I therefore choose the larger, more
powerful-looking cocoons. These, except for an occasional unavoidable
error, belong to females. I pack them in tubes, sometimes varying their
position in every way, sometimes giving them all a like arrangement.
It does not matter whether the whole series comes from one and the same
bramble-stump or from several: we are free to choose where we please;
the result will not be altered.
The first time that I prepared one of these horizontal tubes open at
both ends, I was greatly struck by what happened. The series consisted
of ten cocoons. It was divided into two equal batches. The five on the
left went out on the left, the five on the right went out on the right,
reversing, when necessary, their original direction in the cell. It was
very remarkable from the point of view of symmetry; moreover, it was
a very unlikely arrangement among the total number of possible
arrangements, as mathematics will show us.
Let us take n to represent the number of Osmiae. Each of them, once
gravity ceases to interfere and leaves the insect indifferent to either
end of the tube, is capable of two positions, according as she chooses
the exit on the right or on the left. With each of the two positions
of this first Osmia can be combined each of the two positions of the
second, giving us, in all, 2 x 2 = (2 squared) arrangements. Each of
these (2 squared) arrangements can be combined, in its turn, with each
of the two positions of the third Osmia. We thus obtain 2 x 2 x 2 = (2
cubed) arrangements with three Osmiae; and so on, each additional
insect multiplying the previous result by the factor 2. With n Osmiae,
therefore, the total number of arrangements is (2 to the power n.)
But note that these arrangements are symmetrical, two by two: a given
arrangement towards the right corresponds with a similar arrangement
towards the left; and this symmetry implies equality, for, in the
problem in hand, it is a matter of indifference whether a fixed
arrangement correspond with the right or left of the tube. The previous
number, therefore, must be divided by 2. Thus, n Osmiae, according as
each of them turns her head to the right or left in my horizontal tube,
are able to adopt (2 to the power n - 1) arrangements. If n = 10, as in
my first experiment, the number of arrangements becomes (2 to the power
9) = 512.
Consequently, out of 512 ways which my ten insects can adopt for their
outgoing position, there resulted one of those in which the symmetry
was most striking. And observe that this was not an effect obtained by
repeated attempts, by haphazard experiments. Each Osmia in the left half
had bored to the left, without touching the partition on the right; each
Osmia in the right half had bored to the right, without touching
the partition on the left. The shape of the orifices and the surface
condition of the partition showed this, if proof were necessary. There
had been a spontaneous decision, one half in favour of the left, one
half in favour of the right.
The arrangement presents another merit, one superior to that of
symmetry: it has the merit of corresponding with the minimum expenditure
of force. To admit of the exit of the whole series, if the string
consists of n cells, there are originally n partitions to be perforated.
There might even be one more, owing to a complication which I disregard.
There are, I say, at least n partitions to be perforated. Whether each
Osmia pierces her own, or whether the same Osmia pierces several, thus
relieving her neighbours, does not matter to us: the sum-total of the
force expended by the string of Bees will be in proportion to the number
of those partitions, in whatever manner the exit be effected.
But there is another task which we must take seriously into
consideration, because it is often more troublesome than the boring of
the partition: I mean the work of clearing a road through the wreckage.
Let us suppose the partitions pierced and the several chambers blocked
by the resulting rubbish and by that rubbish only, since the horizontal
position precludes any mixing of the contents of different chambers. To
open a passage for itself through these rubbish-heaps, each insect
will have the smallest effort to make if it passes through the smallest
possible number of cells, in short, if it makes for the opening nearest
to it. These smallest individual efforts amount, in the aggregate, to
the smallest total effort. Therefore, by proceeding as they did in my
experiment, the Osmiae effect their exit with the least expenditure of
energy. It is curious to see an insect apply the 'principle of least
action,' so often postulated in mechanics.
An arrangement which satisfies this principle, which conforms to the law
of symmetry and which possesses but one chance in 512, is certainly no
fortuitous result. It is determined by a cause; and, as this cause
acts invariably, the same arrangement must be reproduced if I renew the
experiment. I renewed it, therefore, in the years that followed, with as
many appliances as I could find bramble-stumps; and, at each new test, I
saw once more what I had seen with such interest on the first occasion.
If the number be even--and my column at that time consisted usually
of ten--one half goes out on the right, the other on the left. If the
number be odd--eleven, for instance--the Osmia in the middle goes out
indiscriminately by the right or left exit. As the number of cells to be
traversed is the same on both sides, her expenditure of energy does not
vary with the direction of the exit; and the principle of least action
is still observed.
It was important to discover if the Three-pronged Osmia shared her
capacity, in the first place, with the other bramble-dwellers and, in
the second, with Bees differently housed, but also destined laboriously
to cut a new road for themselves when the hour comes to quit the nest.
Well, apart from a few irregularities, due either to cocoons whose
larva perished in my tubes before developing, or to those inexperienced
workers, the males, the result was the same in the case of Anthidium
scapulare. The insects divided themselves into two equal batches, one
going to the right, the other to the left. Tripoxylon figulus left
me undecided. This feeble insect is not capable of perforating my
partitions; it nibbles at them a little; and I had to judge the
direction from the marks of its mandibles. These marks, which are not
always very plain, do not yet allow me to pronounce an opinion. Solenius
vagus, who is a skilful borer, behaved differently from the Osmia. In a
column of ten, the whole exodus was made in one direction.
On the other hand, I tested the Mason-bee of the Sheds, who, when
emerging under natural conditions, has only to pierce her cement ceiling
and is not confronted with a series of cells. Though a stranger to the
environment which I created for her, she gave me a most positive answer.
Of a column of ten laid in a horizontal tube open at both ends, five
made their way to the right and five to the left. Dioxys cincta, a
parasite in the buildings of both species of Mason-bees, the Chalicodoma
of the Sheds and the Chalicodoma of the Walls (Cf. "The Mason-bees"
by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos:
passim.--Translator's Note.), provided me with no precise result.
The Leaf-cutting Bee (Megachile apicalis, SPIN. (Cf. Chapter 8 of the
present volume.--Translator's Note.)), who builds her leafy cups in the
old cells of the Chalicodoma of the Walls, acts like the Solenius and
directs her whole column towards the same outlet.
Incomplete as it is, this symmetry shows us how unwise it were to
generalize from the conclusions to which the Three-pronged Osmia leads
us. Whereas some Bees, such as the Anthidium and the Chalicodoma, share
the Osmia's talent for using the twofold exit, others, such as the
Solenius and the Leaf-cutter, behave like a flock of sheep and follow
the first that goes out. The entomological world is not all of a piece;
its gifts are very various: what one is capable of doing another cannot
do; and penetrating indeed would be the eyes that saw the causes of
these differences. Be this as it may, increased research will certainly
show us a larger number of species qualified to use the double outlet.
For the moment, we know three; and that is enough for our purpose.
I will add that, when the horizontal tube has one of its ends closed,
the whole string of Osmiae makes for the open end, turning round to do
so, if need be.
Now that the facts are set forth, let us, if possible, trace the cause.
In a horizontal tube, gravity no longer acts to determine the direction
which the insect will take. Is it to attack the partition on the right
or that on the left? How shall it decide? The more I look into the
matter, the more do my suspicions fall upon the atmospheric influence
which is felt through the two open ends. Of what does this influence
consist? Is it an effect of pressure, of hygrometry, of electrical
conditions, of properties that escape our coarser physical attunement?
He were a bold man who should undertake to decide. Are not we ourselves,
when the weather is about to alter, subject to subtle impressions,
to sensations which we are unable to explain? And yet this vague
sensitiveness to atmospheric changes would not be of much help to us in
circumstances similar to those of my anchorites. Imagine ourselves in
the darkness and the silence of a prison-cell, preceded and followed
by other similar cells. We possess implements wherewith to pierce the
walls; but where are we to strike to reach the final outlet and to reach
it with the least delay? Atmospheric influence would certainly never
guide us.
And yet it guides the insect. Feeble though it be, through the
multiplicity of partitions, it is exercised on one side more than on the
other, because the obstacles are fewer; and the insect, sensible to the
difference between those two uncertainties, unhesitatingly attacks the
partition which is nearer to the open air. Thus is decided the division
of the column into two converse sections, which accomplish the total
liberation with the least aggregate of work. In short, the Osmia and her
rivals 'feel' the free space. This is yet one more sensory faculty which
evolution might well have left us, for our greater advantage. As it has
not done so, are we then really, as many contend, the highest expression
of the progress accomplished, throughout the ages, by the first atom of
glair expanded into a cell?