The Sacred Beetle: the Nymph 



terminal appendage, a tiny, feeble filament, 

 which is very nearly useless and which, ow- 

 ing to its fragility, is a cause of awkward 

 encounters with the roughness of the soil? 



The Sacred Beetle is not a climber; he is 

 an ordinary pedestrian, supporting himself 

 upon the point of an iron-shod stick, whereby 

 I mean the stout spike or prickle with which 

 the tip of his leg is armed. He has no 

 occasion to hold on by his claws to some 

 hanging branch, as the Cockchafer does. 

 It would therefore, meseems, be entirely to 

 his advantage to rid himself of the four 

 remaining digits, which jut out sideways, 

 give no help in walking and do not play any 

 part in the making and the carting of the 

 ball. Yes, that would mean progress, for 

 the simple reason that the less hold you give 

 the enemy the better. It remains to be seen 

 if chance ever produces this state of things. 



It does and very often. At the end of the 

 fine weather, in October, when the insect has 

 worn itself out in digging, in trundling pills 

 and in modelling pears, the maimed, disabled 

 by their exertions, form the great majority. 

 Both in my cages and out of doors, I see 

 them in all stages of mutilation. Some have 

 lost the finger on their four hind-limbs 



145 



