THE TOIL OF THE MOTHER. 93 
To obtain an entrance to this asylum, they practise unknown arts and 
display incredible address. How is this? What happens? Some- 
times their weapons of war, diverted to other uses, become instruments 
of love ; sometimes new and hitherto concealed apparatus,—frequently 
of an extremely complex character—make their appearance ; and yet 
all for this solitary act, for this single day. 
A curious book has been written on the mechanism and infinitely 
varied instrumentation with which insects are provided for the dis- 
charge of the maternal duty. Their implements are often charming 
from their precision, delicacy, and subtlety. It will suffice to particu- 
larize that of the rose-bush aphis,—so well described by Réaumur, as a 
saw whose two blades act in an inverse direction, and whose teeth are 
each a set of teeth. 
O unheard-of power of Love! Whether this divine workman 
prepares for them their tiny tools, or whether he inspires them to 
fashion their own by the effort and vehemency of the burning maternal 
desire, it matters not: you see them duly fabricated, and acting when 
wanted in a wholly unexpected manner. 
It is a simple task for the tribes of sociable insects which labour 
with the assistance and protection of a numerous republic; but it is 
infinitely arduous and painful for the solitary mothers, who, without 
auxillary, spouse, or friend, undertake enormous enterprises, and fre- 
quently raise constructions which might be the work of giants,—such 
as the nest of the mason-wasp. One is lost in astonishment at the 
amount of patience and strength of will required for so colossal an 
edifice. 
This excessive toil ages the mother in a few days. She wears her- 
self out, yet does not enjoy the fruit. Frequently the elaborate cradle 
serves for another. Too frequently a usurping stranger seizes upon it, 
profits by the meritorious work, and establishes there its progeny, 
which will not only consume the provision of the rightful tenant, but 
feed also on the unfortunate tenant himself! 
Who will not bestow a glance of pity on this great work, and a 
result of such uncertain character ? 
In the burning days of July, when the narrow belt of forests sur- 
