THE SACRED BEETLE 35 



enough for me, as I have often done, to capture the 

 mother in her burrow with her ball and carry one and 

 all home, to my animal laboratory, to watch events at 

 first hand. 



A large glass jar is filled with earth, sifted, moistened 

 and heaped to the desired depth. I place the mother 

 and her beloved pill, which she holds embraced, on the 

 surface of this artificial soil. I stow away the apparatus 

 in a half-light and wait. My patience is not very long 

 tried. Urged by the labour of the ovaries, the insect 

 resumes its interrupted work. 



In certain cases, I see it, still on the surface, destroy- 

 ing its ball, ripping it up, cutting it to pieces, shredding 

 it. This is not in the least the act of one in despair 

 who, finding herself a captive, breaks the cherished 

 object in her bewilderment. It is an act of wise hygienics. 

 A scrupulous inspection of the morsel gathered in haste, 

 among lawless competitors, is often necessary, for super- 

 vision is not always easy on the harvesting-spot itself, 

 in the midst of thieves and robbers . The ball may contain 

 a blend of little Onthophagi, of Aphodians, which have 

 not been noticed in the heat of acquisition. 



These involuntary intruders, finding themselves very 

 comfortable in the heart of the mass, would themselves 

 make good use of the contemplated pear, much to the 

 detriment of the legitimate consumer. The ball must be 

 purged of this starveling brood. The mother, therefore, 

 destroys it, reduces it to atoms, scrutinizes it. Then, 

 out of the collected remnants, the ball is remade, 

 stripped of its earthy rind. It is dragged underground 

 and becomes an immaculate pear, always excepting the 

 surface touching the soil. 



Oftener still, the ball is thrust by the mother into the 



