BEES, CATS AND RED ANTS

I WISHED to know something more about my Mason-bees. I had heard that they knew how to find their nests even if carried away from them. One day I managed to capture forty Bees from a nest under the eaves of my shed, and to put them one by one in screws of paper. I asked my daughter Aglaé to stay near the nest and watch for the return of the Bees. Things being thus arranged, I carried off my forty captives to a spot two and a half miles from home.

I had to mark each captive with a mixture of chalk and gum arabic before I set her free. It was no easy business. I was stung many times, and sometimes I forgot myself and squeezed the Bee harder than I should have. As a result, about twenty out of my forty Bees were injured. The rest started off, in different directions at first; but most of them seemed to me to be making for their home.

Meanwhile a stiff breeze sprang up, making things still harder for the Bees. They must have had to fly close to the ground; they could not possibly go up high and get a view of the country.

Under the circumstances, I hardly thought, when I reached home, that the Bees would be there. But Aglaé greeted me at once, her cheeks flushed with excitement:

“Two!” she cried. “Two arrived at twenty minutes to three, with a load of pollen under their bellies!” I had released my insects at about two o’clock; these first arrivals had therefore flown two miles and a half in less than three quarters of an hour, and lingered to forage on the way.

As it was growing late, we had to stop our observations. Next day, however, I took another count of my Mason-bees and found fifteen with a white spot as I had marked them. At least fifteen out of the twenty then had returned, in spite of having the wind against them, and in spite of having been taken to a place where they had almost certainly never been before. These Bees do not go far afield, for they have all the food and building material they want near home. Then how did my exiles return? What guided them? It was certainly not memory, but some special faculty which we cannot explain, it is so different from anything we ourselves possess.

MY CATS

The Cat is supposed to have the same power as the Bee to find its way home. I never believed this till I saw what some Cats of my own could do. Let me tell you the story.

One day there appeared upon my garden wall a wretched-looking Cat, with matted coat and protruding ribs; so thin that his back was a jagged ridge. My children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery. Bread soaked in milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took it. And the mouthfuls succeeded one another to such good purpose that at last he had had enough and went, paying no attention to the “Puss! Puss!” of his compassionate friends. But after a while he grew hungry again, and reappeared on top of the wall. He received the same fare of bread soaked in milk, the same soft words. He allowed himself to be tempted. He came down from the wall. The children were able to stroke his back. Goodness, how thin he was!

It was the great topic of conversation. We discussed it at table: we would tame the tramp, we would keep him, we would make him a bed of hay. It was a most important matter: I can see to this day, I shall always see, the council of rattleheads deliberating on the Cat’s fate. They were not satisfied until the savage animal remained. Soon he grew into a magnificent Tom. His large, round head, his muscular legs, his reddish fur, flecked with darker patches, reminded one of a little jaguar. He was christened Ginger because of his tawny hue. A mate joined him later, picked up in almost similar circumstances. Such was the beginning of my series of Gingers, which I have kept for almost twenty years, in spite of various movings.

The first time we moved we were anxious about our Cats. We were all of us attached to them and should have thought it nothing short of criminal to abandon the poor creatures, whom we had so often petted, to distress and probably to thoughtless persecution. The shes and the kittens would travel without any trouble: all you have to do is to put them in a basket; they will keep quiet on the journey. But the old Tom-cats were a serious problem. I had two, the head of the family and one of his descendants, quite as strong as himself. We decided to take the grandfather, if he consented to come, and to leave the grandson behind, after finding him a home.

My friend Dr. Loriol offered to take the younger cat. The animal was carried to him at nightfall in a closed hamper. Hardly were we seated at the evening meal, talking of the good fortune of our Tom-cat, when we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The shapeless bundle came and rubbed itself against our legs, purring with happiness. It was the Cat.

I heard his story next day. On arriving at Dr. Loriol’s, he was locked up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the unfamiliar room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture, against the window panes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, threatening to make short work of everything. Mrs. Loriol was frightened by the little lunatic; she hastened to open the window; and the Cat leapt out among the passers-by. A few minutes later, he was back at home. And it was no easy matter: he had to cross the town almost from end to end; he had to make his way through a long labyrinth of crowded streets, among a thousand dangers, including boys and dogs; lastly—and this perhaps was even harder—he had to pass over a river which ran through the town. There were bridges at hand, many, in fact; but the animal, taking the shortest cut, had used none of them, bravely jumping into the water, as the streaming fur showed.

I had pity on the poor Cat, so faithful to his home. We agreed to take him with us. We were spared the worry: a few days later, he was found lying stiff and stark under a shrub in the garden. Some one had poisoned him for me. Who? It was not likely that it was a friend!

There was still the old Cat. He could not be found when we left our home, so the carter was promised an extra two dollars if he would bring the Cat to us at our new home with one of his loads. On his last journey with our goods he brought him, stowed away under the driver’s seat. I scarcely knew my old Tom when we opened the moving prison in which he had been kept since the day before. He came out looking a most alarming beast, scratching and spitting, with bristling hair, bloodshot eyes, lips white with foam. I thought him mad and watched him closely for a time. I was wrong: he was merely bewildered and frightened. Had there been trouble with the carter when he was caught? Did he have a bad time on the journey? I do not know. What I do know is that the very nature of the Cat seemed changed: there was no more friendly purring, no more rubbing against our legs; nothing but a wild expression and the deepest gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe him. One day I found him lying dead in the ashes on the hearth. Grief, with the help of old age, had killed him. Would he have gone back to our old home, if he had had the strength? I would not venture to say so. But, at least, I think it very remarkable that an animal should let itself die of homesickness because the weakness of old age prevented it from returning to its former haunts.

The next time we move, the family of Gingers have been renewed: the old ones have passed away, new ones have come, including a full-grown Tom, worthy in every way of his ancestors. He alone will give us some trouble in moving; the others, the babies and the mothers, can be removed easily. We put them into baskets. The Tom has one to himself, so that the peace may be kept. The journey is made by carriage. Nothing striking happens before our arrival. When we let the mother Cats out of their hampers, they inspect the new home, explore the rooms one by one; with their pink noses they recognize the furniture: they find their own seats, their own tables, their own armchairs; but the surroundings are different. They give little surprised miaows and questioning glances. We pet them and give them saucers of milk, and by the next day they feel quite at home.

It is a different matter with the Tom. We put him in the attic, where he will find plenty of room for his capers; we take turns keeping him company; we give him a double portion of plates to lick; from time to time we bring some of the other Cats to him, to show him that he is not alone in the house; we do everything we can to make him forget the old home. He seems, in fact, to forget it: he is gentle under the hand that pets him, he comes when called, purrs, arches his back. We have kept him shut up for a week, and now we think it is time to give him back his liberty. He goes down to the kitchen, stands by the table like the others, goes out into the garden, under the watchful eye of my daughter Aglaé, who does not lose sight of him; he prowls all around with the most innocent air. He comes back. Victory! The Tom-cat will not run away.

Next morning:

“Puss! Puss!”

Not a sign of him! We hunt, we call. Nothing. Oh, the hypocrite, the hypocrite! How he has tricked us! He has gone, he is at our old home. So I declare, but the family will not believe it.

My two daughters went back to the old home. They found the Cat, as I said they would, and brought him back in a hamper. His paws and belly were covered with red clay; and yet the weather was dry, there was no mud. The Cat, therefore, must have swum the river, and the moist fur had kept the red earth of the fields through which he had passed. The distance between our two homes was four and a half miles.

We kept the deserter in our attic for two weeks, and then we let him out again. Before twenty-four hours had passed he was back at his old home. We had to leave him to his fate. A neighbor out that way told me that he saw him one day hiding behind a hedge with a rabbit in his mouth. He was no longer provided with food; he had to hunt for it as best he could. I heard no more of him. He came to a bad end, no doubt; he had become a robber and must have met with a robber’s fate.

These true stories prove that Cats have in their fashion the instinct of my Mason-bees. So, too, have Pigeons, who, transported for hundreds of miles, are able to find their way back to their own dove-cot; so have the Swallows and many other birds. But to go back to the insects. I wished to find out if Ants, who are insects closely related to the Bees, have the same sense of direction that they have.

THE RED ANTS

Among the treasures of my piece of waste ground is an ant-hill belonging to the celebrated Red Ants, the slave-hunting Amazons. If you have never heard about these Ants, their practices seem almost too wonderful to believe. They are unable to bring up their own families, to look for their food, to take it even when it is within their reach. Therefore they need servants to feed them and keep house for them. They make a practice of stealing children to wait on the community. They raid the neighboring ant-hills, the home of a different species; they carry away the Ant-babies, who are in the nymph or swaddling-clothes stage, that is, wrapped in the cocoons. These grow up in the Red Ants’ house and become willing and industrious servants.

When the hot weather of June and July sets in, I often see the Amazons leave their barracks of an afternoon and start on an expedition. The column is five or six yards long. At the first suspicion of an ant-hill, the front ones halt and spread out in a swarming throng, which is increased by the others as they come up hurriedly. Scouts are sent out; the Amazons recognize that they are on a wrong track; and the column forms again. It resumes its march, crosses the garden paths, disappears from sight in the grass, reappears farther on, threads its way through the heap of dead leaves, comes out again and continues its search.

At last, a nest of Black Ants is discovered. The Red Ants hasten down to the dormitories, enter the burrows where the Ant-grubs lie and soon come out with their booty. Then we have, at the gates of the underground city, a bewildering scrimmage between the defending Blacks and the attacking Reds. The struggle is too unequal to remain in doubt. Victory falls to the Reds, who race back home, each with her prize, a swaddled baby, dangling from her jaws.

I should like to go on with the story of the Amazons, but I have no time at present. Their return to the nest is what I am interested in. Do they know their way as the Bees do?

Apparently not; for I find that the Ants always take exactly the same path home that they did coming, no matter how difficult it was or how many short cuts might be taken. I came upon them one day when they were advancing on a raid by the side of a garden pond. The wind was blowing hard and blew whole rows of the Ants into the water, where the Fish gobbled them up. I thought that on the way back they would avoid this dangerous bit. Not at all: they came back the same way, and the Fish received a double windfall, the Ants and their prizes.

As I had not time to watch the Ants for whole afternoons, I asked my granddaughter Lucie, a little rogue who likes to hear my stories of the Ants, to help me. She had been present at the great battle between the Reds and the Blacks and was much impressed by the stealing of the long-clothes babies, and she was willing to wander about the garden when the weather was fine, keeping an eye on the Red Ants for me.

One day, while I was working in my study, there came a banging at my door.

“It’s I, Lucie! Come quick: the Reds have gone into the Blacks’ house. Come quick!”

“And do you know the road they took?”

“Yes, I marked it.”

“What! Marked it? And how?”

“I did what Hop-o’-My-Thumb did: I scattered little white stones along the road.”

I hurried out. Things had happened as my six-year-old helper had said. The Ants had made their raid and were returning along the track of telltale pebbles. When I took some of them up on a leaf and set them a few feet away from the path, they were lost. The Ant relies on her sight and her memory for places to guide her home. Even when her raids to the same ant-hill are two or three days apart, she follows exactly the same path each time. The memory of an Ant! What can that be? Is it like ours? I do not know; but I do know that, though closely related to the Bee, she has not the same sense of direction that the Bee possesses.