The Yellow-winged Sphex 



which the Great Cerceres bestow upon their 

 long galleries. The latter hand down from 

 generation to generation their substantial 

 dwellings, each year excavated to a greater 

 depth than the last, galleries which threw me 

 into a sweat when I tried to inspect them and 

 which generally triumphed over my efforts 

 and my implements. The Sphex does not 

 inherit the work of her predecessors: she has 

 to do everything for herself and quickly. 

 Her dwelling is but a tent, hastily pitched 

 for a day and shifted on the morrow. As 

 compensation, the larvae, who have only a 

 thin layer of sand to cover them, are capable 

 themselves of providing the shelter which 

 their mother could not create: they clothe 

 themselves in a threefold and fourfold water- 

 proof wrapper, far superior to the thin co- 

 coon of the Cerceres. 



But here, with a loud buzz, comes a Sphex 

 who, returning from the chase, stops on a 

 neighbouring bush, holding in her mandibles, 

 by one antenna, a large Cricket, several 

 times her own weight. Exhausted by the 

 burden, she takes a moment's rest. Then 

 she once more grips her captive between her 

 feet and, with a supreme effort, covers in one 

 flight the width of the ravine that separates 

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