"That's the worst of all!" I exclaimed aloud, unable to suppress my indignation. "One might find excuse for the Sanguines, but for this unnatural behavior—"
"Unnatural!" echoed the unseen Brownie Queen, "unnatural? No, this, too, is Nature. You are only reading between the poet's lines of peaceful beauty. You will learn your lesson by and by."
Fig. 7.—"For a Ravenous Wasp Larva to Devour."
I went back to the rustic seat beneath the Elm, and thought. A butterfly flew by. I followed its flight. "Oh! that is too bad!" I cried involuntarily. It had struck the snare of the Orbweaving spider. It struggled helplessly in the toils. Swiftly the aranead sped from its pretty leafy tent along its trap line, and in a moment seized and began swathing its victim. A thick ribbon of pure white silk streamed from the spinnerets, and enwrapped the butterfly round and round as it was revolved by the spider's feet. It was swathed like a mummy at last, and left lashed and hanging to the cross lines, while its captor mounted to her nest and began leisurely to haul up the captive preparatory to a sumptuous meal.
Fig. 8.—The Cicada Wasp, Sphecius speciosus.
My pity had hardly time to express itself ere another insect form swept by. It was a blue wasp, a Mud-dauber. It flew to the Orbweaver's web. Another victim? It is within the toils! The spider leaves her prey and darts along the trap line. What? will she not venture? No! she recoils. But too late! The Wasp has seized her, plunged its sharp sting into her body, and shaking the bits of web from its feet flies away. I know what that means. The clay sarcophagus on yonder barn wall shall receive another morsel of preserved meat for a ravenous wasp larva to devour.
What had I to say about this incident? This; I found myself unconsciously asking, "What will destroy the Wasp, in its turn?" But I had no leisure to meditate an answer. A beautiful creature flitted past me, whose colors of orange and black were distinct even in flight. It was the fine, large Digger-wasp,[F] the largest of that family among our indigenous insects. Just then from the branch of a small oak a Cicada sounded his rolling love call. A note not very melodious to human ear, it is true, but it throbs with the passion of affection, and must have been sweet music to his mate on the branch near by. Unlucky lover! your love sonnet has sounded your doom. It shall be your death song. See! my beautiful Wasp has pounced upon the amorous Cicada, and pierced and paralyzed like the spider before him, he is being borne to a grave in that grassy bank. There, in the Wasp's burrow, buried alive though with a semblance of death, he shall feed the maw of a hungry worm.
"It is mother love!" exclaimed the unseen Brownie Queen, sadly I thought and tenderly. "But mother love seems cruel sometimes; and it alone has not taught the Wasp to spare the mating love of its fellow insects."