THE OXE-BAXDED DAUBER 67 



lies motionless in the usual quiet state that accompanies this condition. 

 Colorless and stately, lying upon its back with folded arms in its 

 tomb of masonry, the pupal corpse awaits a reincarnation that in 

 twenty days brings forth a perfect insect. 



Stupid affairs of the wasp world are generously heaped upon the 

 dauber. Before me lies an oddly-shaped nest of her making w r hich 

 I have opened for inspection. It contains twelve cells and as many 

 cocoons, ten of which have been burst open by the young wasps who, 

 alas, lie dead and shriveled in their cells. Their heads face the 

 mortar-plugged doors of the prison, which bear marks of frantic 

 efforts to escape, yet each has died of starvation, unable to reach the 

 outer world. 



Herein lies the reward of stupidity. The dauber, whose life seems 

 made up of errors, chose for her nest the first mortar that she chanced 

 to find. It was not soft gray mud from a puddle, or the sandy orange 

 surface of the clearing, but a pasty yellow clay. It kneaded ad- 

 mirably when soft and fresh but in hardening turned to rock. The 

 offspring grew normally within, spun their cocoons and passed suc- 

 cessfully to finished insects, but were unable to emerge. They ham- 

 mered and gnawed and scraped at the mortar; the nest bore evidence 

 of the effort put forth, but all in vain. The mortar resisted and the 

 young wasps died. Thus on the very eve of their emergence the 

 dauber's offspring were obliterated by her stupidity. I wonder, 

 even if there were a tiny glimmer of intelligence in her little dome, 

 whether she would see the error of her ways? 



