The home dug by the solitary Bee

The Life and Love of the Insect by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE HALICTI: THE PORTRESS

CHAPTER XVI. THE HALICTI: THE PORTRESS

The home dug by the solitary Bee in early spring remains, when summer comes, the joint inheritance of the members of the family. There were ten cells, or thereabouts, underground. Now from these cells there have issued none but females. This is the rule among the three species of Halicti. They have two generations in each year. That of the spring consists of females only; that of the summer comprises both males and females, in almost equal numbers.

The household, therefore, if not reduced by accidents, especially by the famine-producing Gnat, would consist of half-a-score of sisters, nothing but sisters, all equally industrious and all capable of procreating without a nuptial partner. On the other hand, the maternal dwelling is no hovel; far from it: the entrance-gallery, the principal room of the house, will serve very well, after a few odds and ends of refuse have been swept away. This will be so much gained in time, ever precious to the Bee. The cells at the bottom, the clay cabins, are also nearly intact. To make use of them, it will be enough to freshen up the stucco with the polisher of the tongue.

Well, which of the survivors, all equally entitled to the succession, will inherit the house? There are six of [211]them, seven, or more, according to the chances of mortality. To whose share will the maternal dwelling fall?

There is no quarrel between the interested parties. The mansion is recognized as common property without dispute. The sister Bees come and go peacefully through the same door, attend to their business, pass and let the others pass. Down at the bottom of the pit, each has her little demesne, her group of cells dug at the cost of fresh toil, when the old ones, now insufficient in number, are occupied. In these recesses, the rights of individual property prevail: each mother works privately, jealous of her belongings and her isolation. Every elsewhere, traffic is free to all.

The exits and entrances in the working fortress provide a spectacle of the highest interest. A harvester arrives from the fields, the brushes of her legs dusted with pollen. If the door be open, the Bee at once dives underground. To tarry on the threshold would mean waste of time; and the business is urgent. Sometimes, several appear upon the scene almost at the same moment. The passage is too narrow for two, especially when they have to avoid any inopportune contact that would make the floury burden fall to the floor. The nearest to the opening enters quickly. The others, drawn up on the threshold in the order of their arrival, respectful of one another’s rights, await their turn. As soon as the first disappears, the second follows after her and is herself swiftly followed by the third and then the others, one by one.

Sometimes, again, there is a meeting between a Bee about to come out and a Bee about to go in. Then the latter draws back a little and makes way for the former. The politeness is reciprocal. I see some who, when on [212]the point of emerging from the pit, go down again and leave the passage free for the one who has just arrived. Thanks to this mutual spirit of accommodation, the traffic of the household proceeds without impediment.

Let us keep our eyes open. There is something better than the well-preserved order of the entrances. When an Halictus appears, returning from her round of the flowers, we see a sort of trap-door, which closed the house, suddenly fall and give a free passage. As soon as the new arrival has entered, the trap rises back into its place, almost level with the ground, and closes the door anew. The same thing happens when the Bees go out. At a request from within, the trap descends, the door opens and the Bee flies away. The outlet is closed forthwith.

What can this shutter be which, descending or ascending in the cylinder of the pit, after the fashion of a piston, opens and closes the house at each departure and at each arrival? It is an Halictus, who has become the portress of the establishment. With her large head, she makes an impassable barrier at the top of the entrance-hall. If any one belonging to the house wants to go in or out, she “pulls the cord,” that is to say, she withdraws to a spot where the gallery widens and leaves room for two. The other passes. She then at once returns to the orifice and blocks it with the top of her head. Motionless, ever on the look-out, she does not leave her post save to drive away importunate visitors.

Let us profit by her brief appearances outside. We recognize in her an Halictus similar to the others, who are now busy harvesting; but the top of her head is bald and her dress is dingy and threadbare. The handsome [213]striped belts, alternately brown and ruddy-brown, have almost vanished from her half-stripped back. Her old, tattered clothes, well-worn with work, explain the matter clearly.

The Bee who mounts guard and performs the office of a portress at the entrance to the burrow is older than the others. She is the foundress of the establishment, the mother of the actual workers, the grandmother of the present grubs. In the spring-time of her life, three months ago, she wore herself out in solitary works. Now that her ovaries are dried up, she takes a well-earned rest. No, rest is hardly the word. She still works, she assists the household to the best of her power. Incapable of being a mother for the second time, she becomes a portress, opens the door to the members of her family and makes strangers keep their distance.

The suspicious kid, looking through the chink, said to the wolf:

“Show me a white foot, or I shan’t open the door.”

No less suspicious, the grandmother says to each comer:

“Show me the yellow foot of an Halictus, or you won’t be let in.”

None is admitted to the dwelling unless she be recognized as a member of the family.

See for yourself. Near the burrow passes an Ant, an unscrupulous adventuress, who would not be sorry to know the meaning of the honeyed fragrance that rises from the bottom of the cellar.

“Be off, or mind yourself!” says the portress, with a movement of her neck.

As a rule, the threat suffices. The Ant decamps. Should she insist, the watcher leaves her sentry-box, [214]flings herself upon the saucy jade, buffets her and drives her away. The moment the punishment has been administered, she returns on guard and resumes her sentry-go.

Next comes the turn of a Leaf-cutter (Megachile Albocincta, Pérez), who, unskilled in the art of burrowing, utilizes, after the manner of her kind, the old galleries dug by others. Those of Halictus Zebrus suit her very well, when the terrible Gnat of spring has left them vacant for lack of heirs. Seeking for a home wherein to stack her robinia-leaf honey-pots, she often makes a flying inspection of my colonies of Halicti. A burrow seems to take her fancy; but, before she sets foot on earth, her buzzing is noticed by the watchwoman, who suddenly darts out and makes a few gestures on the threshold of her door. That is all. The Leaf-cutter has understood. She removes herself.

Sometimes, the Megachile has time to alight and insert her head into the mouth of the pit. In a moment, the portress is there, comes a little higher and bars the way. Follows a not very serious contest. The stranger quickly recognizes the rights of the first occupant and, without insisting, goes to seek an abode elsewhere.

A consummate marauder (Cælioxys Caudata, Spinola), a parasite of the Megachile, receives a sound drubbing under my eyes. She thought, the scatter-brain, that she was entering the Leaf-cutter’s establishment! She soon finds out her error; she meets the portress Halictus, who administers a severe correction. She makes off at full speed. And so with the others who, by mistake or ambition, seek to enter the burrow.

The same intolerance exists among grandmothers. About the middle of July, when the animation of the [215]colony is at its height, two categories of Halicti are easily distinguishable: the young mothers and the old. The former, much more numerous, brisk of movement and smartly arrayed, come and go unceasingly from the burrows to the fields and from the fields to the burrows. The latter, faded and dispirited, wander idly from hole to hole. They look as though they had lost their way and were incapable of finding their homes. Who are these vagabonds? I see afflicted ones bereft of a family through the act of the odious spring Gnat. Many burrows have gone under altogether. At the awakening of summer, the mother found herself alone. She left her empty house and set off in search of a dwelling where there were cradles to defend, a guard to mount. But those fortunate nests already have their overseer, the foundress, who, jealous of her rights, gives her unemployed neighbour a cold reception. One sentry is enough; two would simply block the narrow guard-room.

I am privileged at times to witness a fight between two grandmothers. When the tramp in quest of employment appears outside the door, the lawful occupant does not move from her post, does not withdraw into the passage, as she would before an Halictus returning from the fields. Far from making way, she threatens with her feet and mandibles. The other hits back, tries to enter notwithstanding. Cuffs are exchanged. The fray ends by the defeat of the stranger, who goes off to pick a quarrel elsewhere.

These little scenes afford us a glimpse of certain details of the highest interest in the manners of Halictus Zebrus. The mother who builds her nest in the spring no longer leaves her home, once her works are finished. Shut up at the bottom of the burrow, busied with the minute cares [216]of housekeeping, or else drowsing, she waits for her daughters to come out. When, in the summer heats, the life of the colony recommences, having naught to do outside as a harvester, she stands sentry at the entrance to the hall, so as to let none in save the workers of the home, her own daughters. She wards off the ill-intentioned. None can enter without the door-keeper’s consent.

There is nothing to tell us that the watcher at moments deserts her post. I never see her leave her house to go and refresh herself at the flowers. Her age and her sedentary occupation, which implies no great fatigue, relieve her perhaps of the need of nourishment. Perhaps, also, the young ones returning from pillage disgorge a drop of the contents of their crops for her benefit, from time to time. Fed or not, the old one no longer goes out.

But what she does need is the joys of an active family. Many are deprived of these. The Dipteron’s burglary has destroyed the household. The sorely-tried Bees then abandon the deserted burrow. It is these who, ragged and careworn, wander through the hamlet. They move in short flights; more often, they remain motionless. It is they who, embittered in their natures, offer violence to their acquaintances and seek to dislodge them. They grow rarer and more languid from day to day; then they disappear for good. What has become of them? The little grey lizard had his eye on them: they are easy mouthfuls.

Those settled in their own demesne, those who guard the honey-factory wherein their daughters, the heiresses of the maternal establishment, work display a wonderful vigilance. The more I visit them, the more I admire [217]them. In the cool hours of the early morning, when the harvesters, not finding the pollen-flour sufficiently ripened by the sun, remain indoors, I see the portresses at their posts, at the top of the gallery. Here, motionless, their heads flush with the earth, they bar the door to all invaders. If I look at them too closely, they retreat a little way and, in the shadow, await the indiscreet observer’s departure.

I return when the harvest is in full swing, between eight o’clock and twelve. There is now, as the Halicti go in or out, a succession of prompt descents to open the door and ascents to close it. The portress is in the busy exercise of her functions.

In the afternoon, the heat is too great, the workers do not go to the fields. Retiring to the bottom of the house, they varnish the new cells, they bake the round loaf that is to receive the egg. The grandmother is still upstairs, stopping the door with her bald head. For her, there is no nap during the stifling hours: the general safety will not allow of it.

I come back again at night-fall, or even later. By the light of a lantern, I rebehold the overseer, as zealous and assiduous as in the day-time. The others are resting, but not she, for fear, apparently, of nocturnal dangers known to herself alone. Does she nevertheless end by descending to the quiet of the floor below? It seems probable, so essential must rest be, after the fatigue of such a watch!

It is evident that, guarded in this manner, the burrow is exempt from calamities similar to those which, too often, dispeople it in May. Let the Gnat come now, if she dare, to steal the Halictus’ loaves! Her audacity, her stubborn lurking ways will not conceal her from the watchful one, who will put her to flight with a threatening gesture or, if [218]she persist, crush her with her nippers. She will not come; and we know the reason: until spring returns, she is underground in the pupa state.

But, in her absence, there is no lack, among the Muscid rabble, of further sweaters of other insects’ labour. There are parasites for every sort of business, for every sort of theft. And yet my daily visits do not catch one of these in the neighbourhood of the July burrows. How well the rascals know their trade! How well-aware are they of the guard who keeps watch at the Halictus’ door! There is no foul deed possible nowadays; and the result is that no Muscid puts in an appearance and the tribulations of last spring are not repeated.

The grandmother who, dispensed by age from maternal worries, mounts guard at the entrance of the home and watches over the safety of the family tells us of sudden births in the genesis of the instincts; she shows us an immediate capacity which nothing, either in her own past conduct or in the actions of her daughters, could have led us to suspect. Timorous in her prime, in the month of May, when she lived alone in the burrow of her making, she has become gifted, in her decline, with a superb contempt of danger and dares, in her impotence, what she never dared do in her strength.

Formerly, when her tyrant, the Gnat, entered her home in her presence, or, more often, stood at the entrance, face to face with herself, the silly Bee did not stir, did not even threaten the red-eyed bandit, the dwarf whose doom she could so easily have sealed. Was it terror on her part? No, for she attended to her duties with her usual punctiliousness; no, for the strong do not allow themselves to be thus petrified by the weak. It was ignorance of the danger, it was sheer foolishness.[219]

And behold, to-day, the ignoramus of three months ago, without serving any apprenticeship, knows the peril, knows it well. Every stranger that appears is kept at a distance, without distinction of size or race. If the threatening gesture be not enough, the keeper sallies forth and flings herself upon the persistent one. Poltroonery has developed into courage.

How has this change been brought about? I should like to picture the Halictus gaining wisdom from the misfortunes of spring and capable thenceforth of looking out for danger; I would gladly credit her with having learnt in the stern school of experience the advantages of a guard. I must give up the idea. If, by dint of gradual little acts of progress, the Bee has gradually achieved the glorious invention of a portress, how comes it that the fear of thieves is intermittent? It is true that, alone, in May, she cannot stand permanently at her door: the business of the house takes precedence of everything. But she ought, at least, as soon as her offspring are persecuted, to know the parasite and give chase when, at every moment, she finds her almost under her feet and even in her house. Yet she pays no attention to her.

The harsh trials of the ancestors, therefore, have bequeathed naught to her of a nature to alter her placid character; and her own tribulations have nothing to say to the sudden awakening of her vigilance in July. Like ourselves, the animal has its joys and its troubles. It uses the former eagerly; it bothers but little about the latter, which is, when all is said, the best way of realizing an animal enjoyment of life. To mitigate these troubles and protect the progeny there is the inspiration of the instinct, which is able to give a portress to the Halictus without the counsels of experience.[220]

When the victualling is finished, when the Halicti no longer sally forth on harvesting intent nor return all floured over with their burden, the old Bee is still at her post, as vigilant as ever. The final preparations for the brood are made below; the cells are closed. The door is kept until everything is finished. Then grandmother and mothers leave the house. Exhausted by the performance of their duty, they go, somewhere or other, to die.

In September appears the second generation, comprising both males and females.

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 Life and Love of the Insect. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/68974/pg68974-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.