FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



"It is I," he seems to say, "I who kneaded this round 

 loaf, I who made this bread for my sons!" 



And he lifts on high, for all to see, this magnificent 

 testimony to his industry. 



Meanwhile the mother has chosen a site for the bur- 

 row. A shallow pit is made, a mere beginning of the 

 work. The ball is rolled near it. The father, that vigi- 

 lant guardian, does not let go, while the mother digs 

 with her legs and forehead. Soon the hollow is big 

 enough to hold the pellet. She insists on having it quite 

 close to her; she must feel it bobbing up and down be* 

 hind her, on her back, safe from parasites, before she 

 decides to go farther. She is afraid of what might 

 happen to it if it were left on the edge of the burrow 

 until the home were completed. There are plenty of 

 Midges and other such insects to grab it. One cannot 

 be too careful. 



The ball therefore is inserted, half in and half out of 

 the partly-formed basin. The mother, underneath, gets 

 her legs round it and pulls: the father above, lets it 

 down gently, and sees that the hole is not choked up with 

 falling earth. All goes well. The digging is resumed 

 and the descent continues, always with the same caution; 

 one of the insects pulling the load, the other regulating 

 the drop and clearing away anything that might hinder 

 the operation. A few more efforts, and the ball dis- 

 appears underground with the two miners. What 



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