The Spanish Copris: the Mother 



purse and comes into view, looking like the 

 yolk of an egg half deprived of its albumen; 

 the massive purple boletus turns blue under 

 the heel of the passer-by who crushes it; the 

 autumnal squill lifts its little spike of lilac 

 flowers; the strawberry-tree's coral balls 

 begin to soften. 



This tardy springtime has its echoes under- 

 ground. The vernal generations, Sacred 

 Beetles and Gymnopleuri, Onthophagi and 

 Copres, hasten to burst their shells softened 

 by the damp and come to the surface 

 to take part in the gaieties of the last fine 

 weather. 



My captives are denied the friendly 

 shower. The cement of their caskets, baked 

 by the summer heat, is too hard to yield. 

 The file of the shield and legs would make 

 no impression on it. I come to the poor 

 things' assistance. A carefully graduated 

 watering replaces the natural rain in my glass 

 and earthenware pots. To ascertain once 

 more the effects of water on the Dung- 

 beetles' deliverance, I leave a few of the 

 receptacles in the state of dryness for which 

 they have to thank the dog-days. 



tus, cf. The Life of the Fly, by J. Henri Fabre, translated 

 by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap, xviii. — Trans- 

 lator's Note. 



243 



