The Hunting Wasps 



haves exactly as her predecessor did. She 

 alights at the point where the entrance used 

 to be. It is here that she does her digging 

 and sweeping; and it is here that she always 

 returns after hurried visits elsewhere, within 

 a radius of a few inches. There is no ex- 

 ploration of the tunnel, no anxiety about the 

 tortured larva. The grub, whose delicate 

 epidermis has just passed from the cool 

 moisture of an underground cave to the 

 fierce blaze of an untempered sun, is writh- 

 ing on its heap of chewed Flies; the mother 

 does not give it a thought. To her it is no 

 more than any other object lying on the sand: 

 a little pebble, a pellet of earth, a scrap of 

 dry mud, nothing more. It is unworthy of 

 attention. This tender and faithful mother, 

 who wears herself out in trying to reach her 

 nurseling's cradle, is wanting at the moment 

 her entrance-door, the usual door and no- 

 thing but that door. What stirs her ma- 

 ternal heart is her yearning for the well- 

 known passage. And yet the way is open: 

 there is nothing to stop the mother; and the 

 grub, the ultimate object of her anxiety, is 

 tossing restlessly before her eyes. One 

 bound would bring her to the side of the 

 poor thing clamouring for assistance, Why 

 346 



