146 The Hunting Wasps 



know not whence. She is on foot, dragging her 

 Ephippiger, a capture which apparently she 

 has made that moment in the neighbourhood. 

 In the circumstances it behoves her to dig 

 herself a burrow. The site is as bad as bad 

 can be. It is a well-beaten path, hard as 

 stone. The Sphex, who has no time to make 

 laborious excavations, because the already 

 captured prize must be stored as quickly as 

 possible, the Sphex wants soft ground, wherein 

 the larva's chamber can be contrived in one 

 short spell of work. I have described her 

 favourite soil, namely, the dust of years which 

 has accumulated at the bottom of some hole in 

 a wall or of some little shelter under the rocks. 

 Well, the Sphex whom I am now observing 

 stops at the foot of a house with a newly- 

 whitewashed front some twenty to twenty-five 

 feet high. Her instinct tells her that up there, 

 under the red tiles of the roof, she will find nooks 

 rich in old dust. She leaves her prey at the 

 foot of the house and flies up to the roof. For 

 some time I see her looking here, there, and 

 everywhere. After finding a proper site, she 

 begins to work under the curve of a pantile. 

 In ten minutes, or fifteen at most, the home is 

 ready. The insect now flies down again. The 

 Ephippiger is promptly found. She has to be 

 taken up. Will this be done on the wing, as 



