Social Life in the Insect World

by Jean-Henri Fabre

To the meritorious rôle of regaling the blackbird, the minstrel of the forest, the Balaninus adds another—that of moderating the superfluity of vegetation. Like all the mighty who are worthy of their strength, the oak is generous; it produces acorns by the bushel. What could the earth do with such prodigality? The forest would stifle itself for want of room; excess would ruin the necessary.

But no sooner is this abundance of food produced than there is an influx from every side of consumers only too eager to abate this inordinate production. The field-mouse, a native of the woods, stores acorns in a gravel-heap near its hay-lined nest. A stranger, the jay, comes in flocks from far away, warned I know not how. For some weeks it flies feasting from oak to oak, giving vent to its joys and its emotions in a voice like that of a strangling cat; then, its mission accomplished, it returns to the North whence it came.

The Balaninus has anticipated them all. The mother confided her eggs to the acorns while yet they were green. These have now fallen to earth, brown before their time, and pierced by a round hole through which the larva has escaped after devouring the contents. Under one single oak a basket might easily be filled with these ruined shells. More than the jay, more than the field-mouse, the elephant-beetle has contributed to reduce the superfluity of acorns.

Presently man arrives, busied in the interest of his pig. In my village it is quite an important event when the municipal hoardings announce the day for opening the municipal woods for the gathering of acorns. The more zealous visit the woods the day before and select the best places. Next day, at daybreak, the whole family is there. The father beats the upper branches with a pole; the mother, wearing a heavy hempen apron which enables her to force her way through the stubborn undergrowth, gathers those within reach of the hand, while the children collect those scattered upon the ground. First the small baskets are filled, then the big corbeilles, and then the sacks.

After the field-mouse, the jay, the weevil, and so many others have taken toll comes man, calculating how many pounds of bacon-fat his harvest will be worth. One regret mingles with the cheer of the occasion; it is to see so many acorns scattered on the ground which are pierced, spoiled, good for nothing. And man curses the author of this destruction; to hear him you would think the forest is meant for him alone, and that the oaks bear acorns only for the sake of his pig.

My friend, I would say to him, the forest guard cannot take legal proceedings against the offender, and it is just as well, for our egoism, which is inclined to see in the acorn only a garland of sausages, would have annoying results. The oak calls the whole world to enjoy its fruits. We take the larger part because we are the stronger. That is our only right.

More important than our rights is the equitable division of the fruits of the earth between the various consumers, great and little, all of whom play their part in this world. If it is good that the blackbird should flute and rejoice in the burgeoning of the spring, then it is no bad thing that acorns should be worm-eaten. In the acorn the dessert of the blackbird is prepared; the Balaninus, the tasty mouthful that puts flesh upon his flanks and music into his throat.

Let the blackbird sing, and let us return to the eggs of the Curculionidæ. We know where the egg is—at the base of the acorn, because the tenderest and most juicy tissues of the fruit are there. But how did it get there, so far from the point of entry? A very trifling question, it is true; puerile even, if you will. Do not let us disdain to ask it; science is made of these puerilities.

The first man to rub a piece of amber on his sleeve and to find that it thereupon attracted fragments of chaff had certainly no vision of the electric marvels of our days. He was amusing himself in a childlike manner. Repeated, tested, and probed in every imaginable way, the child's experiment has become one of the forces of the world.

The observer must neglect nothing; for he never knows what may develop out of the humblest fact. So again we will ask: by what process did the egg of the elephant-beetle reach a point so far from the orifice in the acorn?