THE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS

The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS

CHAPTER IX. THE DUNG-BEETLES OF THE PAMPAS

To travel the world, by land and sea, from pole to pole; to cross-question life, under every clime, in the infinite variety of its manifestations: that surely would be glorious luck for him that has eyes to see; and it formed the radiant dream of my young years, at the time when Robinson Crusoe was my delight. These rosy illusions, rich in voyages, were soon succeeded by dull, stay-at-home reality. The jungles of India, the virgin forests of Brazil, the towering crests of the Andes, beloved by the Condor, were reduced, as a field for exploration, to a patch of pebbles enclosed within four walls.

Heaven forfend that I should complain! The gathering of ideas does not necessarily imply distant expeditions. Jean-Jacques Rousseau1 herborized with the bunch of chick-weed whereon he fed his Canary; Bernardin de Saint-Pierre2 discovered a world on a strawberry-plant that grew by accident in a corner of his window; Xavier de Maistre,3 using an arm-chair by way of post-chaise, made one of the most famous of journeys around his room.

1 Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778), author of the Confessions, La Nouvelle Héloise, etc.—Translator's Note.

2 Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (1737-1814), author of Paul et Virginie, La Chaumière idienne and Etudes de la nature.—Translator's Note.

3 Xavier de Maistre (1763-1852), best known for his Voyage autour de ma chambre (1795).—Translator's Note.

This manner of seeing country is within my means, always excepting the post-chaise, which is too difficult to drive through the bushes. I go the circuit of my enclosure over and over again, a hundred times, by short stages; I stop here and I stop there; patiently, I put questions and, at long intervals, I receive some scrap of a reply.

The smallest insect village has become familiar to me: I know each fruit-branch where the Praying Mantis4 perches; each bush where the pale Italian Cricket5 strums amid the calmness of the summer nights; each downy plant scraped by the Anthidium, that maker of cotton bags; each cluster of lilac worked by the Megachile, the Leaf-cutter.

4 Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. vi. to ix.—Translator's Note.

5 Cf. idem: chap. xvi.—Translator's Note.

If cruising among the nooks and corners of the garden do not suffice, a longer voyage shows ample profit. I double the cape of the neighbouring hedges and, at a few hundred yards, enter into relations with the Sacred Beetle,6 the Capricorn, the Geotrupes,7 the Copris,8 the Decticus,9 the Cricket,10 the Green Grasshopper,11 in short, with a host of tribes the telling of whose story would exhaust a lifetime. Certainly, I have enough and even too much to do with my near neighbours, without leaving home to rove in distant lands.

6 Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps i. to vi.—Translator's Note.

7 Cf. idem: chaps. xii. to xiv.—Translator's Note.

8 Cf. idem: chaps. ix. and xvi.—Translator's Note.

9 Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chaps. xi. to xiii.—Translator's Note.

10 Cf. idem: chaps. xv. and xvi.—Translator's Note.

11 Cf. idem: chap. xiv.—Translator's Note.

Besides, roaming the world, scattering one's attention over a host of subjects, is not observing. The travelling entomologist can stick numerous species, the joy of the collector and the nomenclator, into his boxes; but to gather circumstantial evidence is a very different matter. A Wandering Jew of science, he has no time to stop. Where a prolonged stay would be necessary to study this or that fact, he is hurried past the next stage. We must not expect the impossible of him under these conditions. Let him pin his specimens to cork tablets, let him steep them in jars of spirit, and leave to the sedentary the patient observations that require time.

This explains the extreme penury of history outside the dry descriptions of the nomenclator. Overwhelming us with its numbers, the exotic insect nearly always preserves the secret of its manners. Nevertheless, it were well to compare what happens under our eyes with that which happens elsewhere; it were excellent to see how, in the same guild of workers, the fundamental instinct varies with climatic conditions.

Then my longing to travel returns, vainer to-day than ever, unless one could find a seat on that carpet of which we read in the Arabian Nights, the famous carpet whereon one had but to sit to be carried whithersoever he pleased. O marvellous conveyance, far preferable to Xavier de Maistre's post-chaise! If I could only find just a little corner on it, with a return-ticket!

I do find it. I owe this unexpected good fortune to a Brother of the Christian Schools, to Brother Judulien, of the La Salle College at Buenos Aires. His modesty would be offended by the praises which his debtor owes him. Let us simply say that, acting on my instructions, his eyes take the place of mine. He seeks, finds, observes, sends me his notes and his discoveries. I observe, seek and find with him, by correspondence.

It is done; thanks to this first-rate collaborator, I have my seat on the magic carpet. Behold me in the pampas of the Argentine Republic, eager to draw a parallel between the industry of the Sérignan12 Dung-beetles and that of their rivals in the western hemisphere.

12 Sérignan, in Provence, where the author ended his days.—Translator's Note.

A glorious beginning! An accidental find procures me, to begin with, the Splendid Phanæus (P. splendidulus), who combines a coppery effulgence with the sparkling green of the emerald. One is quite astonished to see so rich a gem load its basket with ordure. It is the jewel on the dung-hill. The corselet of the male is grooved with a wide hollow and he sports a pair of sharp-edged pinions on his shoulders; on his forehead he plants a horn which vies with that of the Spanish Copris. While equally rich in metallic splendour, his mate has no fantastic embellishments, which are an exclusive prerogative of masculine dandyism among the Dung-beetles of La Plata as among our own.

Now what can the gorgeous foreigner do? Precisely what the Lunary Copris13 does with us. Settling, like the other, under a flat cake of Cow-dung, the South American Beetle kneads egg-shaped loaves underground. Not a thing is forgotten: the round belly with the largest volume and the smallest surface; the hard rind which acts as a preservative against premature desiccation; the terminal nipple where the egg is lodged in a hatching-chamber; and, at the end of the nipple, the felt stopper which admits the air needed by the germ.

13 Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. xvi.—Translator's Note.

All these things I have seen here and I see over there, almost at the other end of the world. Life, ruled by inflexible logic, repeats itself in its works, for what is true in one latitude cannot be false in another. We go very far afield in search of a new spectacle to meditate upon; and we have an inexhaustible specimen before our eyes, between the walls of our enclosure.

Settled under the sumptuous dish dropped by the Ox, the Phanæus, one would think, ought to make the very best use of it and to stock her burrow with a number of ovoids, after the example of the Lunary Copris. She does nothing of the sort, preferring to roam from one find to the other and to take from each the wherewithal to model a single pellet, which is left to itself for the soil to incubate. She is not driven to practise economy even when she is working the produce of the Sheep far from the pastures of the Argentine.

Can this be because the jewel of the pampas dispenses with the father's collaboration? I dare not follow up the argument, for the Spanish Copris would give me the lie, by showing me the mother occupied alone in settling the family and nevertheless stocking her one pit with a number of pellets. Each has her share of customs the secret of which escapes us.

The two next, Megathopa bicolor and M. intermedia, have certain points of resemblance with the Sacred Beetle, for whose ebon hue they substitute a blue black. The first besides brightens his corselet with magnificent copper reflections. With their long legs, their forehead with its radiating denticulations and their flattened wing-cases, they are fairly successful smaller editions of the famous pill-roller.

They also share her talent. The work of both is once again a sort of pear, but constructed in a more ingenious fashion, with an almost conical neck and without any elegant curves. From the point of view of beauty, it falls short of the Sacred Beetle's work. Considering the tools, which have ample free play and are well adapted for clasping, I expected something better from the two modellers. No matter: the work of the Megathopæ conforms with the fundamental art of the other pill-rollers.

A fourth, Bolbites onitoides, compensates us for repetitions which, it is true, widen the scope of the problem but teach us nothing new. She is a handsome Beetle with a metallic costume, green or copper-red according as the light happens to fall. Her four-cornered shape and her long, toothed fore-legs make her resemble our Onites.14

14 Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. xvi.—Translator's Note.

In her, the Dung-beetles' guild reveals itself under a very unexpected aspect. We know insects that knead soft loaves; and here are some which, to keep their bread fresh, discover ceramics and become potters, working clay in which they pack the food of the larvæ. Before my housekeeper, before any of us, they knew how, with the aid of a round jar, to keep the provisions from drying during the summer heats. The work of the Bolbites is an ovoid, hardly differing in shape from that of the Copres; but this is where the ingenuity of the American insect shines forth. The inner mass, the usual dung-cake furnished by the Cow or the Sheep, is covered with a perfectly homogeneous and continuous coating of clay, which makes a piece of solid pottery impervious to evaporation.

The earthen pot is exactly filled by its contents, without the slightest interval along the line of junction. This detail tells us the worker's method. The jar is moulded on the provisions. After the food-pellet has been formed in the ordinary baker's fashion and the egg laid in its hatching-chamber, the Bolbites takes some armfuls of the clay near at hand, applies it to the foodstuff and presses it down. When the work is finished and smoothed to perfection with indefatigable patience, the tiny pot, built up piecemeal, looks as though made with the wheel and rivals our own earthenware in regularity.

The hatching-chamber, in which the egg lies, is, as usual, contrived in the nipple at the end of the pear. How will the germ and the young larva manage to breathe under that clay casing, which intercepts the access of the air?

Have no fears: the pot-maker knows quite well how matters stand. She takes good care not to close the top with the plastic earth which supplied her with the walls. At some distance from the tip of the nipple, the clay ceases to play its part and makes way for fibrous particles, for tiny scraps of undigested fodder, which, arranged one above the other with a certain order, form a sort of thatched roof over the egg. The inward and outward passage of the air is assured through this coarse screen.

One is set thinking in the presence of this layer of clay, which protects the fresh provisions, and this vent-hole stopped with a truss of straw, which admits the air freely, while defending the entrance. There is the eternal question, if we do not rise above the commonplace: how did the insect acquire so wise an art?

Not one fails in obeying those two laws, the safety of the egg and ready ventilation; not one, not even the next on my list, whose talent opens up a new horizon: I am now speaking of Lacordaire's Gromphas. Let not this repellant name of Gromphas (the old sow) give us a wrong notion of the insect. On the contrary, it is, like the last, an elegant Dung-beetle, dark-bronze, thickset, square-shaped like our Bison Onitis15 and almost as large. It also practises the same industry, at least as regards the general effect of the work.

15 Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chap. xvi.—Translator's Note.

Its burrow branches into a small number of cylindrical cells, forming the homes of as many larvæ. For each of these the provisions consist of a parcel of Cow-dung, about an inch deep. The material is carefully packed and fills the bottom of the cavity, just as a soft paste would do when pressed down in a mould. Until now the work is similar to that of the Bison Onitis; but the resemblance goes no farther and is replaced by profound and curious differences, having no connection with what the Dung-beetles of our own parts show us.

As we know, our sausage-makers, Onites and Geotrupes alike, place the egg at the lower end of their cylinder, in a cell contrived in the very midst of the mass of foodstuffs. Their rival in the pampas adopts a diametrically opposite method: she places the egg above the victuals, at the upper end of the sausage. In order to feed, the grub does not have to work upwards; on the contrary, it works downwards.

More remarkable still: the egg does not lie immediately on top of the provisions; it is installed in a clay chamber with a wall about one-twelfth of an inch in thickness. This wall forms an hermetically-sealed lid, curves into a cup and then rises and bends over to make a vaulted ceiling.

The germ is thus enclosed in a mineral box, having no connection with the provision-store, which is kept strictly shut. The newborn grub must employ the first efforts of its teeth to break the seals, to cut through the clay floor and to make a trap-door which will take it to the underlying cake.

A rough beginning for the feeble mandible, even though the material to be bored through is a fine clay. Other grubs bite at once into a soft bread which surrounds them on every side; this one, on leaving the egg, has to make a breach in a wall before taking nourishment.

Of what use are these obstacles? I do not doubt that they have their purpose. If the grub is born at the bottom of a closed pot, if it has to chew through brick to reach the larder, I feel sure that certain conditions of its well-being demand this. But what conditions? To become acquainted with them would call for an examination on the spot; and all the data that I possess are a few nests, lifeless things very difficult to interrogate. However, it is possible to catch a glimpse of one or two points.

The Gromphas' burrow is shallow; those little cylinders, her loaves, are greatly exposed to drought. Over there, as here, the drying up of the victuals constitutes a mortal danger. To avert this peril, by far the most sensible course is to enclose the food in absolutely shut vessels.

Well, the receptacle is dug in very fine, homogeneous, water-tight earth, with not a bit of gravel, not an atom of sand in it. Together with the lid that forms the bottom of its round chamber, in which the egg is lodged, this cavity becomes an urn whose contents are safe from drought for a long time, even under a scorching sun. However late the hatching, the new-born grub, on finding the lid, will have under its teeth provisions as fresh as though they dated from that very day.

The clay food-pit, with its closely-fitting lid, is an excellent method, than which our agricultural experts have discovered no better way of preserving fodder; but it possesses one drawback: to reach the stack of food, the grub has first to open a passage through the floor of its chamber. Instead of the pap called for by its weakly stomach, it begins by finding a brick to chew.

The rude task would be avoided if the egg lay directly on top of the victuals, inside the case itself. Here our logic is at fault: it forgets an essential point, which the insect is careful not to disregard. The germ breathes. Its development requires air; and the perfectly-closed clay urn does not allow any air to enter. The grub has to be born outside the pot.

Agreed. But, in the matter of breathing, the egg is no better off for being shut up, on top of the provisions, in a clay casket quite as air-tight as the jar itself. Examine the thing more closely, however, and you will receive a satisfactory reply. The walls of the hatching-chamber are carefully glazed inside. The mother has taken meticulous pains to give them a stucco-like finish. The vaulted ceiling alone is rugged, because the building-tool now works from the outside and is unable to reach the inner surface of the lid and smooth it. Moreover, in the centre of this curved and embossed ceiling, a small opening has been made. This is the air-hole, which allows of gaseous exchanges between the atmosphere inside the box and that outside.

If it were entirely free, this opening would be dangerous: some plunderer might take advantage of it to enter the casket. The mother foresees the risk. She blocks the breathing-hole with a plug made of the ravelled vegetable fibres of the Cow-dung, a stopper which is eminently permeable. It is an exact repetition of that which the various modellers have shown us at the top of their calabashes and pears. All of them are acquainted with the nice secret of the felt stopper as a means of ventilating the egg in a water-tight enclosure.

Your name is not an attractive one, my pretty Dung-beetle of the pampas, but your industrial methods are most remarkable. I know some among your fellow-countrymen, however, who surpass you in ingenuity. One of these is Phanæus Milon, a magnificent insect, blue-black all over.

The male's corselet juts forward. On the head is a short, broad, flattened horn, ending in a trident. The female replaces this ornament by simple folds. Both carry on the forehead two spikes which form a trusty digging-implement and also a scalpel for dissecting. The insect's squat, sturdy, four-cornered build resembles that of Onitis Olivieri, one of the rarities of the neighbourhood of Montpellier.

If similarity of shape implied purity of work, we ought unhesitatingly to attribute to Phanæus Milon short, thick puddings like those made by Olivier's Onitis.16 Alas, structure is a bad guide where instinct is concerned! The square-chined, short-legged Dung-beetle excels in the art of manufacturing gourds. The Sacred Beetle herself supplies none that are more correctly shaped nor, above all, more capacious.

16 I owe this detail on the work of Olivier's Onitis to a note and a sketch communicated by Professor Valéry-Mayer, of the Montpellier School of Agriculture.—Author's Note.

The thickset insect astonishes me with the elegance of its work, which is irreproachable in its geometry: the neck is shorter, but nevertheless combines grace with strength. The model seems derived from some Indian calabash, the more so as it has an open mouth and the belly is engraved with an elegant engine-turned pattern, produced by the insect's tarsi. One seems to see a pitcher protected by a wickerwork covering. The whole attains and even exceeds the size of a Hen's egg.

It is a very curious piece of work and of a rare perfection, especially when we consider the artist's clumsy and massive build. No, once again, the tool does not make the workman, among Dung-beetles any more than among ourselves. To guide the modeller there is something better than a set of tools: there is what I have called the bump, the genius of the animal.

Phanæus Milon scoffs at difficulties. He does much more than that: he laughs at our classifications. The word Dung-beetle implies a lover of dung. He sets no value on it, either for his own use or for that of his offspring. What he wants is the sanies of corpses. He is to be found under the carcasses of birds, Dogs or Cats, in the company of the undertakers-in-ordinary. The gourd which I will presently describe was lying in the earth under the remains of an Owl.

Let him who will explain this conjunction of the appetites of the Necrophorus17 with the talents of the Sacred Beetle. As for me, baffled by tastes which no one would suspect from the mere appearance of the insect, I give it up.

17 Or Burying-beetle. Cf. Chapters XI. and XII. of the present volume.—Translator's Note.

I know in my neighbourhood one Dung-beetle and one alone who also works among carrion. This is Onthophagus ovatus, LIN., a constant frequenter of dead Moles and Rabbits. But the dwarf undertaker does not on that account scorn stercoraceous fare: he feasts upon it like the other Onthophagi. Perhaps there is a twofold diet here: the bun for the adult; the highly-spiced, far-gone meat for the grub.

Similar facts are encountered elsewhere, with differing tastes. The Hunting Wasp takes her fill of honey drawn from the nectaries of the flowers, but feeds her little ones on game. Game first and then sugar, for the same stomach! How that digestive pouch must change during development! And yet no more than our own, which scorns in later life the food that delighted it when young.

Let us now examine the work of Phanæus Milon more thoroughly. The calabashes reached me in a state of complete desiccation. They are very nearly as hard as stone; their colour inclines to a pale chocolate. Neither inside nor out does the lens discover the slightest ligneous particle pointing to a vegetable residue. The strange Dung-beetle does not, therefore, use cakes of Cow-dung or anything like them; he handles products of another class, which at first are rather difficult to specify.

Held to the ear and shaken, the object rattles slightly, as would the shell of a dry fruit with a stone lying free inside it. Does it contain the grub, shrivelled by desiccation? Does it contain the dead insect? I thought so, but I was wrong. It contains something much more instructive than that.

I carefully rip up the gourd with the point of a knife. Within a homogenous wall, whose thickness is over three-quarters of an inch in the largest of my three specimens, is encased a spherical kernel, which fills the cavity exactly, but without sticking to the wall at any part. The small amount of free play allowed to this kernel accounts for the rattling which I heard when I shook the thing.

In the colour and general appearance of the whole, the kernel does not differ from the wrapper. But break it open and minutely examine the pieces. We now recognize tiny fragments of bone, flocks of down, threads of wool, scraps of flesh, the whole mixed in an earthy paste resembling chocolate.

This paste, when placed on hot charcoal, sifted under the lens and deprived of its particles of dead bodies, becomes much darker, is covered with shiny bubbles and sends forth puffs of that acrid smoke by which we so readily recognize burnt animal matter. The whole mass of the kernel, therefore, is strongly impregnated with sanies.

Treated in the same manner, the wrapper also turns black, but not to the same extent; it hardly smokes; it does not become covered with jet-black bubbles; lastly, it would not anywhere contain bits of carcase similar to those in the central kernel. In both cases, the residue after calcination is a fine, reddish clay.

This brief analysis tells us all about the table of Phanæus Milon. The fare served to the grub is a sort of meat-pie. The sausage-meat consists of a mince of all that the two scalpels of the forehead and the toothed knives of the fore-legs have been able to remove from the corpse: hair and down, small crushed bones, strips of flesh and skin. Now hard as brick, the thickening of this mincemeat was originally a paste of fine clay steeped in the liquor of corruption. Lastly, the light crust of our meat-pies is here represented by a covering of the same clay, less rich in extract of meat than the other.

The pastry-cook gives his work an elegant shape; he decorates it with rosettes, with twists, with scrolls. Phanæus Milon is no stranger to these culinary æsthetics. She turns the crust of her meat-pie into a splendid gourd, with a finger-print ornamentation.

The outer covering, an unprofitable crust, insufficiently steeped in savoury juices, is not, we can easily guess, intended for consumption. It is possible that, somewhat later, when the stomach becomes robust and is not repelled by coarse fare, the grub scrapes a little from the sides of its pasty walls; but, until the adult insect emerges, the calabash as a whole remains intact, having acted at first as a safeguard of the freshness of the force-meat and all the while as a protecting casket for the recluse.

Above the cold pastry, right at the base of the neck of the gourd, is contrived a round cell with a clay wall continuing the general wall. A fairly thick floor, made of the same material, separates it from the store-room. This is the hatching-chamber. Here is laid the egg, which I find in its place but dried up; here is hatched the grub, which, to reach the ball of food, must first open a trap-door through the partition that separates the two stories.

We have here, in short, the edifice of the Gromphas, in a different style of architecture. The grub is born in a casket surmounting the stack of food but not communicating with it. The budding larva must therefore, at the opportune moment, itself pierce the covering of the pot of preserves. As a matter of fact, later, when the grub is on the sausage-meat, we find the floor perforated with a hole just large enough for it to pass through.

Wrapped all round in a thick casing of pottery, the meat keeps fresh as long as is required by the duration of the hatching-process, a detail which I have not ascertained; in its cell, which is also of clay, the egg lies safe. Capital; so far, all is well. Phanæus Milon is thoroughly acquainted with the secrets of fortification and the danger of victuals evaporating too soon. There remain the germ's respiratory requirements.

To satisfy these, the insect has been equally well-inspired. The neck of the calabash is pierced, in the direction of its axis, with a tiny channel which would admit at most the slenderest of straws. Inside, this conduit opens at the top of the dome of the hatching-chamber; outside, at the tip of the nipple, it spreads into a wide mouth. This is the ventilating-shaft, protected against intruders by its extreme narrowness and by grains of dust which obstruct it a little without stopping it up. I said it was simply marvellous. Was I wrong? If a construction of this sort is a fortuitous result, we must admit that blind chance is gifted with extraordinary powers of foresight.

How does the clumsy insect manage to accomplish so delicate and complex a piece of building? Exploring the pampas as I do through the eyes of an intermediary, my only guide in this question is the structure of the work, a structure whence we can deduct the workman's method without going far astray. I therefore imagine the building to proceed in this manner: a small carcase is found, the oozing of which has softened the underlying loam. The insect collects more or less of this loam, according to the richness of the vein. There are no precise limits here. If the plastic material be plentiful, the collector is lavish with it and the provision-box becomes all the more solid. Then enormous calabashes are obtained, exceeding a Hen's egg in volume and formed of an outer wall three-quarters of an inch thick. But a mass of this description is beyond the strength of the modeller, is badly handled and betrays, in its shape, the awkwardness attendant on an over-difficult task. If the material be rare, the insect confines its harvesting to what is strictly necessary; and then, freer in its movements, it obtains a magnificently regular gourd.

The loam is probably first kneaded into a ball and then scooped out into a large and very thick cup by the pressure of the fore-legs and the work of the forehead. Even thus do the Copris and the Sacred Beetle act when preparing, on the top of their round pill, the bowl in which the egg will be laid before the final manipulation of the ovoid or pear.

In this first business, the Phanæus is simply a potter. So long as it be plastic, any clay serves her turn, however meagrely saturated with the juices running from the carcase.

She now becomes a pork-butcher. With her toothed knife, she carves, she saws some tiny shreds from the rotten animal; she tears off, cuts away what she deems best suited to the grub's entertainment. She collects all these fragments and mixes them with choice loam in the spots where the sanies abounds. The whole, cunningly kneaded and softened, becomes a ball made on the spot, without any rolling-process, in the same way as the sphere of the other pill-manufacturers. Let us add that this ball, a ration calculated by the needs of the grub, is very nearly constant in size, whatever the dimensions of the final calabash.

The sausage-meat is now ready. It is set in place in the wide-open clay bowl. Loosely packed, without compression, the food will remain free, will not stick to its wrapper.

Next, the potter's work is renewed. The insect presses the thick lips of the clay cup, rolls them out and applies them to the prepared force-meat, which is eventually contained by a thin partition at the top end and by a thick layer every elsewhere. A wide circular pad is left on the top partition, which is thin in view of the weakness of the grub that is to perforate it later, when making for the provisions. Manipulated in its turn, this pad is converted into a hemispherical hollow, in which the egg is forthwith laid.

The work is completed by rolling out and joining the edges of the little crater, which closes and becomes the hatching-chamber. Here, especially, a delicate dexterity becomes essential. At the same time that the nipple of the calabash is being shaped, the insect, when packing the material, must leave the little channel which is to form the ventilating-shaft, following the line of the axis. This narrow conduit, which an ill-calculated pressure might stop up beyond hope of remedy, seems to me extremely difficult to obtain. The most skilful of our potters could not manage it without the aid of a needle, which he would afterwards withdraw. The insect, a sort of jointed automaton, makes its channel through the massive nipple of the gourd without so much as a thought. If it did give it a thought, it would not succeed.

The calabash is made: there remains the decoration. This is the work of patient after-touches which perfect the curves and leave on the soft loam a series of stippled impressions similar to those which the potter of prehistoric days distributed over his big-bellied jars with the ball of his thumb.

That finishes the work. The insect will begin all over again under a fresh carcase; for each burrow has one calabash and no more, even as with the Sacred Beetle and her pears.

Here is another of these artists of the pampas. All black and as big as the largest of our Onthophagi,18 whom she greatly resembles in general build, Canthon bispinus is likewise an exploiter of dead bodies, if not always on her own behalf, at least on that of her offspring.

18 Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chaps. xi. xvii., and xviii.—Translator's Note.

She introduces very original innovations into the pill-maker's art. Her work, strewn like the aforementioned with finger-prints, is the pilgrim's gourd, the double-bellied gourd. Of the two stories, which are joined together by a fairly plainly-marked groove, the upper is the smaller and contains the egg in an incubating-chamber; the lower and bulkier is the food-stack.

Imagine the Sisyphus' little pear with its hatching-chamber swollen into a globule a trifle smaller than the sphere at the other end; suppose the two protuberances to be divided by a sort of wide open groove like that of a pulley; and we shall have something very like the Canthon's work in shape and size.

When placed on burning charcoal, this double-bellied gourd turns black, becomes covered with shiny warts that look like jet beads, emits a smell like that of grilled meat and leaves a residue of red clay. It is therefore formed of clay and sanies. Moreover, the paste is sprinkled with little scraps of dead flesh. At the smaller end is the egg, in a chamber with a very porous roof, to allow the air to enter.

The little undertaker has something better to show than her double sausage. Like the Bison Onitis, the Sisyphus and the Lunary Copris, she enjoys the collaboration of the father. Each burrow contains several cradles, with the father and mother invariably present. What are the two inseparables doing? They are watching their brood and, by dint of assiduous repairs, keeping the little sausages, which are in constant danger of cracking or drying up, in good condition.

The magic carpet which has allowed me to take this trip to the pampas supplies me with nothing else worth noting. Besides, the New World is poor in pill-rollers and cannot compare with Senegambia and the regions of the Upper Nile, that paradise of Copres and Sacred Beetles. Nevertheless we owe it one precious detail: the group which is commonly known by the name of Dung-beetles is divided into two corporations, one of which exploits dung, the other corpses.

With very few exceptions, the latter has no representatives in our climes. I have mentioned the little Oval Onthophagus as a lover of carrion corruption; and my memory does not recall any other example of the kind. We have to go to the other world to find such tastes.

Can it be that there was a schism among the primitive scavengers and that these, at first addicted to the same industry, afterwards divided the hygienic task, some burying the ordure of the intestines, the others the ordure of death? Can the comparative frequency of this or the other provender have brought about the formation of two trade-guilds?

That is not admissible. Life is inseparable from death; wherever a corpse is, there also, scattered at random, are the digestive residues of the live animal; and the pill-roller is not fastidious as to the origin of this waste matter. Dearth therefore plays no part in the schism, if the true dung-worker has actually turned himself into an undertaker, or if the undertaker has turned himself into a true dung-worker. At no time have materials for the work been lacking in either case.

Nothing, not the scarcity of provisions, nor the climate, nor the reversed seasons, would explain this strange divergence. We must perforce regard it as a matter of original specialities, of tastes not acquired but prescribed from the beginning. And what prescribed them was anything but the structure.

I would defy the greatest expert to tell me, simply from the insect's appearance and without learning the facts by experiment, the manner of industry to which Phanæus Milon, for instance, devotes himself. Remembering the Onites, who are very similar in shape and who manipulate stercoral matter, he would look upon the foreigner as another manipulator of dung. He would be mistaken: the analysis of the meat-pie has told us so.

The shape does not make the real Dung-beetle. I have in my collection a magnificent insect from Cayenne, known to the nomenclators as Phanæus festivus, a brilliant Beetle in festive attire, charming, beautiful, glorious to behold. How well he deserves his name! His colouring is a metallic red, which flashes with the fire of rubies; and he sets off this splendid jewellery by studding his corselet with great spots of glowing black.

What trade do you follow under your torrid sun, O gleaming carbuncle? Have you the bucolic tastes of your rival in finery, the Splendid Phanæus? Can you be a knacker, a worker in putrid sausage-meat, like Phanæus Milon? Vainly do I consider you and marvel at you: your equipment tells me nothing. No one who has not seen you at work is capable of naming your profession. I leave the matter to the conscientious masters, to the experts who are able to say: I do not know. They are scarce, in our days; but after all there are some, less eager than others in the unscrupulous struggle which creates upstarts.

This excursion to the pampas leans to one conclusion of some importance. We find in another hemisphere, with reversed seasons, a different climate and dissimilar biological conditions, a series of true dung-workers whose habits and industry repeat, in their essential facts, the habits and industry of our own. Prolonged investigations, made at first hand and not, like mine, at second hand, would add greatly to the list of similar workers.

And it is not only in the grassy plains of La Plata that the modellers of dung proceed according to the principles usual over here; we may say, without fear of being mistaken, that the magnificent Copres of Ethiopia and the big Sacred Beetles of Senegambia work exactly like our own.

The same similarity of industry exists in other entomological series, however distant their country. My books give details of a Pelopæus19 in Sumatra, who is an ardent Spider-huntress like our own, who builds mud cells inside houses and who, like her, is fond of the loose hangings of the window-curtains for the shifting foundation of her nests. They tell me of a Scolia20 in Madagascar who serves each of her grubs with a fat rasher, an Oryctes-larva,21 even as our own Scoliæ feed their family on prey of similar organization, with a highly concentrated nervous system, such as the larvæ of Cetoniæ, Anoxiæ and even Oryctes. They tell me that in Texas a Pepsis, a huntress of big game akin to the Calicurgi, gives chase to a formidable Tarantula and vies in daring with our Ringed Calicurgus,22 who stabs the Black-bellied Lycosa.23 They tell me that the Sphex-wasps of the Sahara, a rival of our own White-banded Sphex,24 operate on Locusts. But we must limit these quotations, which could easily be multiplied.

19 Cf. The Mason-wasps, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chaps. iii. to vi.—Translator's Note.

20 The chapters on the Scoliæ will appear in More Hunting Wasps. Meanwhile, cf. The Life and Love of the Insect, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap. xi.—Translator's Note.

21 The larva of the Rhinoceros Beetle.—Translator's Note.

22 For the Pompilus, or Ringed Calicurgus, cf. The Life and Love of the Insect: chap. xii.—Translator's Note.

23 For the Narbonne Lycosa, or Black-bellied Tarantula, cf. The Life of the Spider: chaps. i. and iii. to vii.—Translator's Note.

24 Cf. The Life of the Fly: chap. i.—Translator's Note.

For producing variations of animal species to suit our theorists there is nothing so convenient as the influence of environment. It is a vague, elastic phrase, which does not compromise us by compelling us to be too precise and it supplies an apparent explanation of the inexplicable. But is this influence so powerful as they say?

I grant you that to some small extent it modifies the shape, the fur or feather, the colouring, the outward accessories. To go farther would be to fly in the face of facts. If the surroundings become too exacting, the animal protests against the violence endured and succumbs rather than change. If they go to work gently, the creature subjected to them adapts itself as best it can, but invincibly refuses to cease to be what it is. It must live in the form of the mould whence it issued, or it must die: there is no other alternative.

Instinct, one of the higher characteristics, is no less rebellious to the injunctions of environment than are the organs, which serve its activity. Innumerable guilds divide the work of the entomological world; and each member of one of these corporations is subject to rules which not climate, nor latitude, nor the most serious disturbances of diet are able to alter.

Look at the Dung-beetles of the pampas. At the other end of the world, in their vast flooded pastures, so different from our scanty greenswards, they follow, without notable variations, the same methods as their colleagues in Provence. A profound change of surroundings in no way effects the fundamental industry of the group.

Nor do the provisions available affect it. The staple food to-day is matter of bovine origin. But the Ox is a newcomer in the land, an importation of the Spanish conquest. What did the Megathopæ, the Bolbites, the Splendid Phanæus eat and knead, before the arrival of the present purveyor? The Llama, that denizen of the uplands, was not able to feed the Dung-beetles confined to the plains. In days of old, the foster-father was perhaps the monstrous Megatherium, a dung-factory of incomparable prodigality.

And from the produce of the colossal beast, whereof naught remains but a few rare skeletons, the modellers passed to the produce of the Sheep and the Ox, without altering their ovoids or their gourds, even as our Sacred Beetle, without ceasing to be faithful to her pear, accepts the Cow's flat cake in the absence of the favourite morsel, the Sheep's bannock.

In the south as in the north, at the antipodes as here, every Copris fashions ovoids with the egg at the smaller end; every Sacred Beetle models pears or gourds with a hatching-chamber in the neck; but the materials employed vary greatly according to the season and locality and can be furnished by the Megatherium, the Ox, the Horse, the Sheep or by man and several others.

We must not allow this diversity to lead us to believe in changes of instinct: that would be to strain at a Gnat and swallow a Camel. The industry of the Megachiles, for instance, consists of manufacturing wallets with bits of leaves; that of the Cotton-bees of making bags of wadding with the flock gathered from certain plants. Whether the pieces be cut from the leaves of this shrub or that, or at need from the petals of some flower; whether the cotton-wool be collected here or there, as chance may direct the encounter, the industry undergoes no essential changes.

In the same manner, nothing changes in the art of the Dung-beetle, victualling himself with materials in this mine or that. Here in truth we have immutable instinct, here we behold the rock which our theorists are unable to shake.

And why should it change, this instinct, so logical in its workings? Where could it find, even with chance assisting, a better plan? In spite of an equipment which varies in the different genera, it suggests to every modelling Dung-beetle the spherical shape, a fundamental structure which is hardly affected when the egg is placed in position.

From the outset, without the use of compasses, without any mechanical rolling, without shifting the thing on its base, one and all obtain the ball, the delicately executed compact body supremely favourable to the grub's well-being. To the shapeless lump, demanding no pains, they all prefer the sphere, lovingly fashioned and calling for much manipulation, the globe which is the preeminent form and best-adapted for the preservation of energy, in the case of a sun and of a Dung-beetle's cradle alike.

When Macleay25 gave the Sacred Beetle the name of Heliocantharus, the Black-beetle of the Sun, what had he in mind? The radiating denticulations of the forehead, the insect's gambols in the bright sunlight? Was he not thinking rather of the symbol of Egypt, the Scarab who, on the pediment of the temples, lifts towards the sky, by way of a pill, a vermilion sphere, the image of the sun?

25 William Sharp Macleay (1792-1865), author of Horæ Entomologicæ; or, Essays on Annulose Animals (1819-1821), on which I quote the Dictionary of National Biography:

"He propounded the circular or quinary system, a forcedly artificial attempt at a natural system of classification, which soon became a byword among naturalists."—Translator's Note.

The comparison between the mighty bodies of the universe and the insect's humble pellet was not distasteful to the thinkers on the banks of the Nile. For them supreme splendour found its effigy in extreme abjection. Were they very wrong?

No, for the pill-roller's work propounds a grave problem to whoso is capable of reflection. It compels us to accept this alternative: either to credit the Dung-beetle's flat head with the signal honour of having of itself solved the geometrical problem of preserved food, or else to fall back upon a harmony ruling all things under the eye of an Intelligence Which, knowing everything, has provided for everything.

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 (2009). The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/27868/pg27868-images.html

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.