THE HAIRY AMMOPHILA

The Hunting Wasps by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE HAIRY AMMOPHILA Chapter XVIII. THE HAIRY AMMOPHILA One day in May I was walking up and down, on the look-out for anything fresh that might be taking place in the harmas laboratory. Favier was not far off, at work in the kitchen-garden. Who is Favier? I may as well say a few words about him at once, for we shall be hearing of him again. Favier is an old soldier. He has pitched his hut of clay and branches under the African carob-trees; he has eaten Sea-urchins at Constantinople; he has shot Starlings in the Crimea, during a lull in the firing. He has seen much and remembered much. In winter, when work in the fields ends at four o’clock and the evenings are long, he puts away rake, fork, and barrow and comes and sits on the hearth-stone of the kitchen fireplace, where the billets of ilex-wood blaze merrily. He fetches out his pipe, fills it methodically with a moistened thumb and smokes it solemnly. He has been thinking of it for many a long hour; but he has abstained, for tobacco is expensive. The privation has doubled the charm; and not a puff, recurring at regular intervals, is wasted. Meanwhile, we start talking. Favier is, in his fashion, one of those bards of old who were given the best seat at the hearth, for the sake of their tales; only, my story-teller was formed in the barrack-room. No matter: the whole household, large and small, listen to him with interest; though his speech is full of vivid images, it is always decent. It would be a great disappointment to us if he did not come, when his work was done, to take his ease in the chimney-corner. What does he talk about to make him so popular? He tells us what he saw of the coup d’État to which we owe the hated Empire; he talks of the brandy served out and of the firing into the mob. He—so he assures me—always aimed at the wall; and I accept his word for it, so distressed does he appear to me and so ashamed of having taken a hand, however innocent, in that felon’s game. He tells us of his watches in the trenches before Sebastopol; he speaks of his sudden terror when, at night, all alone on outpost duty, squatting in the snow, he saw fall beside him what he calls a flower-pot. It blazed and flared and shone and lit up everything around. The infernal machine threatened to burst at every second; and our man gave himself up for lost. But nothing happened: the flower-pot went out quietly. It was a star-shell, an illuminating contrivance fired to reconnoitre the assailant’s outworks in the dark. The tragedy of the battle-field is followed by the comedy of the barracks. He lets us into the mysteries of the stew-pan, the secrets of the mess, the humorous hardships of the cells. And, as his stock of anecdotes, seasoned with racy expressions, is inexhaustible, the supper-hour arrives before any of us has had time to remark how long the evening is. Favier first attracted my notice by a master-stroke. One of my friends had sent me from Marseilles a pair of enormous Crabs, the Maia, the Sea-spider or Spider-crab of the fishermen. I was unpacking the captives when the workmen returned from their dinner: painters, stone-masons, plasterers engaged in repairing the house which had been empty so long. At the sight of those strange animals, studded with spikes all over the carapace and perched on long legs that give them a certain resemblance to a monstrous Spider, the onlookers gave a cry of surprise, almost of alarm. Favier, for his part, remained unmoved; and, as he skilfully seized the terrible Spider struggling to get away, he said ‘I know that thing; I’ve eaten it at Vasna. It’s first-rate.’ And he looked round at the bystanders with an air of humorous mockery which was meant to convey: ‘You’ve never been out of your hole, you people.’ One more story of him, to have done. A woman living in his neighbourhood had been, by the doctor’s advice, to take the sea-baths at Cette. She returned from her trip bringing with her a curious thing, a strange fruit on which she based high hopes. When held to the ear and shaken, it rattled, proving that it contained seeds. It was round and prickly. At one end was a sort of bud, closed with a little white flower; at the other, a slight cavity was pierced with a few holes. The neighbour ran round to Favier to show him her find and asked him to mention it to me. She would make me a present of the precious seeds, the idea being that some wonderful shrub would grow from them and beautify my garden. ‘Vaqui la flou, vaqui lou pécou: here is the flower, here is the tail.’ she said, showing Favier the two ends of her fruit. Favier roared with laughter: ‘It’s a Sea-urchin.’ he said, ‘a Sea-chestnut; I’ve eaten them at Constantinople!’ And he explained as best he could what a Sea-urchin is. The woman did not understand a word of what he said and persisted in her contention. She was convinced that Favier was deceiving her, jealous at the thought that such precious seeds should reach me through any other intermediary than him. The issue was submitted to me. ‘Vaqui la flou, vaqui lou pécou,’ repeated the good woman. I told her that the flou was the cluster formed by the Urchin’s five white teeth and that the pécou was the antipodes of the mouth. She went away only half convinced. It may be that, at this moment, the seeds of the fruit, grains of sand rattling in the empty shell, are germinating in some old broken-mouthed pipkin. Favier, therefore, knows many things; and he knows them more particularly through having eaten them. He knows the virtues of a Badger’s back, the toothsome qualities of the leg of a Fox; he is an expert as to the best part of that Eel of the bushes, the Snake; he has browned in oil the Eyed Lizard, the ill-famed Rassade of the South; he has thought-out the recipe of a fry of Locusts. I am astounded at the impossible stews which he has concocted during his cosmopolitan career. I am no less surprised at his penetrating eye and his memory for things. I have only to describe some plant, which to him is but a nameless weed, devoid of the least interest; and, if it grows in our woods, I feel pretty sure that he will bring it to me and tell me the spot where I can pick it for myself. The botany of the infinitesimal even does not foil his perspicacity. To complete my already-published work on the Sphæriaceæ of Vaucluse, I resume my patient herborizing with the lens during the bad weather, the insect’s slack time. When the frost hardens the ground, when the rains reduce it to slush, I take Favier away from his work in the garden to scour the woods with me; and there, in the tangle of some bramble-bush, we hunt together for those microscopic growths which speckle with black dots the tiny branches strewn all over the soil. He calls the largest species ‘gunpowder,’ an accurate expression which has already been used by the botanists to describe one of those Sphæriaceæ. He feels quite proud of his bunch of discoveries, which is richer than mine. When he lights upon a magnificent rosellinia, a mass of black pustules wrapped in a purplish down, we smoke a pipe to celebrate the joyous occasion. He excels, above all things, in ridding me of the troublesome folk whom I meet upon my rambles. The peasant is naturally curious, as fond of asking questions as a child; but his curiosity is flavoured with a spice of malice and in all his questions there is an undercurrent of chaff. What he fails to understand he turns into ridicule. And what can be more ludicrous than a gentleman looking through a glass at a Fly captured with a gauze net, or a bit of rotten wood picked up from the ground? Favier cuts short the bantering catechism with a word. We were hunting along the ground, step by step, with bent backs, for some of the evidences of prehistoric times that abound on the south side of the mountain: serpentine-stone axes, black potsherds, flint arrow-heads and spear-heads, flakes, side-scrapers, cores. ‘What does your master do with those ‘payrards?’ asked a new arrival. 2 ‘He makes them into putty for the glaziers,’ replied Favier, with an air of solemn assurance. Another time, I had just gathered a handful of Rabbit-droppings in which the magnifying-glass had shown me a cryptogamous growth worthy of further inspection. Up comes an inquisitive person who has seen me carefully packing the precious windfall in a paper bag. He suspects a money-making business, some crazy trade or other. Everything, to the countryman, is translatable into terms of francs and sous. In his eyes, I am making a steady income out of these Rabbit-droppings. ‘What does your master do with those pétourles?’ he asks Favier, in ingratiating tones. 3 ‘He distils them to extract the essential oils,’ replies my man, with magnificent self-possession. Stunned by this revelation, the questioner turns his back and goes away. But let us waste no more time with the waggish old soldier and his smart repartees and let us rather come to what was attracting my attention in the harmas laboratory. Some Ammophilæ were exploring on foot, with brief intervals of flight, both the grass and the bare patches of ground. I had seen them as early as the middle of March, when a fine day made its appearance, warming themselves luxuriously in the dusty paths. All belonged to the same species, the Hairy Ammophila (A. hirsuta, Kirb.). I have already written of the hibernation of this Ammophila and her venery in mid-spring, at a period when the other Hunting Wasps are still imprisoned in their cocoons; I have described her manner of operating on the caterpillar destined for her grub; I have told of the repeated stings of her dart, distributed over the different nerve-centres. This scientific vivisection I had as yet observed but once; and I longed to see it again. Something might have escaped me on the first occasion, when a long walk had tired me; and, even if I had really seen everything correctly, it was advisable to witness the performance a second time, so as to establish its authenticity beyond all doubt. I may add that one would never weary of the spectacle, even if it were repeated a hundred times over. I therefore watched my Ammophilæ from the moment of their first appearance; and, as I had them here, within my precincts, only a few steps from my door, I could not fail to catch them hunting, provided that my assiduity were not relaxed. The end of March and the whole of April were spent in vain waiting, either because the moment of nidification had not yet come, or, more probably, because my vigilance was at fault. At last, on the 17th of May, a lucky chance presented itself. A few Ammophilæ strike me as very busy: suppose we follow one of them, more active than the rest. I detect her giving a last sweep of the rake to her burrow, on the smooth, hard path, before introducing her caterpillar, which, already paralysed, must have been abandoned by the huntress, for the time being, a few yards away from the home. The cave is pronounced spick and span, the doorway deemed sufficiently wide to admit a bulky prey; and the Ammophila sets off in search of her captive. She finds it easily. It is a Grey Worm, lying on the ground; and the Ants have already invaded it. This prize, for which the Ants contend with her, is scorned by the huntress. Many predatory Wasps, who temporarily leave their prisoner to go and complete the burrow, or even to begin it, lodge their game high up, on a tuft of verdure, to place it beyond the reach of plunderers. The Ammophila is familiar with this prudent practice; but perhaps she has omitted to take the precaution, or else the heavy prize has fallen to the ground, and now the Ants are tugging in eager rivalry at the sumptuous fare. To drive away those pilferers is impossible: for one sent to the right-about, ten would return to the attack. So the Wasp seems to think; for, realizing the invasion, she resumes her hunting, without indulging in useless strife. The quest takes place within a radius of ten yards from the nest. The Ammophila explores the soil on foot, little by little, without hurrying; she lashes the ground continually with her antennæ curved like a bow. The bare soil, the pebbly bits, the grassy parts are visited without distinction. For nearly three hours, in the heat of the sun, in sultry weather which means rain to-morrow and a few drops to-night, I watch the Ammophila’s search, without taking my eyes from her for a second. What a difficult thing a Grey Worm is to find, for a Wasp who needs it just at that moment! It is no less difficult for man. The reader knows my method of witnessing the surgical operation to which a Hunting Wasp subjects her prey, with a view to giving her grubs flesh that is lifeless but not dead. I rob the marauder of her spoil and, in exchange, give her a live prey, similar to her own. I was arranging the same manœuvre with regard to the Ammophila, so that, after she had smitten her caterpillar, which she was bound to find at any moment now, I might make her perform the operation a second time. I was therefore in urgent need of a few Grey Worms. Favier was there, gardening. I called out to him: ‘Come here, quick; I want some Grey Worms!’ I explain the thing to him; for that matter, he has known all about it for some time. I have talked to him of my little creatures and the caterpillars which they hunt; he has a general knowledge of the habits of the insect which I am studying. He understands at once and goes in search. He digs at the foot of the lettuces, he scrapes among the strawberry-beds, he inspects the iris-borders. I know his sharp eyes and his intelligence; I have every confidence in him. Meanwhile, time passes. ‘Well, Favier? Where’s that Grey Worm?’ ‘I can’t find one, sir.’ ‘Bother! Then come to the rescue, you others! Claire, Aglaé, all of you! Hurry up, hunt and find!’ The whole family is brought into requisition. All its members display an activity worthy of the serious events at hand. I myself, chained to my post lest I should lose sight of the Ammophila, keep one eye upon the huntress and with the other watch for Grey Worms. Nothing turns up: three hours pass and not one of us has found the caterpillar. The Ammophila does not find it either. I see her hunting with some persistency in spots where the earth is slightly cracked. The insect wears itself out in clearing operations; with a mighty effort it removes lumps of dry earth the size of an apricot-stone. Those spots are soon abandoned, however. Then a suspicion comes to me: the fact that there are four or five of us vainly hunting for a Grey Worm does not prove that the Ammophila is troubled with the same want of skill. Where man is helpless, the insect often triumphs. The exquisite delicacy of perception that guides it cannot leave it at a loss for hours together. Perhaps the Grey Worm, foreseeing the gathering storm, has dug its way lower down. The huntress very well knows where it lies, but cannot extract it from its deep hiding-place. When she abandons a spot after a few attempts, it is not for want of sagacity, but for want of the requisite power of digging. Wherever the Ammophila scratches, there must a Grey Worm be: the place is abandoned because the work of extraction is admittedly beyond her strength. It was very stupid of me not to have thought of it earlier. Would such an experienced poacher pay any attention to a place where there is really nothing? What nonsense! I thereupon resolve to come to her assistance. The insect, at this moment, is digging a tilled and absolutely bare spot. It leaves the place, as it has already done with so many others. I myself continue the work, with the blade of a knife. I do not find anything either; and I retire. The insect comes back and again begins to scratch at a certain part of my excavations. I understand: ‘Get out of that, you clumsy fellow!’ the Hymenopteron seems to say. ‘I’ll show you where the thing lives!’ Upon her indications I dig at the required spot and unearth a Grey Worm. Well done, my canny Ammophila! Did I not say that you would never have raked at an empty burrow? Henceforth, it is like a hunt for truffles, which the Dog points out and the man extracts. I continue on the same system, the Ammophila showing me the place and I digging with the knife. I thus obtain a second Grey Worm, followed by a third and a fourth. The exhumation is always effected at bare spots that have been turned by the pitchfork a few months earlier. There is absolutely nothing to denote the presence of the caterpillar from without. Well, Favier, Claire, Aglaé and the rest of you, what have you to say? In three hours you have not been able to dig me up a single Grey Worm, whereas this clever huntress supplies me with as many as I want, once that I have thought of coming to her assistance! I have now plenty of spare pieces; let us leave the huntress her fifth prize, which she unearths with my help. I will set forth in numbered paragraphs the various acts of the gorgeous drama that passes before my eyes. The observation is made under the most favourable conditions: I am lying on the ground, close to the slaughterer, and not one detail escapes me. 1. The Ammophila seizes the caterpillar by the back of the neck with the curved pincers of her mandibles. The Grey Worm struggles violently, rolling and unrolling its contorted body. The Wasp remains quite unconcerned: she stands aside and thus avoids the shocks. Her sting strikes the joint between the first segment and the head, on the median ventral line, at a spot where the skin is more delicate. The dart stays in the wound with some persistency. This, it appears, is the essential blow, which will master the Grey Worm and make it more easy to handle. 2. The Ammophila now quits her prey. She flattens herself on the ground, with wild, disordered movements, rolling on her side, twitching and dangling her limbs, fluttering her wings, as though in danger of death. I fear lest the huntress may have received a nasty wound in the contest. I am overcome with emotion at seeing the plucky Wasp finish so piteously, at seeing the experiment that has cost me so many hours of waiting end in failure. But suddenly the Ammophila recovers, smooths her wings, curls her antennæ and returns briskly to the attack. What I had taken for the convulsions of approaching death was the frenzied enthusiasm of victory. The Wasp was congratulating herself on the manner in which she had floored the enemy. 3. The operator grips the caterpillar by the skin of the back, a little lower than before, and pricks the second segment, still on the ventral surface. I then see her gradually recoiling along the Grey Worm, each time seizing the back a little lower down, clasping it with the mandibles, those wide pincers with the curved jaws, and each time driving the sting into the next segment. This recoil of the insect and this gradual clasping of the back, a little farther down on each occasion, are effected with methodical precision, as though the huntress were measuring her prey. At each step backward the dart stings the following segment. In this way are wounded the three thoracic segments, with the true legs; the next two segments, which are legless; and the four segments with the pro-legs. In all, nine stings. The last four segments are disregarded: they consist of three without legs and the last, or thirteenth, with pro-legs. The operation is accomplished without serious difficulty: after the first prick of the needle, the Grey Worm offers but a feeble resistance. 4. Lastly, the Ammophila, opening the forceps of her mandibles to their full width, seizes the caterpillar’s head and crunches it, squeezes it with a series of leisurely movements, without creating a wound. These squeezings follow upon one another with deliberate slowness: the insect seems to try each time to learn the effect produced; it stops, waits, and then resumes the attack. This manipulation of the brain, to attain the desired end, must have certain limits which, if exceeded, would bring about death and speedy putrefaction. And so the Wasp regulates the force of her compressions, which, moreover, are numerous: about a score, in all. The surgeon has finished. The patient lies on the ground on its side, half doubled up. It is motionless, lifeless, incapable of resistance during the traction-process that is to bring it home, unable to harm the grub that is to feed upon it. The Ammophila leaves it at the place where the operation was performed and goes back to her nest. I follow her. She makes certain improvements in view of the coming storage. A pebble projecting from the roof might impede the warehousing of the bulky quarry. The lump is forthwith removed. A rustle of grazed wings accompanies the arduous task. The back-room is not large enough: it is widened. The work is long-drawn-out; and the caterpillar, which I have neglected to watch, lest I should miss any of the Wasp’s doings, is invaded by the Ants. When the Ammophila and I return to it, it is black all over with busy carvers. This is a regrettable incident for me and a grievous event for the Ammophila; for it is the second time that she has met with the same mishap. The insect appears discouraged. In vain I replace the caterpillar by one of my reserve of Grey Worms: the Ammophila scorns the substituted prey. Besides, evening is drawing in, the sky has clouded, there are even a few drops of rain falling. In these circumstances it is needless to look for a renewal of the chase. Everything, therefore, ends, without my being able to use my Grey Worms as I had proposed. This observation kept me engaged, without a moment’s respite, from one o’clock in the afternoon until six o’clock in the evening. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre (2022). The Hunting Wasps. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67110/pg67110-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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