Even so do several nymphs spin round and round when disturbed, notably that of _Ægosomus scabricornis_ which I have now before my eyes in July. It is always a fresh surprise to see these mummies suddenly throw off their immobility and gyrate on their own axis with a mechanism whose secret deserves to be fathomed. The science of rational mechanics might find something here to whet its finest theories upon. The strength and litheness of a clown cannot compare with those of this budding flesh, this hardly coagulated glair.
Once isolated in its cell, the larva of the Necrophorus becomes a nymph in ten days or so. I lack the evidence furnished by direct observation, but the story is completed of itself. The Necrophorus must assume the adult form in the course of the summer; like the Dung-beetle, he must enjoy in the autumn a few days of revelry free from family cares. Then, when the cold weather draws near, he goes to earth in his winter quarters, whence he emerges as soon as spring arrives.
CHAPTER XII THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS
Let us come to the feats of reason which have earned for the Necrophorus the best part of his fame and, to begin with, submit the case related by Clairville, that of the too hard soil and the call for assistance, to the test of experiment.
With this object I pave the centre of the space beneath the cover, flush with the soil, with a brick, which I sprinkle with a thin layer of sand. This will be the soil that cannot be dug. All around it, for some distance and on the same level, lies the loose soil, which is easy to delve.
In order to approach the conditions of the anecdote, I must have a Mouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the removal would perhaps present too much difficulty. To obtain one, I place my friends and neighbours under requisition; they laugh at my whim but none the less proffer their traps. Yet, the moment a very common thing is needed, it becomes rare. Defying decency in his speech, after the manner of his ancestors' Latin, the Provençal says, but even more crudely than in my translation:
"If you look for dung, the Donkeys become constipated!"
At last I possess the Mouse of my dreams! She comes to me from that refuge, furnished with a truss of straw, in which official charity grants a day's hospitality to the pauper wandering over the face of the fertile earth, from that municipal hostel whence one inevitably issues covered with Lice. O Réaumur,[1] who used to invite marchionesses to see your caterpillars change their skins, what would you have said of a future disciple conversant with such squalor as this? Perhaps it is well that we should not be ignorant of it, so that we may have compassion with that of the beast.