Invariably found that the colour was most delicately diffused by the bees—as delicately as a painter could have done it with his brush—by atoms of the coloured wax having been taken from the spot on which it had been placed, and worked into the growing edges of the cells all round.
Invariably found that the colour was most delicately diffused by the bees—as delicately as a painter could have done it with his brush—by atoms of the coloured wax having been taken from the spot on which it had been placed, and worked into the growing edges of the cells all round.
Such, omitting details, is the substance of Mr. Darwin's theory. In summary he concludes,—
The work of construction seems to be a sort of balance struck between many bees, all instinctively standing at the same relative distance from each other, all trying to sweep equal spheres, and then building up, or leaving ungnawed, the planes of intersection between these spheres.
The work of construction seems to be a sort of balance struck between many bees, all instinctively standing at the same relative distance from each other, all trying to sweep equal spheres, and then building up, or leaving ungnawed, the planes of intersection between these spheres.
This theory, while serving as a full and simple explanation of all the facts, has, as we have seen, been so fully substantiated by observation and experiment, that it deserves to be regarded as raised to the rank of a completed demonstration. It differs from the theory of Buffon in two important particulars: it embraces all the facts, and supplies a cause adequate to explain them. This cause is natural selection, which converts the random 'pressure' in Buffon's theory into a precisely regulated principle. Random pressure alone could never produce the beautifully symmetrical form of the hexagonal cell with the pyramidal bottom; but it could and must have produced the intersection of cylindrical cells among possibly many extinct species of bees, such as the Melipona. Whenever this intersection occurred in crowded nests, it must clearly have been of great benefit in securing economy of precious wax; for in every case where a flat wall of partition between two adjacent cells did dutyinstead of a double cylindrical wall of separate cells, there wax should have been saved. Thus we can see how natural selection would have worked towards the developing of an instinct to excavate cells near enough together to produce intersection; and once begun, there is no reason why this instinct should not have been perfected by the same agency, till we meet with its ideal perfection in the hive-bee. For as Mr. Darwin observes,—
With respect to the formation of wax, it is known that bees are often hard pressed to get sufficient nectar; and I am informed by Mr. Tegetmeier that it has been experimentally proved that from twelve to fifteen pounds of dry sugar are consumed by a hive of bees for the secretion of a pound of wax; so that a prodigious quantity of fluid nectar must be collected and consumed by the bees in a hive for the secretion of the wax necessary for the construction of their combs. Moreover, many bees have to remain idle for many days during the process of secretion. . . . . Hence it would continually be more and more advantageous to our humble-bees if they were to make their cells more and more regular, nearer together, and aggregated into a mass, like the cells of Melipona; for in this case a large part of the bounding surface of each cell would serve to bound the adjoining cell, and much labour and wax would be saved. Again, from the same cause, it would be advantageous to the Melipona if she were to make her cells closer together, and more regular in every way than at present; for then, as we have seen, the spherical surfaces would wholly disappear and be replaced by plane surfaces; and the Melipona would make a comb as perfect as that of the hive-bee. Beyond this stage of perfection in architecture, natural selection could not lead; for the comb of the hive-bee, as far as we can see, is absolutely perfect in economising labour and wax.
With respect to the formation of wax, it is known that bees are often hard pressed to get sufficient nectar; and I am informed by Mr. Tegetmeier that it has been experimentally proved that from twelve to fifteen pounds of dry sugar are consumed by a hive of bees for the secretion of a pound of wax; so that a prodigious quantity of fluid nectar must be collected and consumed by the bees in a hive for the secretion of the wax necessary for the construction of their combs. Moreover, many bees have to remain idle for many days during the process of secretion. . . . . Hence it would continually be more and more advantageous to our humble-bees if they were to make their cells more and more regular, nearer together, and aggregated into a mass, like the cells of Melipona; for in this case a large part of the bounding surface of each cell would serve to bound the adjoining cell, and much labour and wax would be saved. Again, from the same cause, it would be advantageous to the Melipona if she were to make her cells closer together, and more regular in every way than at present; for then, as we have seen, the spherical surfaces would wholly disappear and be replaced by plane surfaces; and the Melipona would make a comb as perfect as that of the hive-bee. Beyond this stage of perfection in architecture, natural selection could not lead; for the comb of the hive-bee, as far as we can see, is absolutely perfect in economising labour and wax.
The problem, then, as to the origin and perfection of the cell-making instinct appears thus to have been fully and finally solved. I shall now adduce a few facts to show that while the general instinct of building hexagonal cells has doubtless been acquired by natural selection in the way just explained, it is nevertheless an instinct not wholly of a blind or mechanical kind, but is constantly under the control of intelligent purpose. Thus Mr. Darwin observes,—
It was really curious to note in cases of difficulty, as when two pieces of comb met at an angle, how often the bees would pull down and rebuild in different ways the same cell, sometimes recurring to a shape which they had at first rejected.[61]
It was really curious to note in cases of difficulty, as when two pieces of comb met at an angle, how often the bees would pull down and rebuild in different ways the same cell, sometimes recurring to a shape which they had at first rejected.[61]
Again, Huber saw a bee building upon the wax which had already been put together by her comrades. But she did not arrange it properly, or in a way to continue the design of her predecessors, so that her building made an undesirable corner with theirs. 'Another bee perceived it, pulled down the bad work before our eyes, and gave it to the first in the requisite order, so that it might exactly follow the original direction.' Similarly, to quote Büchner,—
All the cells have not the same shape, as would be the case if the bees in building worked according to a perfectly instinctive and unchangeable plan. There are very manifold changes and irregularities. Almost in every comb irregular and unfinished cells are to be found, especially where the several divisions of a comb come together. The small architects do not begin their comb from a single centre, but begin building from many different points, so as to progress as rapidly as possible, and so that the greatest number may work simultaneously; they therefore build from above downwards, in the shape of flat truncated cones or hanging pyramids, and these several portions are afterwards united together during the winter budding. At these lines of junction it is impossible to avoid irregular cells between the pressed together or unnaturally lengthened ones. The same is true more or less of the passage cells, which are made to unite the large cells of the so-called drone wax with the smaller ones of the working bees, and which are generally placed in two or three rows. The cells also which they usually build from the combs to the glass walls of their hives, in order to hold them up, show somewhat irregular forms. Finally, in places where special conditions of the situation do not otherwise permit, it may be observed that the bees, far from clinging obstinately to their plan, very well understand how to accommodate themselves to circumstances not only in cell-building, but also in making their combs. F. Huber tried to mislead their instinct, or rather to put to the proof their reason and cleverness in every possible way, but they always emerged triumphant from the ordeal. For instance, he put bees in a hivethe floor and roof of which were made of glass, that is of a body which the bees use very unwillingly for the attachment of their combs, on account of its smoothness. Thus the possibility of building as usual from above downwards, and also from below upwards, was taken away from them; they had no point of support save the perpendicular walls of their dwelling. They thereupon built on one of these walls a regular stratum of cells, from which, building sideways, they tried to carry the comb to the opposite side of the hive. To prevent this Huber covered that side also with glass. But what way out of the difficulty was found by the clever insects? Instead of building further in the projected direction, they bent the comb round at the extreme point, and carried it at a right angle towards one of the inner sides of the hive which was not covered with glass, and there fastened it. The form and dimensions of the cells must necessarily have been altered thereby, and the arrangement of their work at the angle must have been quite different from the usual. They made the cells of the convex side so much broader than those of the concave that they had a diameter two or three times as great, and yet they managed to join them properly with the others. They also did not wait to bend the comb until they came to the glass itself, but recognised the difficulty beforehand,[62]which had been interposed by Huber while they were building with a view to overcome the first difficulty.
All the cells have not the same shape, as would be the case if the bees in building worked according to a perfectly instinctive and unchangeable plan. There are very manifold changes and irregularities. Almost in every comb irregular and unfinished cells are to be found, especially where the several divisions of a comb come together. The small architects do not begin their comb from a single centre, but begin building from many different points, so as to progress as rapidly as possible, and so that the greatest number may work simultaneously; they therefore build from above downwards, in the shape of flat truncated cones or hanging pyramids, and these several portions are afterwards united together during the winter budding. At these lines of junction it is impossible to avoid irregular cells between the pressed together or unnaturally lengthened ones. The same is true more or less of the passage cells, which are made to unite the large cells of the so-called drone wax with the smaller ones of the working bees, and which are generally placed in two or three rows. The cells also which they usually build from the combs to the glass walls of their hives, in order to hold them up, show somewhat irregular forms. Finally, in places where special conditions of the situation do not otherwise permit, it may be observed that the bees, far from clinging obstinately to their plan, very well understand how to accommodate themselves to circumstances not only in cell-building, but also in making their combs. F. Huber tried to mislead their instinct, or rather to put to the proof their reason and cleverness in every possible way, but they always emerged triumphant from the ordeal. For instance, he put bees in a hivethe floor and roof of which were made of glass, that is of a body which the bees use very unwillingly for the attachment of their combs, on account of its smoothness. Thus the possibility of building as usual from above downwards, and also from below upwards, was taken away from them; they had no point of support save the perpendicular walls of their dwelling. They thereupon built on one of these walls a regular stratum of cells, from which, building sideways, they tried to carry the comb to the opposite side of the hive. To prevent this Huber covered that side also with glass. But what way out of the difficulty was found by the clever insects? Instead of building further in the projected direction, they bent the comb round at the extreme point, and carried it at a right angle towards one of the inner sides of the hive which was not covered with glass, and there fastened it. The form and dimensions of the cells must necessarily have been altered thereby, and the arrangement of their work at the angle must have been quite different from the usual. They made the cells of the convex side so much broader than those of the concave that they had a diameter two or three times as great, and yet they managed to join them properly with the others. They also did not wait to bend the comb until they came to the glass itself, but recognised the difficulty beforehand,[62]which had been interposed by Huber while they were building with a view to overcome the first difficulty.
The Mason-Bee.—This insect closes the roof of its larval cell with a kind of mortar, which sets as hard as stone. A little hole, closed only with soft mud, is, however, left in one part of the roof as a door of exit for the matured insect. It is said that when a mason-bee finds an old and deserted nest, it saves itself the trouble of making a new one—utilising the ready-made nest after having well cleaned it. In Algiers the mason-bees have been observed in this way to utilise empty snail-shells. According to Blanchard, some individuals avoid the labour of making their own nests or houses for their young, by possessing themselves of their neighbours' houses either by craft or by force. 'Does the mason-bee act like a machine,' says E. Menault, 'when it directs its work accordingto circumstances, possesses itself of old nests, cleanses and improves them, and thereby shows that it can fully appreciate the immediate position? Can one believe that no kind of reflection is here necessary?'
The Tapestry-Bee.—The so-called tapestry-bee digs holes for her larvæ three or four inches deep in the earth, and lines the walls and floor of the chamber with petals of the poppy laid perfectly smooth. Several layers of petals are used, and when the eggs are introduced the chamber is closed by drawing all the leaves together at the top. Loose earth is then piled over the whole structure in order to conceal it. The so-called rose-bee (Megachile centuncularis) displays very similar habits.[63]
The Carpenter-Bee.—This was first observed and described by Réaumur.[64]It makes a long cylindrical tube in the wood of beams, palings, &c. This it divides into a number of successive chambers by partitions made of agglutinated saw-dust built across the tube at right angles to its axis. In each chamber there is deposited a single egg, together with a store of pollen for the nourishment of the future larva. The larvæ hatch out in succession and in the order of their age—i.e.the dates at which they were deposited. To provide for this, the bee bores a hole from the lower cell to the exterior, so that each larva, when ready to escape from its chamber, finds an open way from the tube. The larvæ have to cut their own way out through the walls of their respective chambers, and it is remarkable that they always cut through the wall that faces the tubular passage left by the parent; they never bore their way out in the opposite direction, which, were they to do so, would entail the destruction of all the other and immature larvæ.
The Carding-Bee.—This insect surrounds its nest with a layer of wax, and then with a thick covering of moss. For this purpose a number of bees co-operate, and in order to save time each bee does not find and carry its own moss, but, with a division of labour similar to thatwhich we have already noticed in the case of certain ants, a row of bees is formed, and the bits of moss passed from one to another along the line. There is a long passage to the nest, through which the moss has to be passed, and it is said that at the mouth of the tunnel a guard is stationed to drive away ants or other intruders.
Wasps.—These usually construct their nests of wood-dust, which they scrape off the weather-worn surfaces of boards, palings, &c., and work into a kind of paper with their saliva. If they happen to find any real paper, they perceive that it so much resembles the product of their own manufacture that they utilise it forthwith. The wasps do not require any special cells or chambers for the storage of honey, as they do not lay up any supply for the winter. The cells which they construct are therefore used exclusively for the rearing of larvæ. In form these cells are sometimes cylindrical or globular, but more usually hexagonal, like those of the hive-bee. Although the mode of building is different from that employed by the bees, there can be little doubt that if it were as carefully investigated Mr. Darwin's theory of transition from the cylindrical to the hexagonal form would be found to apply here also, seeing that both forms so frequently occur in the same nest.
The Mason-Wasp.—The habits of this insect are described by Mr. Bates. It constructs its nest of clay. Each pellet that the insect brings it lays on the top of its nest-wall, and then spreads it out with its jaws, and treads it smooth with its feet. The nest, which is suspended on the branch of a tree, is then stocked with spiders and insects paralysed by stinging. The victims, not being wholly deprived of life, keep fresh until required as food of the developing larvæ.
The Butcher-Wasps.—These also paralyse their prey in a similar manner, and for a similar purpose. Fabre removed from a so-called sphex-wasp a killed grasshopper, which it was conveying to its nest and had momentarily laid down at the mouth of the burrow—as these insects always do on returning with prey, in order to see that nothing has intruded into the burrow duringtheir absence. Fabre carried the dead or paralysed grasshopper to a considerable distance from the hole. On coming out the insect searched about until it found its prey. It then again carried it to the mouth of its burrow, and again laid it down while it once more went in to see that all was right at home. Again Fabre removed the grasshopper, and so on for forty times in succession—the sphex never omitting to go through its fixed routine of examining the interior of its burrow every time that it brought the prey to its mouth.
Mr. Mivart, in his 'Lessons from Nature,' points to the instinct of this animal in the stinging of the ganglion of its prey as one that cannot be explained on Mr. Darwin's theory concerning the origin of instincts. In my next work, which will have to deal with this theory, I shall consider Mr. Mivart's difficulty, and also the difficulty first pointed out by Mr. Darwin himself as to why neuter insects, separated as they appear to be from the possibility of communicating by heredity any instinctive acquirements of the individual to the species, should present any instincts at all.
Beginning with Sir John Lubbock's observations on this head, I shall first quote his statements with regard to way-finding:—
I have found, he says, that some bees are much more intelligent in this respect than others. A bee which I had fed several times, and which had flown about in the room, found its way out of the glass in a quarter of an hour, and when put in a second time came out at once. Another bee, when I closed the postern door, used to come round to the honey through an open window.Bees seem to me much less clever in finding things than I had expected. One day (April 14, 1872), when a number of them were very busy on some barberries, I put a saucer with some honey between two bunches of flowers; these were repeatedly visited, and were so close that there was hardly room for the saucer between them, yet from 9.30 to 3.30 not a single bee took any notice of the honey. At 3.30 I put somehoney on one of the bunches of flowers, and it was eagerly sucked by the bees; two kept continually returning till past five in the evening.One day when I came home in the afternoon I found that at least a hundred bees had got into my room through the postern and were on the window, yet not one was attracted by an open jar of honey which stood in a shady corner about 3 feet 6 inches from the window.One day (29th April, 1872) I placed a saucer of honey close to some forget-me-nots, on which bees were numerous and busy; yet from 10A.M.till 6 only one bee went to the honey.I put some honey in a hollow in the garden wall opposite the hives at 10.30 (this wall is about five feet high and four feet from the hives); yet the bees did not find it during the whole day.On the 30th March, 1873, a fine sunshiny day, when the bees were very active, I placed a glass containing honey at 9 in the morning on the wall in front of the hives; but not a single bee went to the honey the whole day. On April 20 I tried the same experiment, with the same result.September 19.—At 9.30 I placed some honey in a glass about four feet from and just in front of the hive; but during the whole day not a bee observed it.As it then occurred to me that it might be suggested that there was something about this honey which rendered it unattractive to the bees, on a following day I placed it again on the top of the wall for three hours, during which not a single bee came, and then moved it close to the alighting-board of the hive. It remained unnoticed for a quarter of an hour, when two bees observed it; and others soon followed in considerable numbers. . . . . On the whole, wasps seem to me more clever in finding their way than bees. I tried wasps with the glass mentioned on p. 124 [i.e.the bell-jar], but they had no difficulty in finding their way out.
I have found, he says, that some bees are much more intelligent in this respect than others. A bee which I had fed several times, and which had flown about in the room, found its way out of the glass in a quarter of an hour, and when put in a second time came out at once. Another bee, when I closed the postern door, used to come round to the honey through an open window.
Bees seem to me much less clever in finding things than I had expected. One day (April 14, 1872), when a number of them were very busy on some barberries, I put a saucer with some honey between two bunches of flowers; these were repeatedly visited, and were so close that there was hardly room for the saucer between them, yet from 9.30 to 3.30 not a single bee took any notice of the honey. At 3.30 I put somehoney on one of the bunches of flowers, and it was eagerly sucked by the bees; two kept continually returning till past five in the evening.
One day when I came home in the afternoon I found that at least a hundred bees had got into my room through the postern and were on the window, yet not one was attracted by an open jar of honey which stood in a shady corner about 3 feet 6 inches from the window.
One day (29th April, 1872) I placed a saucer of honey close to some forget-me-nots, on which bees were numerous and busy; yet from 10A.M.till 6 only one bee went to the honey.
I put some honey in a hollow in the garden wall opposite the hives at 10.30 (this wall is about five feet high and four feet from the hives); yet the bees did not find it during the whole day.
On the 30th March, 1873, a fine sunshiny day, when the bees were very active, I placed a glass containing honey at 9 in the morning on the wall in front of the hives; but not a single bee went to the honey the whole day. On April 20 I tried the same experiment, with the same result.
September 19.—At 9.30 I placed some honey in a glass about four feet from and just in front of the hive; but during the whole day not a bee observed it.
As it then occurred to me that it might be suggested that there was something about this honey which rendered it unattractive to the bees, on a following day I placed it again on the top of the wall for three hours, during which not a single bee came, and then moved it close to the alighting-board of the hive. It remained unnoticed for a quarter of an hour, when two bees observed it; and others soon followed in considerable numbers. . . . . On the whole, wasps seem to me more clever in finding their way than bees. I tried wasps with the glass mentioned on p. 124 [i.e.the bell-jar], but they had no difficulty in finding their way out.
We shall now conclude thisrésuméof Sir John Lubbock's observations by quoting two other passages bearing on the general intelligence of bees and wasps:—
The following fact struck me as rather remarkable. The wasp already mentioned at the foot of p. 135 one day smeared her wings with syrup, so that she could not fly. When this happened to a bee, it was only necessary to carry her to the alighting-board, when she was soon cleaned by her comrades. But I did not know where this wasp's nest was, and thereforecould not pursue a similar course with her. At first, then, I was afraid that she was doomed. I thought, however, that I would wash her, fully expecting, indeed, to terrify her so much that she would not return again. I therefore caught her, put her in a bottle half full of water, and shook her up well till the honey was washed off. I then transferred her to a dry bottle and put her in the sun. When she was dry I let her out, and she at once flew to her nest. To my surprise, in thirteen minutes she returned, as if nothing had happened, and continued her visits to the honey all the afternoon.This experiment interested me so much that I repeated it with another marked wasp, this time, however, keeping the wasp in the water till she was quite motionless and insensible. When taken out of the water she soon recovered; I fed her; she went quietly away to her nest as usual, and returned after the usual absence. The next morning this wasp was the first to visit the honey.I was not able to watch any of the above-mentioned wasps for more than a few days; but I kept a specimen ofPolistes Gallicafor no less than nine months.
The following fact struck me as rather remarkable. The wasp already mentioned at the foot of p. 135 one day smeared her wings with syrup, so that she could not fly. When this happened to a bee, it was only necessary to carry her to the alighting-board, when she was soon cleaned by her comrades. But I did not know where this wasp's nest was, and thereforecould not pursue a similar course with her. At first, then, I was afraid that she was doomed. I thought, however, that I would wash her, fully expecting, indeed, to terrify her so much that she would not return again. I therefore caught her, put her in a bottle half full of water, and shook her up well till the honey was washed off. I then transferred her to a dry bottle and put her in the sun. When she was dry I let her out, and she at once flew to her nest. To my surprise, in thirteen minutes she returned, as if nothing had happened, and continued her visits to the honey all the afternoon.
This experiment interested me so much that I repeated it with another marked wasp, this time, however, keeping the wasp in the water till she was quite motionless and insensible. When taken out of the water she soon recovered; I fed her; she went quietly away to her nest as usual, and returned after the usual absence. The next morning this wasp was the first to visit the honey.
I was not able to watch any of the above-mentioned wasps for more than a few days; but I kept a specimen ofPolistes Gallicafor no less than nine months.
This is the wasp which has already been alluded to under the heading 'Memory;' but it is evident that the capacity which the insect displayed of becoming tamed implies no small degree of general intelligence; its hereditary instincts were conspicuously modified by the individual experiences incidental to its domestication.
The remaining passages that deserve quotation are the following:—
It is sometimes said of bees that those of one hive all know one another, and immediately recognise and attack any intruder from another hive. At first sight this certainly implies a great deal of intelligence. It is, however, possible that the bees of particular hives have a particular smell. Thus Langshaft, in his interesting 'Treatise on the Honey-Bee,' says: 'Members of different colonies appear to recognise their hive companions by the sense of smell; and I believe that if colonies are sprinkled with scented syrup, they may generally be safely mixed. Moreover, a bee returning to its own hive with a load of treasure is a very different creature from a hungry marauder; and it is said that a bee, if laden with honey, is allowed to enter any hive with impunity.' Mr. Langshaft continues, 'There is an air of roguery about a thieving bee which, to the expert, is ascharacteristic as are the motions of a pickpocket to a skilful policeman. Its sneaking look, and nervous, guilty agitation, once seen, can never be mistaken.' It is, at any rate, natural that a bee which enters a wrong hive by accident should be much surprised and alarmed, and would thus probably betray herself.On the whole, then, I do not attach much importance to their recognition of one another as an indication of intelligence.Since their extreme eagerness for honey may be attributed rather to their anxiety for the common weal than to their desire for personal gratification, it cannot fairly be imputed as greediness; still the following scene, one which most of us have witnessed, is incompatible surely with much intelligence. The sad fate of their unfortunate companions does not in the least deter others who approach the tempting lure from madly alighting on the bodies of the dying and dead, to share the same miserable end. No one can understand the extent of their infatuation until he has seen a confectioner's shop assailed by myriads of hungry bees. I have seen thousands strained out from the syrup in which they had perished; thousands more alighting even upon the boiling sweets, the floor covered and windows darkened with bees, some crawling, others flying, and others still, so completely besmeared as to be able neither to crawl nor fly, not one in ten able to carry home its ill-gotten spoils, and yet the air filled with new hosts of thoughtless comers.
It is sometimes said of bees that those of one hive all know one another, and immediately recognise and attack any intruder from another hive. At first sight this certainly implies a great deal of intelligence. It is, however, possible that the bees of particular hives have a particular smell. Thus Langshaft, in his interesting 'Treatise on the Honey-Bee,' says: 'Members of different colonies appear to recognise their hive companions by the sense of smell; and I believe that if colonies are sprinkled with scented syrup, they may generally be safely mixed. Moreover, a bee returning to its own hive with a load of treasure is a very different creature from a hungry marauder; and it is said that a bee, if laden with honey, is allowed to enter any hive with impunity.' Mr. Langshaft continues, 'There is an air of roguery about a thieving bee which, to the expert, is ascharacteristic as are the motions of a pickpocket to a skilful policeman. Its sneaking look, and nervous, guilty agitation, once seen, can never be mistaken.' It is, at any rate, natural that a bee which enters a wrong hive by accident should be much surprised and alarmed, and would thus probably betray herself.
On the whole, then, I do not attach much importance to their recognition of one another as an indication of intelligence.
Since their extreme eagerness for honey may be attributed rather to their anxiety for the common weal than to their desire for personal gratification, it cannot fairly be imputed as greediness; still the following scene, one which most of us have witnessed, is incompatible surely with much intelligence. The sad fate of their unfortunate companions does not in the least deter others who approach the tempting lure from madly alighting on the bodies of the dying and dead, to share the same miserable end. No one can understand the extent of their infatuation until he has seen a confectioner's shop assailed by myriads of hungry bees. I have seen thousands strained out from the syrup in which they had perished; thousands more alighting even upon the boiling sweets, the floor covered and windows darkened with bees, some crawling, others flying, and others still, so completely besmeared as to be able neither to crawl nor fly, not one in ten able to carry home its ill-gotten spoils, and yet the air filled with new hosts of thoughtless comers.
Passing on now to the statements of other observers, Huber first noticed the remarkable fact that when beehives are attacked by the death's-head moth the bees close the entrance of their hive with wax and propolis to keep out the marauder. The barricade, which is built immediately behind the gateway, completely stops it up—only a small hole being left large enough to admit a bee, and therefore of course too small to admit the moth. Huber specially states that it was not until the beehives had beenrepeatedlyattacked and robbed by the death's-head moth, that the bees closed the entrance of their hive with wax and propolis.Pureinstinct would have induced the bees to provide against the first attack. Huber also observed that a wall built in 1804 against the death's-head hawk-moth was destroyed in 1805. In the latter year there were no death's-head moths, nor were any seen during the following. But in the autumn of 1807 a large number again appeared, and the bees at once protectedthemselves against their enemies. The bulwark was destroyed again in 1808.
Again, Huber (loc. cit., tom. ii., p. 280) gives a case of apparent exercise of reason, or power of inference from a particular case to other and general cases. A piece of comb fell down and was fixed in its new position by wax. The bees then strengthened the attachments of all the other combs, clearly because they inferred that they too might be in danger of falling. This is a very remarkable case, and leads Huber to exclaim, 'I admit that I was unable to avoid a feeling of astonishment in the presence of a fact from which the purest reason seemed to shine out.'
A closely similar, and therefore corroborative case of an even more remarkable kind is thus narrated in Watson's 'Reasoning Power of Animals' (p. 448):—
Dr. Brown, in his book on the bee, gives another illustration of the reasoning power of bees, observed by a friend of his. A centre comb in a hive, being overburdened with honey, had parted from its fastenings, and was pressing against another comb, so as to prevent the passage of the bees between them. This accident excited great bustle in the colony, and as soon as their proceedings could be observed, it was found that they had constructed two horizontal beams between the two combs, and had removed enough of the honey and wax above them to admit the passage of a bee, while the detached comb had been secured by another beam, and fastened to the window with spare wax. But what was most remarkable was, that, when the comb was thus fixed, they removed the horizontal beams first constructed, as being of no further use. The whole occupation took about ten days.
Dr. Brown, in his book on the bee, gives another illustration of the reasoning power of bees, observed by a friend of his. A centre comb in a hive, being overburdened with honey, had parted from its fastenings, and was pressing against another comb, so as to prevent the passage of the bees between them. This accident excited great bustle in the colony, and as soon as their proceedings could be observed, it was found that they had constructed two horizontal beams between the two combs, and had removed enough of the honey and wax above them to admit the passage of a bee, while the detached comb had been secured by another beam, and fastened to the window with spare wax. But what was most remarkable was, that, when the comb was thus fixed, they removed the horizontal beams first constructed, as being of no further use. The whole occupation took about ten days.
Again, Mr. Darwin's MS. quotes from Sir B. Brodie's 'Psychological Inquiries' (1854, p. 88) the following case, which is analogous to the above, except that the supports required had to be made in a vertical instead of in a horizontal direction:—
On one occasion, when a large portion of the honeycomb had been broken off, they pursued another course. The fragment had somehow become fixed in the middle of the hive, and the bees immediately began to erect a new structure of comb on the floor, so placed as to form a pillar supporting the fragment,and preventing its further descent. They then filled up the space above, joining the comb which had become detached to that from which it had been separated, and they concluded their labours by removing the newly constructed comb below, thus proving that they had intended it to answer a merely temporary purpose.
On one occasion, when a large portion of the honeycomb had been broken off, they pursued another course. The fragment had somehow become fixed in the middle of the hive, and the bees immediately began to erect a new structure of comb on the floor, so placed as to form a pillar supporting the fragment,and preventing its further descent. They then filled up the space above, joining the comb which had become detached to that from which it had been separated, and they concluded their labours by removing the newly constructed comb below, thus proving that they had intended it to answer a merely temporary purpose.
Similarly, Dr. Dzierzon, an experienced keeper of bees, and the observer who first discovered the fact of their parthenogenesis, makes the general remark,—
The cleverness of the bees in repairing perfectly injuries to their cells and combs, in supporting on pillars pieces of their building accidentally knocked down by a hasty push, in fastening them with rivets, and bringing everything again into proper unity, making hanging bridges, chains, and ladders, compels our astonishment.
The cleverness of the bees in repairing perfectly injuries to their cells and combs, in supporting on pillars pieces of their building accidentally knocked down by a hasty push, in fastening them with rivets, and bringing everything again into proper unity, making hanging bridges, chains, and ladders, compels our astonishment.
Lastly, as still further corroboration of such facts, I shall quote the following from Jesse's 'Gleanings:'[65]—
Bees show great ingenuity in obviating the inconvenience they experience from the slipperiness of glass, and certainly beyond what we can conceive that mere instinct would enable them to do. I am in the habit of putting small glass globes on the top of my straw hives, for the purpose of having them filled with honey; and I have invariably found that before the bees commence the construction of combs, they place a great number of spots of wax at regular distances from each other, which serve as so many footstools on the slippery glass, each bee resting on one of these with its middle pair of legs, while the fore claws were hooked with the hind ones of the bee next above him; thus forming a ladder, by means of which the workers were enabled to reach the top, and begin to make their combs there.
Bees show great ingenuity in obviating the inconvenience they experience from the slipperiness of glass, and certainly beyond what we can conceive that mere instinct would enable them to do. I am in the habit of putting small glass globes on the top of my straw hives, for the purpose of having them filled with honey; and I have invariably found that before the bees commence the construction of combs, they place a great number of spots of wax at regular distances from each other, which serve as so many footstools on the slippery glass, each bee resting on one of these with its middle pair of legs, while the fore claws were hooked with the hind ones of the bee next above him; thus forming a ladder, by means of which the workers were enabled to reach the top, and begin to make their combs there.
Herr Kleine, in his pamphlet on Italian Bees and Bee-keeping (Berlin, 1855), says that on substituting during the absence of the bees a hive filled with empty comb for their own hive, the returning bees exhibit the utmost perplexity. As the substituted hive stands in the exact spot previously occupied by their own hive, the returning bees fly into it without observing the change. But finding only empty combs inside, 'they stop, do not knowwhere they are, come out of the hole again without depositing their loads, fly off, look most carefully round the stand to assure themselves that they have made no mistake, and go in once more when convinced that they are at the right place. The same thing is repeated over and over again, until the bees at last bow to the incomprehensible and unavoidable, lay down their loads, and set to work at those tasks made necessary by the new circumstances of the hive. But as all the newly arriving bees behave in similar fashion, the disturbance lasts till late in the evening, and the uncertainty and anxiety of the bees is so great that the bee-master cannot contemplate it without deep sympathy.' Under such circumstances the bees take quickly to a substituted queen; 'for the feeling of the first comers that they have no right to the new dwelling, having, as they suppose, made some inexplicable mistake which they cannot remedy, prevents them from feeling any hostility to the new queen which they find; they probably consider themselves as merely on sufferance, and feel that they should be grateful that no action is taken against them for their illegal entry, as generally happens in bee-experience.' Hence the writer adopts this device when he desires to exchange or substitute queens.
Büchner, after alluding to this case, supplements it with the following:—
The wind threw down from the stand of a bee-master—a friend of the author's, whose name will soon become known—a straw beehive, the inmates of which were surprised in full work, and no small disorder in the interior was the result. The owner repaired the hive, put the loose comb back in its place, and replaced it in such a manner that the wind could not again catch it, hoping that the accident would have no further results. But when he examined the hive a few days later, he found that the bees had left their old home in the lurch, and had tried to enter other hives, clearly because they could no longer trust the weather, and feared that the terrible accident might again befall them.
The wind threw down from the stand of a bee-master—a friend of the author's, whose name will soon become known—a straw beehive, the inmates of which were surprised in full work, and no small disorder in the interior was the result. The owner repaired the hive, put the loose comb back in its place, and replaced it in such a manner that the wind could not again catch it, hoping that the accident would have no further results. But when he examined the hive a few days later, he found that the bees had left their old home in the lurch, and had tried to enter other hives, clearly because they could no longer trust the weather, and feared that the terrible accident might again befall them.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin, in his 'Zoonomia,' asserts that bees, when transported to Barbadoes, where there is nowinter, cease to lay up honey. In contradiction to this statement, however, Kirby and Spence say, 'It is known to every naturalist acquainted with the fact, that many different species of bees store up honey in the hottest climates, and that there is no authentic instance on record of the hive-bees altering in any age or climate their peculiar operations.'
On the other hand, more recent observation has shown that Dr. Darwin's statement is probably correct. For, according to a note inNature,[66]European bees, when transported to Australia, retain their industrious habits only for the first two or three years. After that time they gradually cease to collect honey till they become wholly idle. In a subsequent number of the same periodical (p. 411) a correspondent writes that the same fact is observable with bees transported to California, but is obviated by abstracting honey as the bees collect it.
There seems to be no doubt that bees and wasps are able to distinguish between persons, and even to recognise those whom they are accustomed to see, and to regard as friends. Bee-masters who attend much to their bees, so as to give the insects a good chance of knowing them, are generally of the opinion that the insects do know them, as shown by the comparatively sparing use of their stings. Again, many instances might be quoted, such as that given by Guerinzius,[67]who allowed a species of wasp native to Natal to build in the doorposts of his house, and who observed that although he often interfered with the nest, he was only once stung, and this by a young wasp; while no Caffre could venture to approach the door, much less to pass through it.[68]This power of distinguishing between persons indicates a higher order of intelligence than we might have expected to meet with among insects; and, according to Bingley, bees will not only learn to distinguish persons, but even lend themselves to tuition by those whom they know. For he says,'Mr. Wildman, whose remarks on the management of bees are well known, possessed a secret by which he could at any time cause a hive of bees to swarm upon his head, shoulders, or body, in a most surprising manner. He has been seen to drink a glass of wine with the bees all over his head and face more than an inch deep; several fell into the glass, but did not sting him. He could even act the part of a general with them, by marshalling them in battle array on a large table. Then he divided them into regiments, battalions, and companies, according to military discipline, waiting only for his word of command. The moment he uttered the wordmarch!they began to march in a very regular manner in rank and file, like soldiers. To these, his Lilliputians, he also taught so much politeness that they never attempted to sting any of the numerous company which, at different times, resorted to admire this singular spectacle.'
Huber's observation, since amply confirmed, of bees biting holes through the base of corollas in order to get at the honey which the length of the corollas prevent them from reaching in the ordinary way, also seems to indicate a rational adjustment to unusual circumstances. For the bees do not resort to this expedient until they find from trial that they cannot reach the nectar from above; but having once ascertained this, they forthwith proceed to pierce the bottoms of all the flowers of the same species. From an interesting account by Mr. Francis Darwin[69](unfortunately too long to quote) it appears that, even when the nectar may be reached from above, bees may still resort to the expedient of biting through corollas in order to save time.
In connection with biting holes in corollas I may quote an observation communicated to me by a correspondent, Sir J. Clarke Jervoise. Speaking of a humble-bee, he says: 'I watched him into the flower of a foxglove, and, when out of sight, I closed the lips of the flower with my finger and thumb. He did not hesitate a moment, but cut his way out at the further end as if he had been served the same trick before. I never did it.'
Bees are highly particular in the matter of keeping their hives pure, and their sanitary arrangements often exhibit intelligence of a high order.
The following is quoted from Büchner (loc. cit., p. 248):—
Impure air within the hive is that which the bees must above all things fear and avoid, for with the pressure together of so many individuals in a comparatively small space, it would not only be directly harmful to individual bees, but would produce among them dangerous diseases. They therefore also never void their excrements within, but always outside the hive. While this is very easy to do in summer, it is, on the contrary, very difficult in the winter, when the bees sit close together and generally motionless in the upper part of the hive, and when, from impure air and foul evaporations, as well as from bad and insufficient food, dysentery-like diseases break out among them, and often carry off the whole community in a brief space of time. In such cases they utilise the first fine day to relieve themselves, and in the spring they take a long general cleansing flight. But they also know how to take advantage of special circumstances so as to perform the process of purification in the way least harmful to the hive. Herr Heinrich Lehr, of Darmstadt, a bee-keeping friend of the author, has sent the following communication:—During an epidemic of dysentery in winter, from which most of his hives suffered (as the bees were no longer able to retain their excrements), one hive suffered less than the others. Exact investigation showed that this hive was soiled all over at the back with the excrement of the bees, and that the inmates had here made a kind of drain. On this spot a little opening had been made by the falling off of the covering clay, which led directly to the upper part of the hive, where the bees were accustomed to sit together during the winter. This excellent opportunity, whereby they could reach in the shortest way an otherwise difficult object, and one rendered complicated by circumstances, did not escape them.
Impure air within the hive is that which the bees must above all things fear and avoid, for with the pressure together of so many individuals in a comparatively small space, it would not only be directly harmful to individual bees, but would produce among them dangerous diseases. They therefore also never void their excrements within, but always outside the hive. While this is very easy to do in summer, it is, on the contrary, very difficult in the winter, when the bees sit close together and generally motionless in the upper part of the hive, and when, from impure air and foul evaporations, as well as from bad and insufficient food, dysentery-like diseases break out among them, and often carry off the whole community in a brief space of time. In such cases they utilise the first fine day to relieve themselves, and in the spring they take a long general cleansing flight. But they also know how to take advantage of special circumstances so as to perform the process of purification in the way least harmful to the hive. Herr Heinrich Lehr, of Darmstadt, a bee-keeping friend of the author, has sent the following communication:—During an epidemic of dysentery in winter, from which most of his hives suffered (as the bees were no longer able to retain their excrements), one hive suffered less than the others. Exact investigation showed that this hive was soiled all over at the back with the excrement of the bees, and that the inmates had here made a kind of drain. On this spot a little opening had been made by the falling off of the covering clay, which led directly to the upper part of the hive, where the bees were accustomed to sit together during the winter. This excellent opportunity, whereby they could reach in the shortest way an otherwise difficult object, and one rendered complicated by circumstances, did not escape them.
It sometimes happens that mice, slugs, &c., enter a beehive. They are then killed and covered with a coating of propolis. Réaumur says[70]that he once saw a snail enter a hive in this way. The hard shell was an effective protection against the stings of the bees, so the insects smeared round the edges of the shell with wax andresin, fastening down the animal to the wall of the hive, so that it died of starvation or want of air. If the encasing of an animal (such as a mouse) with propolis is not sufficient to prevent its putrefaction, the bees gnaw away all the putrescible parts of the carcass and carry them out of the hive, leaving only the skeleton behind. The dead bodies of their companions are also carried out of the hive and deposited at a distance. There is no question about this fact (which it will be remembered is analogous to that already mentioned in the case of ants); according to Büchner, however, bees not only remove their dead, but also, occasionally at least, bury them. But as he gives very inadequate evidence in support of this assertion, we may safely set it aside as insufficiently proven.
Büchner, however, gives an admirable summary, and makes some judicious remarks on the well-known and highly remarkable habit which bees practise for the obvious purpose of ventilating their hives. As this account gives all the facts in a brief compass, I cannot do better than quote it:—
Very interesting, and closely connected with this characteristic of cleanliness, is the conduct of the so-called ventilating-bees, which have to take care that in summer or hot weather the air necessary for respiration of the bees in the interior of the hive is renewed, and the too high temperature cooled down. The latter precaution is necessary, not only on account of the bees working within the hive, to whom, as already said, a temperature risen beyond a certain point would be intolerable, but also to guard against the melting or softening of the wax. The bees charged with the care of the ventilation divide themselves into rows and stages in regular order through all parts of the hive, and by swift fanning of their wings send little currents of air in such fashion that a powerful stream or change of air passes through all parts of the hive. Other bees stand at the mouth of the hive, which fan in the same way and considerably accelerate the wind from within. The current of air thus caused is so strong that little bits of paper hung in front of the mouth are rapidly moved, and that, according to F. Huber, a lighted match is extinguished. The wind can be distinctly felt if the hand be held in front.The motion of the wings of the ventilating bees is so rapid that it is scarcely perceptible, and Huber saw some bees workingtheir wings in this way for five-and-twenty minutes. When they are tired they are relieved by others. According to Jesse, the bees in very hot weather, in spite of all their efforts, are unable to sufficiently lower the temperature, and prevent the melting of some of the wax; they then get into a condition of great excitement, and it is dangerous to approach them. In such a case they also try to mend matters by a number leaving the hive and settling in large masses on its surface, so as to protect it as much as possible from the scorching rays of the sun.Although the described plan of ventilation is remarkable enough in itself, it is yet more remarkable in that it is clearly only the result of bee-keeping, and is evoked by this misfortune. For there could be no need of such ventilation for bees in a state of nature, whose dwellings in hollow trees and clefts of rocks leave nothing to be desired as to roominess and airiness, while in the narrow artificial hive this need at once comes out strongly. In fact, the fanning of the bees almost entirely ceased when Huber brought them into large hives five feet high, in which there was plenty of air. It follows, therefore, that the fanning and ventilating can have absolutely nothing to do with an inborn tendency or instinct, but have been gradually evoked by necessity, thought, and experience.
Very interesting, and closely connected with this characteristic of cleanliness, is the conduct of the so-called ventilating-bees, which have to take care that in summer or hot weather the air necessary for respiration of the bees in the interior of the hive is renewed, and the too high temperature cooled down. The latter precaution is necessary, not only on account of the bees working within the hive, to whom, as already said, a temperature risen beyond a certain point would be intolerable, but also to guard against the melting or softening of the wax. The bees charged with the care of the ventilation divide themselves into rows and stages in regular order through all parts of the hive, and by swift fanning of their wings send little currents of air in such fashion that a powerful stream or change of air passes through all parts of the hive. Other bees stand at the mouth of the hive, which fan in the same way and considerably accelerate the wind from within. The current of air thus caused is so strong that little bits of paper hung in front of the mouth are rapidly moved, and that, according to F. Huber, a lighted match is extinguished. The wind can be distinctly felt if the hand be held in front.
The motion of the wings of the ventilating bees is so rapid that it is scarcely perceptible, and Huber saw some bees workingtheir wings in this way for five-and-twenty minutes. When they are tired they are relieved by others. According to Jesse, the bees in very hot weather, in spite of all their efforts, are unable to sufficiently lower the temperature, and prevent the melting of some of the wax; they then get into a condition of great excitement, and it is dangerous to approach them. In such a case they also try to mend matters by a number leaving the hive and settling in large masses on its surface, so as to protect it as much as possible from the scorching rays of the sun.
Although the described plan of ventilation is remarkable enough in itself, it is yet more remarkable in that it is clearly only the result of bee-keeping, and is evoked by this misfortune. For there could be no need of such ventilation for bees in a state of nature, whose dwellings in hollow trees and clefts of rocks leave nothing to be desired as to roominess and airiness, while in the narrow artificial hive this need at once comes out strongly. In fact, the fanning of the bees almost entirely ceased when Huber brought them into large hives five feet high, in which there was plenty of air. It follows, therefore, that the fanning and ventilating can have absolutely nothing to do with an inborn tendency or instinct, but have been gradually evoked by necessity, thought, and experience.
As the following observation on the cautious sagacity of wasps is, so far as I am aware, new, and as it certainly does not admit of mal-observation, I introduce it on the authority of a correspondent, the Rev. Mr. J. W. Mossman, who writes from Tarrington Rectory, Wragby. He found an apple in his orchard which had fallen from a tree in apparently good condition; but on taking it up observed that it was little more than a shell filled with wasps. Giving the apple a shake, he saw a wasp slowly emerging from a single small aperture in the rind:—
This aperture was sufficient, and only just sufficient, to admit of the ingress or egress of a single wasp. The circumstance which struck me as very remarkable was this—that the wasp did not make its way through the aperture with its head first, as I should have expected, but with its tail, darting out its sting to its utmost extent, and brandishing it furiously. In this manner it came out of the apple backwards. Then, finding itself in the open air upon the outer surface of the apple, it turned round, and without any attempt to molest me, flew off in the usual way. The moment this first wasp had emerged, the stingand tail of another was seen protruding. This, too, I watched with much interest, and exactly the same process was repeated as in the case of the first. I held the apple in my hand until some ten or a dozen wasps had made their exit in the same identical manner in each individual case. I then threw down the apple, inside of which, however, there were still apparently a good many wasps.It seemed to me at the time, and I have always felt since, that the wasps coming out of the apple backwards, brandishing their stings as a defensive weapon against possible enemies, whom of course they were not able to see, was an evidence of what would be called thought and reflection in the case of human beings. It seems to me that these wasps must have reflected that if they came out of the narrow aperture in the apple, which was their only possible means of ready egress, in the usual manner, head first, they might be taken at a disadvantage by a possible enemy, and destroyed in detail. They, therefore, with great prudence and foresight, came out of the apple backwards, protecting themselves by means of their chief offensive and defensive weapons, their stings, which, according to their normal method of locomotion, would have been useless to them as long as they were making their exit.
This aperture was sufficient, and only just sufficient, to admit of the ingress or egress of a single wasp. The circumstance which struck me as very remarkable was this—that the wasp did not make its way through the aperture with its head first, as I should have expected, but with its tail, darting out its sting to its utmost extent, and brandishing it furiously. In this manner it came out of the apple backwards. Then, finding itself in the open air upon the outer surface of the apple, it turned round, and without any attempt to molest me, flew off in the usual way. The moment this first wasp had emerged, the stingand tail of another was seen protruding. This, too, I watched with much interest, and exactly the same process was repeated as in the case of the first. I held the apple in my hand until some ten or a dozen wasps had made their exit in the same identical manner in each individual case. I then threw down the apple, inside of which, however, there were still apparently a good many wasps.
It seemed to me at the time, and I have always felt since, that the wasps coming out of the apple backwards, brandishing their stings as a defensive weapon against possible enemies, whom of course they were not able to see, was an evidence of what would be called thought and reflection in the case of human beings. It seems to me that these wasps must have reflected that if they came out of the narrow aperture in the apple, which was their only possible means of ready egress, in the usual manner, head first, they might be taken at a disadvantage by a possible enemy, and destroyed in detail. They, therefore, with great prudence and foresight, came out of the apple backwards, protecting themselves by means of their chief offensive and defensive weapons, their stings, which, according to their normal method of locomotion, would have been useless to them as long as they were making their exit.
With regard to the tactics displayed by hunting wasps I may quote the following cases:—
Mr. Seth Green, writing to theNew York Worldof May 14, says that one morning when he was watching a spider's nest, a wasp alighted within an inch or two of the nest, on the side opposite the opening. Creeping noiselessly around towards the entrance of the nest the wasp stopped a little short of it, and for a moment remained perfectly quiet; then reaching out one of his antennæ he wriggled it before the opening and withdrew it. This overture had the desired effect, for the boss of the nest, as large a spider as one ordinarily sees, came out to see what was wrong and to set it to rights. No sooner had the spider emerged to that point at which he was at the worst disadvantage than the wasp, with a quick movement, thrust his sting into the body of his foe, killing him easily and almost instantly. The experiment was repeated on the part of the wasp, and when there was no response from the inside he became satisfied, probably, that he held the fort. At all events, he proceeded to enter the nest and slaughter the young spiders, which were afterwards lugged off one at a time.
Mr. Seth Green, writing to theNew York Worldof May 14, says that one morning when he was watching a spider's nest, a wasp alighted within an inch or two of the nest, on the side opposite the opening. Creeping noiselessly around towards the entrance of the nest the wasp stopped a little short of it, and for a moment remained perfectly quiet; then reaching out one of his antennæ he wriggled it before the opening and withdrew it. This overture had the desired effect, for the boss of the nest, as large a spider as one ordinarily sees, came out to see what was wrong and to set it to rights. No sooner had the spider emerged to that point at which he was at the worst disadvantage than the wasp, with a quick movement, thrust his sting into the body of his foe, killing him easily and almost instantly. The experiment was repeated on the part of the wasp, and when there was no response from the inside he became satisfied, probably, that he held the fort. At all events, he proceeded to enter the nest and slaughter the young spiders, which were afterwards lugged off one at a time.
Mr. Henry Cecil writes as follows (Nature, vol. xviii., p. 311):—
I was sitting one summer's afternoon at an open window (my bedroom) looking into a garden, when I was surprised to observe a large and rare species of spider run across the window-sill in a crouching attitude. It struck me the spider was evidently alarmed, or it would not have so fearlessly approached me. It hastened to conceal itself under the projecting ledge of the window-sill inside the room, and had hardly done so when a very fine large hunting wasp buzzed in at the open window and flew about the room, evidently in search of something. Finding nothing, the wasp returned to the open window and settled on the window-sill, running backwards and forwards as a dog does when looking or searching for a lost scent. It soon alighted on the track of the poor spider, and in a moment it discovered its hiding-place, darted down on it, and no doubt inflicted a wound with its sting. The spider rushed off again, and this time took refuge under the bed, trying to conceal itself under the framework or planks which supported the mattress. The same scene occurred here; the wasp now appeared to follow the spider by sight, but ran backwards and forwards in large circles like a hound. The moment the trail of the spider was found the wasp followed all the turns it had made till it came on it again. The poor spider was chased from hiding-place to hiding-place, out of the bedroom, across a passage, and into the middle of another large room, where it finally succumbed to the repeated stings inflicted by the wasp. Rolling itself up into a ball the wasp then took possession of its prey, and after ascertaining it could make no resistance, tucked it up under itsvery long hind legs, just as a hawk or eagle carries off its quarry, when I interposed and secured both for my collection.
I was sitting one summer's afternoon at an open window (my bedroom) looking into a garden, when I was surprised to observe a large and rare species of spider run across the window-sill in a crouching attitude. It struck me the spider was evidently alarmed, or it would not have so fearlessly approached me. It hastened to conceal itself under the projecting ledge of the window-sill inside the room, and had hardly done so when a very fine large hunting wasp buzzed in at the open window and flew about the room, evidently in search of something. Finding nothing, the wasp returned to the open window and settled on the window-sill, running backwards and forwards as a dog does when looking or searching for a lost scent. It soon alighted on the track of the poor spider, and in a moment it discovered its hiding-place, darted down on it, and no doubt inflicted a wound with its sting. The spider rushed off again, and this time took refuge under the bed, trying to conceal itself under the framework or planks which supported the mattress. The same scene occurred here; the wasp now appeared to follow the spider by sight, but ran backwards and forwards in large circles like a hound. The moment the trail of the spider was found the wasp followed all the turns it had made till it came on it again. The poor spider was chased from hiding-place to hiding-place, out of the bedroom, across a passage, and into the middle of another large room, where it finally succumbed to the repeated stings inflicted by the wasp. Rolling itself up into a ball the wasp then took possession of its prey, and after ascertaining it could make no resistance, tucked it up under itsvery long hind legs, just as a hawk or eagle carries off its quarry, when I interposed and secured both for my collection.
Mr. Belt, in his work already frequently quoted, gives the following account of a struggle which not unfrequently occurs between wasps and ants for the sweet secretion of 'frog-hoppers:'—