The Mason- Wasps 



cauliflowers. I can visit it at any moment 

 that I consider opportune. 



The moment has come. Preliminary as- 

 phyxiation with petrol is no longer necessary: 

 the cold weather will have calmed the fierce 

 ardour of the inmates. The torpid insects 

 will be pacific enough: with a little caution 

 I shall be able to molest them with impunity. 

 Early in the morning, then, the investing- 

 trench is dug with the spade, amid the grass 

 white with hoar-frost. The work proceeds 

 satisfactorily. Not a Wasp stirs. Here is 

 the nest facing us, hanging from the roof of 

 the cavern. 



At the bottom of the crypt, rounded like 

 a basin, lie the dead and dying; I could pick 

 them up by the handful. It looks as though 

 the Wasps, when they feel their strength fail 

 them, leave their dwelling and allow them- 

 selves to fall into the catacombs of the bur- 

 row. It may even be the duty of the able- 

 bodied ones to cast the dead out of the nest. 

 The paper tabernacle must not be defiled by 

 corpses. 



Dead Wasps likewise abound in the open 

 air, on the threshold of the crypt. Did they 

 come to die there of their own accord? Or 

 did the survivors, as a hygienic measure, 

 carry them out of doors? I incline to the 

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