The Life and Love of the Insect

by Jean-Henri Fabre

They do, in point of fact, and to an astonishing degree. Five, six times in succession and oftener, I remove the fixed plug; and, time after time, the mortar discharges a copious ejaculation from its apparently inexhaustible reservoir, which is ever at the mason’s service, without an interval for rest. The grub is already beginning to resemble the Sacred Beetle, whose stercoral prowess we know: it is a past master in the art of dunging. It possesses above any other animal in the world an intestinal deftness which anatomy will undertake to explain to us, partly, later on.

The plasterer and the mason have their trowels. In the same way, the grub, that zealous repairer of breaches made in its home, has a trowel of its own. The last segment is lopped off slantwise, and carries on its dorsal surface a sort of inclined plane, a broad disk surrounded by a fleshy pad. In the middle of the disk is a gash, forming the cementing-aperture. Behold the fair-sized trowel, flattened out and supplied with a rim to prevent the compressed matter from flowing away in useless waste.

As soon as the plastic gush is laid down in a lump, the levelling and compressing instrument sets to work to introduce the cement well into the irregularities of the breach, to push it right through the thickness of the ruined portion, to give it consistency, to level it. After this [[45]]stroke of the trowel, the grub turns round: it comes and bangs and pushes the work with its wide forehead and improves it with the tip of its mandibles. Wait a quarter of an hour and the repaired portion will be as firm as the rest of the shell, so quickly does the cement set. Outside, the repairs are betrayed by the rough prominence of the material forced outwards, which remains inaccessible to the trowel; but, inside, there is no trace of the breakage: the usual polish has been restored at the injured spot. A plasterer stopping a hole in a wall in our rooms could produce no better piece of work.

Nor do the worm’s talents end here. With its cement, it becomes a mender of pots and pans. Let me explain. I have compared the outside of the pear, which, when pressed and dried, becomes a strong shell, with a jar containing fresh food. In the course of my excavations, sometimes made on difficult soil, I have happened occasionally to break this jar with an ill-directed blow of the trowel. I have collected the potsherds, pieced them together, after restoring the worm to its place, and kept the whole thing in one by wrapping it in a bit of old newspaper.

On reaching home, I have found the pear put out of shape, no doubt, and seamed with scars, but just as solid as ever. During the walk, the grub had restored its ruined dwelling to condition. Cement injected into the cracks joined the pieces together; inside, a thick plastering strengthened the inner wall, so much so that the repaired shell was quite as good as the untouched shell, but for the irregularity of the outside. In its artistically-mended stronghold, the worm found the peace essential to its existence. [[46]]

Let us now give a brief description of the grub, without stopping to enumerate the articulations of the palpi and antennæ, irksome details of no immediate interest. It is a fat worm and has a fine, white skin, with pale slate-coloured reflections proceeding from the digestive organs, which are visible transparently. Bent into a broken arch or hook, it is not unlike the grub of the Cockchafer, but has a much more ungainly figure, for, on its back, at the sudden bend of the hook, the third, fourth and fifth segments of the abdomen swell into an enormous protuberance, a tumour, a pouch so prominent that the skin seems on the point of bursting under the pressure of the contents. This is the animal’s most striking feature: the fact that it carries a wallet.

Fig. 3.—Grub of the Sacred Beetle.

The head is small in proportion to the size of the grub, slightly convex and bright red, studded with a few pale bristles. The legs are fairly long and sturdy, ending in a pointed tarsus. The grub does not use them as limbs of progression. Taken from its shell and placed upon the table, it struggles in clumsy contortions without succeeding in shifting its position; and the cripple betrays its anxiety by repeated eruptions of its mortar.

Let us also mention the terminal trowel, the last segment lopped into a slanting disk and rimmed with a fleshy pad. In the centre of this inclined plane is the open stercoral gash, which thus, by a very unusual inversion, [[47]]occupies the upper surface. An enormous hump and a trowel: that gives you the animal in two words.