It is finished; the thoroughfare is open. The tiny insect can now emerge by bursting through the pellicle caught in the opening, or by dislodging it; or it may find an absolutely free passage, when the burst bladder has left the egg. It is all simply miraculous. To escape from his box, the Pentatoma invented [[233]]the three-ribbed mitre and the hydraulic ram; the Reduvius has invented the explosive bomb. The first goes to work gently; the second, a brutal dynamiter, blows the roof off his prison with a bomb.
With what explosive, and how is the liberating shell loaded? At the moment of rupture nothing visible bursts from the bubble; nothing liquid moistens the torn edge. The contents, therefore, were assuredly gaseous. The rest escapes me. One observation, which I was unable to repeat, is not enough in this delicate matter. Reducing it to mere probabilities I will propose the following explanation:
The tiny animal is wrapped in a tightly closed tunic which embraces it snugly. This is a temporary skin, a sheath which the new-born larva will shed on leaving the egg. This sheath is connected with an appendage, a capsule placed under the lid. The twisted stem hanging from the burst bubble when it is shot out of the egg represents the communicating duct.
Very slowly, as the little creature takes shape and grows, this bladder-like reservoir receives the products of the respiration [[234]]which takes place under the cover of the tunic or “overall.” Instead of dispersing outside, through the egg-shell, the carbonic acid gas incessantly resulting from the vital process of oxidization accumulates in this sort of gasometer, filling and distending it and pressing upon the lid. When the little Bug is mature and on the point of hatching, the increased activity of its respiration completes the inflation, which has doubtless been proceeding ever since the earliest development of the germ. At last, yielding to the increasing pressure of the gas-filled capsule, the lid becomes unfastened. The Chick in its shell has its air-chamber: the young Reduvius has its bomb of carbonic acid gas: it releases itself by breathing.
The singular hatching-processes of the Pentatoma and the Reduvius are obviously not isolated cases. The egg with a removable lid must be employed by other Hemiptera; it may even be that this is a fairly general device. Each genus has its own methods of opening its box, its own system of springs and levers. What a mechanism to find in the egg of a Bug, and how fertile [[235]]in surprises! What an interesting harvest to be reaped, with patience and a good pair of eyes!
Let us now watch the little Reduvius’ emergence. The lid fell off a few moments ago. The tiny insect, white all over, comes forth, tightly swaddled. The tip of its abdomen still remains within the opening, which, with its rim of skin, the remnant of the bomb, serves it as a supporting girdle. It struggles, swaying to and fro and leaning backwards. This gymnastic exercise, increasing the creature’s flexibility, is intended to undo the swaddling-clothes at the seams. Sleeves, breeches, gaiters, shirt-front, cap: little by little the whole is torn off, not without effort on the fettered pigmy’s part; it is all cast aside and disappears in tatters. Behold the new-born insect at liberty! It skips away to some distance from the egg. With its long, fine, waving antennæ it interrogates space, enquiring into this mighty world. Often, when the lid still adheres to some point of the opening, it carries this bit away with it, on its back or its rump. You would think it was going to the wars, bearing the umbo of antiquity, the round, [[236]]convex buckler. What does it want with this armour? Has it seized upon it as a means of defence? Not at all. The cover of the beaker happened to come into contact with it and at once stuck to it, even firmly, for nothing short of the approaching moult will detach the disk. This detail tells us that the little creature exudes a fluid capable of acting as an adhesive in respect of any light objects encountered on its passage—with what results we shall presently see.
With shield on back or without this panoply, standing high on its legs and sporting a long pair of horns, the new-born insect crosses the threshold of the egg; it roams about in sudden fits and starts, presenting the appearance of a minute Spider. Two days later, before taking any food, it undergoes a moult. The gormandizer, once he has eaten his fill, undoes a button to make room for the belated dainties concluding the meal. The Bug, who has as yet eaten nothing, splits his coat from top to bottom, throws it away, and puts on a new skin. He even changes his belly before sitting down to table. He used to wear a short, stumpy abdomen; he now has a plump, round [[237]]paunch. The time has come for feasting.
A restaurant-keeper with no experience of the proper bill of fare, what shall I provide? I remember a passage in Linnæus[7] touching the Reduvius. The master says:
“Consumit cimices lectularios huius larva, horrida, personata.” “Its horrid, masked larva sucks the Bed-bugs.”
This game seems to me out of proportion for the moment: the little creatures in my jars, weak and tiny as they are, would never dare to tackle such a quarry. There is another objection: the moment I want Bugs, I am unlikely to find any. Let us try something else.