The Life of the Grasshopper

by Jean-Henri Fabre

In a fit of hunger, after a fast of some [[128]]days’ duration, the Praying Mantis will gobble up a Grey Locust whole, except for the wings, which are too dry; and yet the victim of her voracity is as big as herself, or even bigger. Two hours are enough for consuming this monstrous head of game. An orgy of the sort is rare. I have witnessed it once or twice and have always wondered how the gluttonous creature found room for so much food and how it reversed in its favour the axiom that the cask must be greater than its contents. I can but admire the lofty privileges of a stomach through which matter merely passes, being at once digested, dissolved and done away with.

The usual bill of fare in my cages consists of Locusts of greatly varied species and sizes. It is interesting to watch the Mantis nibbling her Acridian, firmly held in the grip of her two murderous fore-legs. Notwithstanding the fine, pointed muzzle, which seems scarcely made for this gorging, the whole dish disappears, with the exception of the wings, of which only the slightly fleshy base is consumed. The legs, the tough skin, everything goes down. Sometimes the Mantis seizes one of the big hinder thighs by the knuckle-end, lifts it to her mouth, [[129]]tastes it and crunches it with a little air of satisfaction. The Locust’s fat and juicy thigh may well be a choice morsel for her, even as a leg of mutton is for us.

The prey is first attacked in the neck. While one of the two lethal legs holds the victim transfixed through the middle of the body, the other presses the head and makes the neck open upwards. The Mantis’ muzzle roots and nibbles at this weak point in the armour with some persistency. A large wound appears in the head. The Locust gradually ceases kicking and becomes a lifeless corpse; and, from this moment, freer in its movements, the carnivorous insect picks and chooses its morsel.

This preliminary gnawing of the neck is too regular an occurrence to be purposeless. Let us indulge in a digression which will tell us more about it. In June I often find on the lavender in the enclosure two small Crab Spiders (Thomisus onustus, Walck.,[3] and T. rotundatus, Walck.). One is satin-white and has pink and green rings round her legs; the other is inky-black and has an abdomen encircled with red with a foliaceous [[130]]central patch. They are pretty Spiders, both of them, and they walk sideways, after the manner of Crabs. They do not know how to weave a hunting-net; the little silk which they possess is reserved exclusively for the downy satchel containing the eggs. Their plan of campaign therefore is to lie in ambush on the flowers and to fling themselves unexpectedly on the quarry when it arrives on pilfering intent.

Their favourite prey is the Hive-bee. I often come upon them with their prize, at times grabbed by the neck and at others by any part of the body, even the tip of a wing. In each and every case the Bee is dead, with her legs hanging limply and her tongue out.

The poison-fangs planted in the neck set me thinking; I see in them a characteristic remarkably like the practice of the Mantis when starting on her Locust. And then arises another question: how does the weak Spider, who is vulnerable in every part of her soft body, manage to get hold of a prey like the Bee, stronger than herself, quicker in movement and armed with a sting that can inflict a mortal wound?

The difference in physical strength and force of arms between assailant and assailed [[131]]is so very great that a contest of this kind seems impossible unless some netting intervene, some silken toils that can shackle and bind the formidable creature. The contrast would be no more intense were the Sheep to take it into her head to fly at the Wolf’s throat. And yet the daring attack takes place and victory goes to the weaker, as is proved by the numbers of dead Bees whom I see sucked for hours by the Thomisi. The relative weakness must be made good by some special art; the Spider must possess a strategy that enables her to surmount the apparently insurmountable difficulty.

To watch events on the lavender-borders would expose me to long, fruitless waits. It is better myself to make the preparations for the duel. I place a Thomisus under a cover with a bunch of lavender sprinkled with a few drops of honey. Some three or four live Bees complete the establishment.

The Bees pay no heed to their redoubtable neighbour. They flutter around the trellised enclosure; from time to time they go and take a sip from the honeyed flowers, sometimes quite close to the Spider, not a quarter of an inch away. They seem utterly unaware of their danger. The experience of [[132]]centuries has taught them nothing about the terrible cut-throat. The Thomisus, on her side, waits motionless on a spike of lavender, near the honey. Her four front legs, which are longer than the others, are spread out and slightly raised, in readiness for attack.

A Bee comes to drink at the drop of honey. This is the moment. The Spider springs forward and with her fangs seizes the imprudent one by the tip of the wings, while her legs hold the victim in a tight embrace. A few seconds pass, during which the Bee struggles as best she can against the aggressor on her back, out of the reach of her dagger. This fight at close quarters cannot last long; the Bee would release herself from the other’s grip. And so the Spider lets go the wing and suddenly bites her prey in the back of the neck. Once the fangs drive home, it is all over: death ensues. The Bee is slain. Of her turbulent activity naught lingers but some faint quivers of the tarsi, final convulsions which are soon at an end.