236 The Hunting Wasps 



sunshine, I invariably found the burrow finally 

 stocked with provisions and closed. 



This faithfulness of memory is striking. 

 The Wasp, delayed in her task, puts off the 

 rest of her work to the next day. She does not 

 spend the evening, she does not spend the night 

 in the home which she has just dug : on the 

 contrary, she leaves the premises altogether 

 and goes away, after concealing the entrance 

 with a little stone. The locality is not familiar 

 to her ; she knows it no better than any other 

 spot, for the Ammophilae behave like the 

 Languedocian Sphex and lodge their families 

 here or there, wherever they happen to roam. 

 The Wasp was there by chance ; the soil suited 

 her ; she dug her burrow ; and she now goes 

 off. Where to ? Who can tell ? Perhaps to 

 the flowers not far away, where, by the last 

 gleams of daylight, she will sip a drop of sugary 

 liquid at the bottom of the cups, even as our 

 miners, after toiling in their dark galleries, fly 

 for comfort to the bottle in the evening. She 

 goes off, to a less or greater distance, stopping 

 at this bin and that in the flowers' cellar. The 

 evening, the night, the morning slip by. Still, 

 she must return to the burrow and complete 

 her task, she must return after the marches and 

 countermarches of the morning hunt and the 

 bewildering flight from flower to flower during 



