The Sacred Beetle: the Release 



soften his stubborn shell. A downpour is 

 to him a question of life and death. Hora- 

 pollo, that echo of the Egyptian magi, saw 

 true when he made water play its part in the 

 birth of the sacred insect. 



But let us drop the jargon of antiquity, 

 with its fragments of truth; let us not over- 

 look the first acts of the Scarab on leaving 

 his shell; and let us be present at his prentice 

 steps in open-air life. In August I break the 

 casket in which I hear the helpless captive 

 chafing. I place the insect, the only one of 

 its species, in a cage together with some 

 Gymnopleuri. There is plenty of fresh 

 food provided. This is the moment, said I 

 to myself, when we take refreshment after 

 so long an abstinence. Well, I was wrong: 

 the new recruit shows no interest in the 

 victuals, notwithstanding my invitations, my 

 summons to the tempting heap. What he 

 wants above all is the joys of the light. He 

 scales the metal trelliswork, sets himself in 

 the sun and there motionless takes his fill of 

 its beams. 



What passes through his dull-witted 

 Dung-beetle brain during this first bath of 

 radiant brightness? Probably nothing. His 

 is the unconscious happiness of a flower 

 blossoming in the sun. 



159 



