More Beetles 



In my glass jars and under the flat stones 

 in the fields the Devil's Coach-horse has no 

 such excuse. Thanks to its larval state, it 

 is utterly indifferent to the disorders atten- 

 dant on the pairing. Those of its fellows 

 which it encounters are not its amorous ri- 

 vals. And yet without more ado they seize 

 and slay one another. A fight to the death 

 decides which is to be the consumed and 

 which the consumer. 



In our language we have the word anthro- 

 pophagi to denote the horrible eating of man 

 by man; we have nothing to express a simi- 

 lar act in animals of the same species. A 

 proverbial phrase would even seem to say 

 that such a term is uncalled for, except 

 where man is concerned, that baffling admix- 

 ture of nobility and baseness. Wolf does 

 not eat Wolf, says the wisdom of the na- 

 tions. Well, here we have the larva of the 

 Stinking Staphylinus giving the lie to the 

 proverb. 



What a morality. In this connection, I 

 should have wished to consult the Big-jawed 

 Staphylinus when she came to visit my high- 

 ly-seasoned Moles, my putrefying Snakes. 

 But she always refused to divulge her secrets, 

 withdrawing from the charnel-pit once she 

 had filled her maw. 



