THE consideration of ants naturally leads to that of bees, but of the life and doings of the hive-bee—made common now in a hundred practical treatises and bee-keeper’s manuals—it is not the design of this little book to treat. Wasps are less written about, but even here, in a work which can only deal with a very few insects out of a very great many, a choice may be permitted one, so I will merely observe, in regard to the common species, that in my opinion wasps are much less irascible than bees—in fact, quite good-natured compared to them—but at the same time, owing to their room-entering, table-pillaging propensities, much greater nuisances, so that they deserve stern treatment, but a more charitable estimate of their character. Hornets, again—which seldom offend in this way—appear to me to be very peaceable insects, as though, wielding a mighty weapon, they felt that they had no need to use it except on “a striking emergency.” Such a definition would apply to the running of a stage-coach, diligence, omnibus, waggon, etc.—in fact, any large vehicle—into their nest on the highway, in which case the consequences, one may well believe, would be appalling. Never having been in such a position myself, and being without trustworthy information on the subject, my powers of description are useless here, but there is a way of dealing with this emergency also. This reminds me, however, of an account which I have read somewhere or other of hornets having once stopped a Roman army. This may seem surprising nowadays, but we must remember that in classical times armies did not possess artillery. There is therefore nothing invidious in the opinion which I here express, that however much they may have stopped the Romans, they would never stop the Japanese.
In both ants and bees we find solitary and social species, so as in ants we have been considering the latter only, we will now reverse the process with bees. There are many interesting species of solitary bees, but it must be premised that the word “solitary” is to be understood here in a special rather than in a general sense. As far as mere numbers are concerned, there is often a large community of bees building their cells in close proximity all at the same time, but each builds its cell for itself alone, or rather for its family—no one thinks of helping its neighbour. There is no co-operation, in fact, and that makes all the difference. It would be all the same to every one of the bees that are building so close together if all the rest went away and left it to work alone. And yet we cannot even quite say this, because, in one case, at any rate, though every individual bee makes its own cell and thinks only of that and of its own family, yet, when all the cells are finished, the whole community join in making one mud roof over the whole of them. By this we see how difficult it is to find quite separate places for allied animals, and how the habits of one are apt to slide gradually into those of another. Still, we must do the best we can, and take words as we find them, remembering that the locusts, as already explained, do not belong to the locustidæ.
DRIVEN OUT BY HORNETS.
Aelian, in his “Natural History,” says that a city in Crete was attacked by such a plague of hornets that the inhabitants were driven to abandon it, and build a new city on another site. A hornet is shown to the right of this inscription.
Amongst the best known of the solitary species of bees are the Carpenter Bees, the Carding and Tapestry Bees, and the Mason Bees. Of the latter a great French observer, who, though he lives now, belongs really to the days of Réaumur and Swammerdam, has something to tell us. Speaking not of Réaumur’s maison bee—that “splendid Hymenopteron with its dark violet wings and costume of black velvet”[[86]]—but of a smaller species—Chalicodoma sicula—he says: “You should see the active bee at work when the road is dazzling white in the hot sunshine. Between the neighbouring farm where she is building and the road where the mortar is prepared there is a deep hum of the bees perpetually crossing each other as they come and go. The air seems traversed by constant trails of smoke, so rapid and direct is their flight. Those who go carry away a pellet of mortar as big as small shot: those who come settle on the hardest and driest spots. Their whole body vibrates as they scratch with the tips of their mandibles and rake with their forefeet to extract atoms of earth and grains of sand, which, being rolled between their teeth, become moist with saliva, and unite. They work with such ardour that they will let themselves be crushed under the foot of a passer-by rather than move.”[[86]] Then comes the making of the actual nest, or little collection of cells. “After choosing a boulder,” says Fabre, “she comes with a pellet of mortar in her mandibles, and arranges it in a ring on the surface of the pebble. The forefeet, and, above all, the mandibles, which are her most important tools, work the material, which is kept plastic by the gradually disgorged saliva. To consolidate the unbaked clay, angular pieces of gravel as large as a small bean are worked in singly on the outside of the still soft mass. This is the foundation of the edifice. Other layers are added, until the cell has the required height of three or four centimetres. The masonry is formed by stones laid on one another and cemented with lime, and can stand comparison with our own. Layers of mortar sparingly used hold them together. The cell completed, the bee sets to work at once to store it. The neighbouring flowers, especially those of Genista scorpius, which in May turn the alluviums of the torrents golden, furnish sugared liquids and pollen. She comes with her crop swelled with honey, and all yellow underneath with pollen dust, and plunges head first into the cell, where for some moments one may see her work her body in a way which tells that she is disgorging honey. Her crop emptied, she comes out, but only to go in again at once, this time backwards. With her two hind feet she now frees herself from her load of pollen by brushing herself underneath. Again she goes out, and returns head first. She must stir the materials with her mandibles for a spoon, and mix all thoroughly together. When the cell is half full it is stored; an egg must be laid on the honey paste, and the door has to be closed. This is all done without delay. The orifice is closed by a cover of undiluted mortar, worked from the circumference to the centre. Two days, at most, seem required for the whole work.”[[86]] Afterwards several more cells—making a continuous group of from six to ten—are added, and when all is completed, the mason bee “builds a thick cover over the whole group, which, being of a material impermeable to water, and almost a non-conductor, is at once a defence against heat and cold and damp. This material is the usual mortar, made of earth and saliva, only with no small stones in it. The nest is now a rude dome, about as big as half an orange; one would take it for a clod of mud flung against a stone, where it had dried. Nothing outside betrays its contents—no suggestion of cells, none of labour. To the ordinary eye it is only a chance splash of mud.”
Of course, when the eggs are hatched, the bee larvæ feed on the stored pollen and honey, a pleasing picture which suggests another something like it, though not altogether the same. I allude to certain species of solitary wasps, which, urged by the same feelings of maternal solicitude, choose a living caterpillar, grasshopper, spider, etc., for the future sustenance of their young. Take, for instance, Ammophila urnaria of North America, whose habits in this respect have been carefully studied. This wasp is about an inch long, with very long legs, and a waist even exaggeratedly wasp-like. It is black in colour, but with a red mark running round the fore part of the abdomen. At the proper time she—for, of course, we are dealing with the female—may be seen running about the ground, and eagerly searching the various plants and grasses that come in her way. Occasionally, as though in lightness both of heart and body, she gives a leap off the ground, and at other times will fly up from it more deliberately, to make an examination of some overhanging leaf. At last, as a result of these little aerial excursions, let us say, she knocks down a certain green caterpillar of the kind wanted, and with maternal devotion full upon her, at once sets to work. The caterpillar, however, though taken by surprise, and assaulted the instant it has touched the ground, resists strenuously, as though instinctively knowing, and highly disapproving of, the fate in store for it. It is larger and more bulky than the wasp, and its contortions are so powerful that the latter is several times repulsed in her assaults. She is not discouraged, however, but continues perseveringly to fly at the caterpillar, till at last she takes it at a disadvantage, possibly in a moment of weariness, and alighting with her long legs on each side of the large, soft body, seizes it by the neck with her mandibles, and holds it fast. Now the caterpillar, stimulated doubtless by the painful, or at least unwelcome nip, struggles with redoubled energy; but it is beneath its oppressor, who, straddling over it and never relaxing her grasp, lifts it at last, with an effort, a little from the ground, and inserting her curved abdomen like a fish hook beneath it, strikes in a more effective and certain way than did ever the most benevolently contemplative member of all the fishing fraternity. The result is instantly apparent, for with the entry of that deadly sting into its body, all struggles on the part of the caterpillar cease, and it lies a living corpse at the feet of its cruel oppressor. The latter, after remaining still for some moments as though to give her victim time to realise and appreciate its situation, stings it again and then again, each time choosing, as she has done before, for the locality of the operation, the junction of two out of the dozen or so segments into which the long length of the caterpillar is divided. Then she flies up, but after circling a little above the scene of her triumph, she descends again, and gives her victim, though now helpless and paralysed, a taste or two more of her quality. The first part of her business is now done, and well done. She has earned a rest, or rather she may exchange one form of activity for another. Accordingly she proceeds to indulge in the pleasures of the toilette, and it is not till this is completely finished that she flies with, or drags, her victim to the neat little burial-place, representing also her future nursery, which she has already provided for it.[[87]]
The above illustration is taken from the account of a particular case which fell under the keen observation of G. W. and E. G. Peckham, two well-known American entomologists. On other occasions, however, this wasp—that is to say, various individuals of the same species—besides stinging the caterpillar, went through another and more curious process. This consisted in biting and squeezing the anterior upper portion—the neck as we may call it—of their victim.[[87]] The same operation was also observed by Fabre when he watched his good mothers, but though I have called it biting and squeezing, that is not the right term for a savant to employ. He calls it malaxation, which, perhaps, means doing both at the same time. Biting, however, would seem to imply no less, but, perhaps in order to bite scientifically, it is necessary to take a piece out, or at least to make the blood come, though in common parlance this does not, or did not, hold good, since Sampson bit his thumb at Abram and Balthasar, in the first scene of Romeo and Juliet, but it cannot be supposed—nor does the context support such a view—that he bit it so hard as that. Malaxation, however, let it be; but why such a process on the part of the wasp should be necessary it is not easy to see, since the mandibles are not poisonous like the sting, and the latter is all in all sufficient to produce the paralysis required, as is apparent in the instance already given, where the sting alone was employed. To me it seems possible that this malaxation may be a happiness to the wasp merely, as the shaking of a rat certainly is to a terrier, whatever other advantages accrue from it. That insects, like other animals, including man—who, indeed, is the crowning instance—take a savage pleasure in overpowering and killing their prey, I have myself very little doubt.