It will not be necessary to rear these in the vivarium. A wire-gauze cover is enough, with a bed of sand and a supply of victuals to their liking. They are so small, hardly the size of a cherry-stone! And so curious in shape withal! Dumpy body: the hinder end pointed; [[241]]and very long legs, resembling a Spider’s when outspread: the hind-legs are of inordinate length and curved, which is most useful for clasping and squeezing the pellet.
Pairing takes place about the beginning of May, on the surface of the ground, amid the remains of the cake on which the couple have been feasting. Soon the time comes for establishing the family. With equal zeal, husband and wife alike take part in kneading, carting and stowing away the bread for the children. With the cleaver of the fore-legs a morsel of the right size is cut from the lump placed at their disposal. Father and mother manipulate the piece together, giving it little pats, pressing it and fashioning it into a ball as large as a big pea.
As in the Sacred Beetle’s workshop, the mathematically round shape is obtained without the mechanical trick of rolling the ball. The fragment is modelled into a sphere before it is moved, before it is even loosened from its support. Here again we have an expert in geometry familiar with the form that is best adapted to make preserved foodstuffs keep for a long time.
The pellet is soon ready. It must now, by vigorous rolling, be made to acquire the crust which will protect the crumb from too-rapid evaporation. The mother, who can be recognized by her slightly larger size, harnesses herself in the place of honour, in front. With her long hind-legs on the ground and her fore-legs on the ball, she hauls it towards her backwards. The father pushes behind in the reverse position, head downwards. It is precisely the same method as the Sacred Beetle’s, when working in twos, but with another object. The Sisyphus team convey a larva’s dowry, whereas the big pill-rollers [[242]]trundle a banquet which the two fortuitous partners will eat up underground.
The couple start, for no definite goal, across such impediments as the ground may present. These obstacles are impossible to avoid in this backward march; and, if they were perceived, the Sisyphus would not try to go round them, as witness her obstinacy in trying to climb the wirework of the cage. This is an arduous and impracticable enterprise. 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. The father, finding nothing to stand upon, clings to the ball, encrusts himself in it, so to speak, adding his weight to that of the lump and taking no further pains. The effort is too great to last. The ball and its rider, forming one mass, fall to the floor. The mother, from above, looks for a moment in surprise and forthwith drops down to recover the load and renew her impossible attempt to scale the side. After repeated falls, the ascent is abandoned.
The carting on level ground is not effected without impediment either. At every moment the load swerves on the mound made by a bit of gravel; and the team topple over and kick about, with their bellies in the air. This is a trifle, the veriest trifle. The two pick themselves up and resume their positions as cheerily as ever. These tumbles, which so often fling the Sisyphus on his back, cause him no concern; one would even think that they were sought for. After all, the pill has to be matured, to receive consistency. And, under these conditions, bumps, blows, falls and jolts are all part of the programme. This mad steeplechasing goes on for hours. [[243]]
At last the mother, regarding the work as completed, goes off a little way in search of a favourable site. The father mounts guard, squatting on the treasure. If his companion’s absence be prolonged, he relieves his boredom by spinning the ball nimbly between his uplifted hind-legs. He juggles after a fashion with the precious pellet; he tests its perfection with the curved branches of his compasses. To see him frisking in that jubilant attitude, who can doubt his lively satisfaction as a paterfamilias assured of the future of his children?
‘It’s I,’ he seems to say, ‘it’s I who kneaded this round, soft loaf; it’s I who made this bread for my sons!’
And he lifts on high, for all to see, this magnificent testimonial to his industry.
Meanwhile, the mother has selected the site. A shallow pit is made, a mere beginning of the projected burrow. 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, the sacred thing which she insists on having 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 the little loaf if it were left on the threshold of the burrow until the home was completed. There are plenty of Aphodii and Midges to grab it. One cannot be too careful.