The Narbonne Lycosa; The Burrow 



They first pursue the season's task. They 

 were digging when I caught them; and, car- 

 ried away by the enthusiasm of their activity, 

 they go on digging inside my cages. Taken 

 in by my decoy-shaft, they deepen the imprint 

 of the pencil as though they were deepening 

 their real vestibule. They do not begin their 

 labours over again; they continue them. 



The second, not having this inducement, 

 this semblance of a burrow mistaken for their 

 own work, forsake the idea of digging and 

 allow themselves to die, because they would 

 have to travel back along the chain of actions 

 and to resume the pick-strokes of the start. 

 To begin all over again requires reflection, a 

 quality wherewith they are not endowed. 



To the insect — and we have seen this in 

 many earlier cases — what is done is done and 

 cannot be taken up again. The hands of a 

 watch do not move backwards. The insect 

 behaves in much the same way. Its activity 

 urges it in one direction, ever forwards, with- 

 out allowing it to retrace its steps, even when 

 an accident makes this necessary. 



What the Mason-bees and the others 

 taught us erewhile the Lycosa now confirms 

 in her manner. Incapable of taking fresh 



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