Fabre's Book of Insects

by Jean-Henri Fabre

The couple start off along the ground. They have no definite goal, but walk in a direct line, without regard to the obstacles that lie in the way. In this backward march the obstacles could not be avoided; but even if they were seen the Sisyphus would not try to go round them. For she even makes obstinate attempts to climb the wire-work of my cage. This is an arduous and impossible task. Clawing the meshes of the gauze with her hind-legs the mother pulls the load towards her; then, putting her fore-legs round it, she holds it suspended in air. The father, finding nothing to stand upon, clings to the ball—encrusts himself in it, so to speak, thus adding his weight to that of the lump, and taking no further pains. The effort is too great to last. [[205]]The ball and its rider, forming one mass, fall to the floor. The mother, from above, looks down for a moment in surprise, and then drops to recover the load and renew her impossible attempt to scale the side. After repeated falls the climb is abandoned.

Even on level ground the carting is not carried on without difficulty. At every moment the load swerves on some mound made by a bit of gravel; and the team topple over and kick about, upside down. This is a trifle, the merest trifle. These tumbles, which so often fling the Sisyphus on his back, cause him no concern; one would even think he liked them. After all, the ball has to be hardened and made of the right consistency. And this being the case, bumps falls, and jolts are all part of the programme. This mad steeple-chasing goes on for hours.

At last the mother, regarding the work as completed, goes off a little way in search of a suitable spot. The father mounts guard, squatting on the treasure. If his companion’s absence be unduly long, he relieves his boredom by spinning the ball nimbly between his uplifted hind legs. He treats his precious pellet as a juggler treats his ball. He tests its perfect shape with his curved legs, the branches of his compasses. No one who sees him frisking in that jubilant attitude can doubt his lively satisfaction—the satisfaction of a father assured of his children’s future. [[206]]

“It is I,” he seems to say, “I who kneaded this round loaf, I who made this bread for my sons!”

And he lifts on high, for all to see, this magnificent testimony to his industry.

Meanwhile the mother has chosen a site for the burrow. A shallow pit is made, a mere beginning of the work. The ball is rolled near it. The father, that vigilant guardian, does not let go, while the mother digs with her legs and forehead. Soon the hollow is big enough to hold the pellet. She insists on having it quite close to her; she must feel it bobbing up and down behind her, on her back, safe from parasites, before she decides to go farther. She is afraid of what might happen to it if it were left on the edge of the burrow until the home were completed. There are plenty of Midges and other such insects to grab it. One cannot be too careful.

The ball therefore is inserted, half in and half out of the partly-formed basin. The mother, underneath, gets her legs round it and pulls: the father above, lets it down gently, and sees that the hole is not choked up with falling earth. All goes well. The digging is resumed and the descent continues, always with the same caution; one of the insects pulling the load, the other regulating the drop and clearing away anything that might hinder the operation. A few more efforts, and the ball disappears underground with the two miners. What [[207]]follows for some time to come can only be a repetition of what has already been done. We must wait half a day or so.

If we keep careful watch we shall see the father come up again to the surface by himself, and crouch in the sand near the burrow. Detained below by duties in which her companion can be of no assistance to her, the mother usually postpones her appearance till the morrow. At last she shows herself. The father leaves the place where he was snoozing, and joins her. The reunited couple go back to the spot where their food-stuffs are to be found, and having refreshed themselves they gather up more materials. The two then set to work again. Once more they model, cart, and store the ball together.

I am delighted with this constancy. That it is really the rule I dare not declare. There must, no doubt, be flighty, fickle Beetles. No matter: the little I have seen gives me a high opinion of the domestic habits of the Sisyphus.

It is time to inspect the burrow. At no great depth we find a tiny niche, just large enough to allow the mother to move round her work. The smallness of the chamber tells us that the father cannot remain there for long. When the studio is ready, he must go away to leave the sculptress room to turn.