24 INSECT LIFE t 



the sand, and then, just when all is ready, and 

 appetite whetted by toil lends charms to the prospect 

 of the approaching feast, to find one's self suddenly 

 robbed by a companion is certainly a reverse of 

 fortune that would try most people's courage. 

 But the dung beetle does not allow itself to be cast 

 down by this malicious blow of fate ; it rubs its 

 cheeks, spreads its antennae, sniffs the air, and flies 

 to the nearest heap to begin again. This is a trait 

 of character which I admire and envy. 



Let us suppose the Scarabseus lucky enough to 

 have met with a reliable partner, or, better still, that 

 he has no self-invited associate. The hole is ready, 

 made in friable earth, usually in sand, rather shallow, 

 about the size of one's fist, communicating with the 

 outer air by a short passage, just wide enough to let 

 the ball pass. As soon as the provender is intro- 

 duced, the Scarabaeus shuts itself in, stopping up the 

 mouth of the passage with fragments kept in reserve 

 in a corner. Once the door is closed, nothing out- 

 side betrays the banqueting hall. And now hurrah ! 

 all is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds. 

 The table is sumptuously laid, the ceiling tempers 

 the heat of the sun, only allowing a gentle moist 

 heat to penetrate ; the calm, the darkness, the 

 concert given by the field-cricket overhead, all favour 

 digestion. Carried away by my interest, I have 

 caught myself listening at the door, believing that I 

 heard sung at table the famous 



Ah ! how sweet 'tis nought to do 

 When all around is endless stir. 



from the opera of Galathea. 



