The Mason-Wasps 



bristling whiteness, which gives it the appear- 

 ance of a tiny snow-flake. But this elegance 

 does not last long: grown big and strong, the 

 Volucella's grub becomes soiled with sanies, 

 turns russet-brown and crawls about in the 

 guise of a hulking Porcupine. 



What becomes of it when it leaves the 

 egg? This my warehousing-jar tells me, 

 partly. Unable to keep its balance on slop- 

 ing surfaces, it drops to the bottom of the 

 receptacle, where I find it daily, as and when 

 hatched, restlessly wandering. Things must 

 happen likewise at the Wasps'. Incapable 

 of standing on the slant of the paper wall, the 

 new-born grubs slide to the bottom of the 

 underground cavity, which contains, especi- 

 ally at the end of the summer, a plentiful 

 provender of deceased Wasps and dead 

 larvae removed from the cells and flung out- 

 side, all nice and gamy, as proper maggot's- 

 food should be. 



The Volucella's offspring, themselves mag- 

 gots, notwithstanding their snowy apparel, 

 find in this charnel-house victuals to their 

 liking, incessantly renewed. Their fall from 

 the high walls might well be not accidental 

 but rather a means of reaching, quickly and 

 without searching, the good things down at 

 the bottom of the cavern. Perhaps, also, 

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