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It is not enough that animal industry should be able, to a certain
extent, to adapt itself to casual exigencies when choosing the site
of a nest; if the race is to thrive, something else is required,
something which hide-bound instinct is unable to provide. The
Chaffinch, for instance, introduces a great quantity of lichen into
the outer layer of his nest. This is his method of strengthening the
edifice and making a stout framework in which to place first the
bottom mattress of moss, fine straw and rootlets and then the soft
bed of feathers, wool and down. But, should the time-honoured lichen
be lacking, will the bird refrain from building its nest? Will it
forgo the delight of hatching its brood because it has not the
wherewithal to settle its family in the orthodox fashion?

No, the chaffinch is not perplexed by so small a matter; he is an
expert in materials, he understands botanical equivalents. In the
absence of the branches of the evernias, he picks the long beards of
the usneas, the wartlike rosettes of the parmelias, the membranes of
the stictises torn away in shreds; if he can find nothing better, he
makes shift with the bushy tufts of the cladonias. As a practical
lichenologist, when one species is rare or lacking in the
neighbourhood, he is able to fall back on others, varying greatly in
shape, colour and texture. And, if the impossible happened and lichen
failed entirely, I credit the Chaffinch with sufficient talent to be
able to dispense with it and to build the foundations of his nest
with some coarse moss or other.

What the worker in lichens tells us the other weavers of textile
materials confirm. Each has his favourite flora, which hardly ever
varies when the plant is easily accessible and which can be
supplemented by plenty of others when it is not. The bird's botany
would be worth examining; it would be interesting to draw up the
industrial herbal of each species. In this connection, I will quote
just one instance, so as not to stray too far from the subject in

The Red-backed Shrike (Lanius collurio), the commonest variety in my
district, is noteworthy because of his savage mania for forked
gibbets, the thorns in the hedgerows whereon he impales the
voluminous contents of his game-bag--little half-fledged birds, small
Lizards, Grasshoppers, caterpillars, Beetles--and leaves them to get
high. To this passion for the gallows, which has passed unnoticed by
the country-folk, at least in my part, he adds another, an innocent
botanical passion, which is so much in evidence that everybody, down
to the youngest bird's-nester, knows all about it. His nest, a
massive structure, is made of hardly any other materials than a
greyish and very fluffy plant, which is found everywhere among the
corn. This is the Filago spathulata of the botanists; and the bird
also makes use, though less frequently, of the Filago germanica, or
common cotton-rose. Both are known in Provencal by the name herbo dou
tarnagas, or Shrike-herb. This popular designation tells us plainly
how faithful the bird is to its plant. To have struck the
agricultural labourer, a very indifferent observer, the Shrike's
choice of materials must be remarkably persistent.

Have we here a taste that is exclusive? Not in the least. Though
cotton-roses of all species are plentiful on level ground, they
become scarce and impossible to find on the parched hills. The bird,
on its side, is not given to journeys of exploration and takes what
it finds to suit it in the neighbourhood of its tree or hedge. But on
arid ground, the Micropus erectus, or upright micropus, abounds and
is a satisfactory substitute for the Filago so far as its tiny,
cottony leaves and its little fluffy balls of flowers are concerned.
True, it is short and does not lend itself well to weaver's work. A
few long sprigs of another cottony plant, the Helichrysum staechas,
or wild everlasting, inserted here and there, will give body to the
structure. Thus does the Shrike manage when hard up for his favourite
materials: keeping to the same botanical family, he is able to find
and employ substitutes among the fine cotton-clad stalks.

He is even able to leave the family of the Compositae and to go
gleaning more or less everywhere. Here is the result of my
botanizings at the expense of his nests. We must distinguish between
two genera in the Shrike's rough classification: the cottony plants
and the smooth plants. Among the first, my notes mention the
following: Convolvulus cantabrica, or flax-leaved bindweed; Lotus
symmetricus, or bird's-foot trefoil; Teucrium polium, or poly; and
the flowery heads of the Phragmites communis, or common reed. Among
the second are these: Medicago lupulina, or nonesuch; Trifolium
repens, or white clover; Lathyrus pratensis, or meadow lathyrus;
Capsella bursa pastoris, or shepherd's purse; Vicia peregrina, or
broad-podded vetch; Convolvulus arvensis, or small bindweed;
Pterotheca nemausensis, a sort of hawkweed; and Poa pratensis, or
smooth-stalked meadow-grass. When it is downy, the plant forms almost
the whole nest, as is the case with the flax-leaved bindweed; when
smooth, it forms only the framework, destined to support a crumbling
mass of micropus, as is the case with the small bindweed. When making
this collection, which I am far from giving as the birds' complete
herbarium, I was struck by a wholly unexpected detail: of the various
plants, I found only the heads still in bud; moreover, all the
sprigs, though dry, possessed the green colouring of the growing
plant, a sign of swift desiccation in the sun. Save in a few cases,
therefore, the Shrike does not collect the dead and withered remains:
it is from the growing plants that he reaps his harvest, mowing them
down with his beak and leaving the sheaves to dry in the sun before
using them. I caught him one day hopping about and pecking at the
twigs of a Biscayan bindweed. He was getting in his hay, strewing the
ground with it.

The evidence of the Shrike, confirmed by that of all the other
workers--weavers, basket-makers or woodcutters--whom we may care to
call as witnesses, shows us what a large part must be assigned to
discernment in the bird's choice of materials for its nest. Is the
insect as highly gifted? When it works with vegetable matter, is it
exclusive in its tastes? Does it know only one definite plant, its
special province? Or has it, for employment in its manufactures, a
varied flora, in which its discernment exercises a free choice? For
answers to these questions we may look, above all, to the Leaf-
cutting Bees, the Megachiles. Reaumur has told the story of their
industry in detail; and I refer the reader who wishes for further
particulars to the master's Memoirs.

The man who knows how to use his eyes in his garden will observe,
some day or other, a number of curious holes in the leaves of his
lilac- and rose-trees, some of them round, some oval, as if idle but
skilful hands had been at work with the pinking-iron. In some places,
there is scarcely anything but the veins of the leaves left. The
author of the mischief is a grey-clad Bee, a Megachile. For scissors,
she has her mandibles; for compasses, producing now an oval and anon
a circle, she has her eye and the pivot of her body. The pieces cut
out are made into thimble-shaped wallets, destined to contain the
honey and the egg: the larger, oval pieces supply the floor and
sides; the smaller, round pieces are reserved for the lid. A row of
these thimbles, placed one on top of the other, up to a dozen or
more, though often there are less: that is, roughly, the structure of
the Leaf-cutter's nest.

When taken out of the recess in which the mother has manufactured it,
the cylinder of cells seems to be an indivisible whole, a sort of
tunnel obtained by lining with leaves some gallery dug underground.
The real thing does not correspond with its appearance: under the
least pressure of the fingers, the cylinder breaks up into equal
sections, which are so many compartments independent of their
neighbours as regards both floor and lid. This spontaneous break up
shows us how the work is done. The method agrees with those adopted
by the other Bees. Instead of a general scabbard of leaves,
afterwards subdivided into compartments by transverse partitions, the
Megachile constructs a string of separate wallets, each of which is
finished before the next is begun.

A structure of this sort needs a sheath to keep the pieces in place
while giving them the proper shape. The bag of leaves, in fact, as
turned out by the worker, lacks stability; its numerous pieces, not
glued together, but simply placed one after the other, come apart and
give way as soon as they lose the support of the tunnel that keeps
them united. Later, when it spins its cocoon, the larva infuses a
little of its fluid silk into the gaps and solders the pieces to one
another, especially the inner ones, so much so that the insecure bag
in due course becomes a solid casket whose component parts it is no
longer possible to separate entirely.

The protective sheath, which is also a framework, is not the work of
the mother. Like the great majority of the Osmiae, the Megachiles do
not understand the art of making themselves a home straight away:
they want a borrowed lodging, which may vary considerably in
character. The deserted galleries of the Anthophorae, the burrows of
the fat Earth-worms, the tunnels bored in the trunks of trees by the
larva of the Cerambyx-beetle (The Capricorn, the essay on which has
not yet been published in English.--Translator's Note.), the ruined
dwellings of the Mason-bee of the Pebbles, the Snail-shell nests of
the Three-horned Osmia, reed-stumps, when these are handy, and
crevices in the walls are all so many homes for the Leaf-cutters, who
choose this or that establishment according to the tastes of their
particular genus.

For the sake of clearness, let us cease generalizing and direct our
attention to a definite species. I first selected the White-girdled
Leaf-cutter (Megachile albocincta, PEREZ), not on account of any
exceptional peculiarities, but solely because this is the Bee most
often mentioned in my notes. Her customary dwelling is the tunnel of
an Earth-worm opening on some clay bank. Whether perpendicular or
slanting, this tunnel runs down to an indefinite depth, where the
climate would be too damp for the Bee. Besides, when the time comes
for the hatching of the adult insect, its emergence would be fraught
with peril if it had to climb up from a deep pit through crumbling
rubbish. The Leaf-cutter, therefore, uses only the front portion of
the Worm's gallery, two decimetres at most. (7.8 inches.--
Translator's Note.) What is to be done with the rest of the tunnel?
It is an ascending shaft, tempting to an enemy; and some underground
ravager might come this way and destroy the nest by attacking the row
of cells at the back.

The danger is foreseen. Before fashioning her first honey-bag, the
Bee blocks the passage with a strong barricade composed of the only
materials used in the Leaf-cutter's guild. Fragments of leaves are
piled up in no particular order, but in sufficient quantities to make
a serious obstacle. It is not unusual to find in the leafy rampart
some dozens of pieces rolled into screws and fitting into one another
like a stack of cylindrical wafers. For this work of fortification,
artistic refinement seems superfluous; at any rate, the pieces of
leaves are for the most part irregular. You can see that the insect
has cut them out hurriedly, unmethodically and on a different pattern
from that of the pieces intended for the cells.

I am struck with another detail in the barricade. Its constituents
are taken from stout, thick, strong-veined leaves. I recognize young
vine-leaves, pale-coloured and velvety; the leaves of the whitish
rock-rose (Cistus albidus), lined with a hairy felt; those of the
holm-oak, selected among the young and bristly ones; those of the
hawthorn, smooth but tough; those of the cultivated reed, the only
one of the Monocotyledones exploited, as far as I know, by the
Megachiles. In the construction of cells, on the other hand, I see
smooth leaves predominating, notably those of the wild briar and of
the common acacia, the robinia. It would appear, therefore, that the
insect distinguishes between two kinds of materials, without being an
absolute purist and sternly excluding any sort of blending. The very
much indented leaves, whose projections can be completely removed
with a dexterous snip of the scissors, generally furnish the various
layers of the barricade; the little robinia-leaves, with their fine
texture and their unbroken edges, are better suited to the more
delicate work of the cells.

A rampart at the back of the Earth-worm's shaft is a wise precaution
and the Leaf-cutter deserves all credit for it; only it is a pity for
the Megachiles' reputation that this protective barrier often
protects nothing at all. Here we see, under a new guise, that
aberration of instinct of which I gave some examples in an earlier
chapter. My notes contain memoranda of various galleries crammed with
pieces of leaves right up to the orifice, which is on a level with
the ground, and entirely devoid of cells, even of an unfinished one.
These were ridiculous fortifications, of no use whatever; and yet the
Bee treated the matter with the utmost seriousness and took infinite
pains over her futile task. One of these uselessly barricaded
galleries furnished me with some hundred pieces of leaves arranged
like a stack of wafers; another gave me as many as a hundred and
fifty. For the defence of a tenanted nest, two dozen and even fewer
are ample. Then what was the object of the Leaf-cutter's ridiculous

I wish I could believe that, seeing that the place was dangerous, she
made her heap bigger so that the rampart might be in proportion to
the danger. Then, perhaps, at the moment of starting on the cells,
she disappeared, the victim of an accident, blown out of her course
by a gust of wind. But this line of defence is not admissible in the
Megachile's case. The proof is palpable: the galleries aforesaid are
barricaded up to the level of the ground; there is no room,
absolutely none, to lodge even a single egg. What was her object, I
ask again, when she persisted in obstinately piling up her wafers?
Has she really an object?

I do not hesitate to say no. And my answer is based upon what the
Osmiae taught me. I have described above how the Three-horned Osmia,
towards the end of her life, when her ovaries are depleted, expends
on useless operations such energy as remains to her. Born a worker,
she is bored by the inactivity of retirement; her leisure requires an
occupation. Having nothing better to do, she sets up partitions; she
divides a tunnel into cells that will remain empty; she closes with a
thick plug reeds containing nothing. Thus is the modicum of strength
of her decline exhausted in vain labours. The other Builder-bees
behave likewise. I see Anthidia laboriously provide numerous bales of
cotton to stop galleries wherein never an egg was laid; I see
Mason-bees build and then religiously close cells that will remain
unvictualled and uncolonized.

The long and useless barricades then belong to the last hours of the
Megachile's life, when the eggs are all laid; the mother, whose
ovaries are exhausted, persists in building. Her instinct is to cut
out and heap up pieces of leaves; obeying this impulse, she cuts out
and heaps up even when the supreme reason for this labour ceases. The
eggs are no longer there, but some strength remains; and that
strength is expended as the safety of the species demanded in the
beginning. The wheels of action go on turning in the absence of the
motives for action; they continue their movement as though by a sort
of acquired velocity. What clearer proof can we hope to find of the
unconsciousness of the animal stimulated by instinct?

Let us return to the Leaf-cutter's work under normal conditions.
Immediately after a protective barrier comes the row of cells, which
vary considerably in number, like those of the Osmia in her reed.
Strings of about a dozen are rare; the most frequent consist of five
or six. No less subject to variation is the number of pieces joined
to make a cell: pieces of two kinds, some, the oval ones, forming the
honey-pot; others, the round ones, serving as a lid. I count, on an
average, eight to ten pieces of the first kind. Though all cut on the
pattern of an ellipse, they are not equal in dimensions and come
under two categories. The larger, outside ones are each of them
almost a third of the circumference and overlap one another slightly.
Their lower end bends into a concave curve to form the bottom of the
bag. Those inside, which are considerably smaller, increase the
thickness of the sides and fill up the gaps left by the first.

The Leaf-cutter therefore is able to use her scissors according to
the task before her: first, the large pieces, which help the work
forward, but leave empty spaces; next, the small pieces, which fit
into the defective portions. The bottom of the cell particularly
comes in for after-touches. As the natural curve of the larger pieces
is not enough to provide a cup without cracks in it, the Bee does not
fail to improve the work with two or three small oval pieces applied
to the imperfect joins.

Another advantage results from the snippets of unequal size. The
three or four outer pieces, which are the first placed in position,
being the longest of all, project beyond the mouth, whereas the next,
being shorter, do not come quite up to it. A brim is thus obtained, a
ledge on which the round disks of the lid rest and are prevented from
touching the honey when the Bee presses them into a concave cover. In
other words, at the mouth the circumference comprises only one row of
leaves; lower down it takes two or three, thus restricting the
diameter and securing an hermetic closing.

The cover of the pot consists solely of round pieces, very nearly
alike and more or less numerous. Sometimes I find only two, sometimes
I count as many as ten, closely stacked. At times, the diameter of
these pieces is of an almost mathematical precision, so much so that
the edges of the disk rest upon the ledge. No better result would be
obtained had they been cut out with the aid of compasses. At times,
again, the piece projects slightly beyond the mouth, so that, to
enter, it has to be pressed down and curved cupwise. There is no
variation in the diameter of the first pieces placed in position,
those nearest to the honey. They are all of the same size and thus
form a flat cover which does not encroach on the cell and will not
afterwards interfere with the larva, as a convex ceiling would. The
subsequent disks, when the pile is numerous, are a little larger;
they only fit the mouth by yielding to pressure and becoming concave.
The Bee seems to make a point of this concavity, for it serves as a
mould to receive the curved bottom of the next cell.

When the row of cells is finished, the task still remains of blocking
up the entrance to the gallery with a safety-stopper similar to the
earthen plug with which the Osmia closes her reeds. The Bee then
returns to the free and easy use of the scissors which we noticed at
the beginning when she was fencing off the back part of the Earth-
worm's too deep burrow; she cuts out of the foliage irregular pieces
of different shapes and sizes and often retaining their original
deeply-indented margins; and with all these pieces, very few of which
fit at all closely the orifice to be blocked, she succeeds in making
an inviolable door, thanks to the huge number of layers.

Let us leave the Leaf-cutter to finish depositing her eggs in other
galleries, which will be colonized in the same manner, and consider
for a moment her skill as a cutter. Her edifices consist of a
multitude of fragments belonging to three categories: oval pieces for
the sides of the cells; round pieces for the lids; and irregular
pieces for the barricades at the front and back. The last present no
difficulty: the Bee obtains them by removing from the leaf some
projecting portion, as it stands, a serrate lobe which, owing to its
notches, shortens the insect's task and lends itself better to
scissor-work. So far, there is nothing to deserve attention: it is
unskilled labour, in which an inexperienced apprentice might excel.

With the oval pieces, it becomes another matter. What model has the
Megachile when cutting her neat ellipses out of the delicate material
for her wallets, the robinia-leaves? What mental pattern guides her
scissors? What system of measurement tells her the dimensions? One
would like to picture the insect as a living pair of compasses,
capable of tracing an elliptic curve by a certain natural inflexion
of its body, even as our arm traces a circle by swinging from the
shoulder. A blind mechanism, the mere outcome of its organization,
would alone be responsible for its geometry. This explanation would
tempt me if the large oval pieces were not accompanied by much
smaller ones, also oval, which are used to fill the empty spaces. A
pair of compasses which changes its radius of its own accord and
alters the curve according to the plan before it appears to me an
instrument somewhat difficult to believe in. There must be something
better than that. The circular pieces of the lid suggest it to us.

If, by the mere flexion inherent in her structure, the Leaf-cutter
succeeds in cutting out ovals, how does she succeed in cutting out
rounds? Can we admit the presence of other wheels in the machinery
for the new pattern, so different in shape and size? Besides, the
real point of the difficulty does not lie there. These rounds, for
the most part, fit the mouth of the jar with almost exact precision.
When the cell is finished, the Bee flies hundreds of yards away to
make the lid. She arrives at the leaf from which the disk is to be
cut. What picture, what recollection has she of the pot to be
covered? Why, none at all: she has never seen it; she does her work
underground, in utter darkness! At the utmost, she can have the
indications of touch: not actual indications, of course, for the pot
is not there, but past indications, useless in a work of precision.
And yet the disk to be cut out must have a fixed diameter: if it were
too large, it would not go in; if too small, it would close badly, it
would slip down on the honey and suffocate the egg. How shall it be
given its correct dimensions without a pattern? The Bee does not
hesitate for a moment. She cuts out her disk with the same celerity
which she would display in detaching any shapeless lobe that might do
for a stopper; and that disk, without further measurement, is of the
right size to fit the pot. Let whoso will explain this geometry,
which in my opinion is inexplicable, even when we allow for memory
begotten of touch and sight.

One winter evening, as we were sitting round the fire, whose cheerful
blaze unloosed our tongues, I put the problem of the Leaf-cutter to
my family:

'Among your kitchen-utensils,' I said, 'you have a pot in daily use;
but it has lost its lid, which was knocked over and broken by the
Tomcat playing among the shelves. To-morrow is market-day and one of
you will be going to Orange to buy the week's provisions. Would she
undertake, without a measure of any kind, with the sole aid of
memory, which we would allow her to refresh before starting by a
careful examination of the object, to bring back exactly what the pot
wants, a lid neither too large nor too small, in short the same size
as the top?'

It was admitted with one accord that nobody would accept such a
commission without taking a measure with her, or at least a bit of
string giving the width. Our memory for sizes is not accurate enough.
She would come back from the town with something that 'might do'; and
it would be the merest chance if this turned out to be the right

Well, the Leaf-cutter is even less well-off than ourselves. She has
no mental picture of her pot, because she has never seen it; she is
not able to pick and choose in the crockery-dealer's heap, which acts
as something of a guide to our memory by comparison; she must,
without hesitation, far away from her home, cut out a disk that fits
the top of her jar. What is impossible to us is child's-play to her.
Where we could not do without a measure of some kind, a bit of
string, a pattern or a scrap of paper with figures upon it, the
little Bee needs nothing at all. In housekeeping matters she is
cleverer than we are.

One objection was raised. Was it not possible that the Bee, when at
work on the shrub, should first cut a round piece of an approximate
diameter, larger than that of the neck of the jar, and that
afterwards, on returning home, she should gnaw away the superfluous
part until the lid exactly fitted the pot? These alterations made
with the model in front of her would explain everything.

That is perfectly true; but are there any alterations? To begin with,
it seems to me hardly possible that the insect can go back to the
cutting once the piece is detached from the leaf: it lacks the
necessary support to gnaw the flimsy disk with any precision. A
tailor would spoil his cloth if he had not the support of a table
when cutting out the pieces for a coat. The Megachile's scissors, so
difficult to wield on anything not firmly held, would do equally bad

Besides, I have better evidence than this for my refusal to believe
in the existence of alterations when the Bee has the cell in front of
her. The lid is composed of a pile of disks whose number sometimes
reaches half a score. Now the bottom part of all these disks is the
under surface of the leaf, which is paler and more strongly veined;
the top part is the upper surface, which is smooth and greener. In
other words, the insect places them in the position which they occupy
when gathered. Let me explain. In order to cut out a piece, the Bee
stands on the upper surface of the leaf. The piece detached is held
in the feet and is therefore laid with its top surface against the
insect's chest at the moment of departure. There is no possibility of
its being turned over on the journey. Consequently, the piece is laid
as the Bee has just picked it, with the lower surface towards the
inside of the cell and the upper surface towards the outside. If
alterations were necessary to reduce the lid to the diameter of the
pot, the disk would be bound to get turned over: the piece,
manipulated, set upright, turned round, tried this way and that,
would, when finally laid in position, have its top or bottom surface
inside just as it happened to come. But this is exactly what does not
take place. Therefore, as the order of stacking never changes, the
disks are cut, from the first clip of the scissors, with their proper
dimensions. The insect excels us in practical geometry. I look upon
the Leaf-cutter's pot and lid as an addition to the many other
marvels of instinct that cannot be explained by mechanics; I submit
it to the consideration of science; and I pass on.

The Silky Leaf-cutter (Megachile sericans, FONSCOL.; M. Dufourii,
LEP.) makes her nests in the disused galleries of the Anthophorae. I
know her to occupy another dwelling which is more elegant and affords
a more roomy installation: I mean the old dwelling of the fat
Capricorn, the denizen of the oaks. The metamorphosis is effected in
a spacious chamber lined with soft felt. When the long-horned Beetle
reaches the adult stage, he releases himself and emerges from the
tree by following a vestibule which the larva's powerful tools have
prepared beforehand. When the deserted cabin, owing to its position,
remains wholesome and there is no sign of any running from its walls,
no brown stuff smelling of the tan-yard, it is soon visited by the
Silky Megachile, who finds in it the most sumptuous of the apartments
inhabited by the Leaf-cutters. It combines every condition of
comfort: perfect safety, an even temperature, freedom from damp,
ample room; and so the mother who is fortunate enough to become the
possessor of such a lodging uses it entirely, vestibule and drawing-
room alike. Accommodation is found for all her family of eggs; at
least, I have nowhere seen nests as populous as here.

One of them provides me with seventeen cells, the highest number
appearing in my census of the Megachile clan. Most of them are lodged
in the nymphal chamber of the Capricorn; and, as the spacious recess
is too wide for a single row, the cells are arranged in three
parallel series. The remainder, in a single string, occupy the
vestibule, which is completed and filled up by the terminal
barricade. In the materials employed, hawthorn-and paliurus-leaves
predominate. The pieces, both in the cells and in the barrier, vary
in size. It is true that the hawthorn-leaves, with their deep
indentations, do not lend themselves to the cutting of neat oval
pieces. The insect seems to have detached each morsel without
troubling overmuch about the shape of the piece, so long as it was
big enough. Nor has it been very particular about arranging the
pieces according to the nature of the leaf: after a few bits of
paliurus come bits of vine and hawthorn; and these again are followed
by bits of bramble and paliurus. The Bee has collected her pieces
anyhow, taking a bit here and there, just as her fancy dictated.
Nevertheless, paliurus is the commonest, perhaps for economical

I notice, in fact, that the leaves of this shrub, instead of being
used piecemeal, are employed whole, when they do not exceed the
proper dimensions. Their oval form and their moderate size suit the
insect's requirements; and there is therefore no necessity to cut
them into pieces. The leaf-stalk is clipped with the scissors and,
without more ado, the Megachile retires the richer by a first-rate
bit of material.

Split up into their component parts, two cells give me altogether
eighty-three pieces of leaves, whereof eighteen are smaller than the
others and of a round shape. The last-named come from the lids. If
they average forty-two each, the seventeen cells of the nest
represent seven hundred and fourteen pieces. These are not all: the
nest ends, in the Capricorn's vestibule, with a stout barricade in
which I count three hundred and fifty pieces. The total therefore
amounts to one thousand and sixty-four. All those journeys and all
that work with the scissors to furnish the deserted chamber of the
Cerambyx! If I did not know the Leaf-cutter's solitary and jealous
disposition, I should attribute the huge structure to the
collaboration of several mothers; but there is no question of
communism in this case. One dauntless creature and one alone, one
solitary, inveterate worker, has produced the whole of the prodigious
mass. If work is the best way to enjoy life, this one certainly has
not been bored during the few weeks of her existence.

I gladly award her the most honourable of eulogies, that due to the
industrious; and I also compliment her on her talent for closing the
honey-pots. The pieces stacked into lids are round and have nothing
to suggest those of which the cells and the final barricade are made.
Excepting the first, those nearest the honey, they are perhaps cut a
little less neatly than the disks of the White-girdled Leaf-cutter;
no matter: they stop the jar perfectly, especially when there are
some ten of them one above the other. When cutting them, the Bee was
as sure of her scissors as a dressmaker guided by a pattern laid on
the stuff; and yet she was cutting without a model, without having in
front of her the mouth to be closed. To enlarge on this interesting
subject would mean to repeat oneself. All the Leaf-cutters have the
same talent for making the lids of their pots.

A less mysterious question than this geometrical problem is that of
the materials. Does each species of Megachile keep to a single plant,
or has it a definite botanical domain wherein to exercise its liberty
of choice? The little that I have already said is enough to make us
suspect that the insect is not restricted to one plant; and this is
confirmed by an examination of the separate cells, piece by piece,
when we find a variety which we were far from imagining at first.
Here is the flora of the Megachiles in my neighbourhood, a very
incomplete flora and doubtless capable of considerable amplification
by future researches.

The Silky Leaf-cutter gathers the materials for her pots, her lids
and her barricades from the following plants: paliurus, hawthorn,
vine, wild briar, bramble, holm-oak, amelanchier, terebinthus, sage-
leaved rock-rose. The first three supply the greater part of the
leaf-work; the last three are represented only by rare fragments.

The Hare-footed Leaf-cutter (Megachile lagopoda, LIN.) which I see
very busy in my enclosure, though she only collects her materials
there, exploits the lilac and the rose-tree by preference. From time
to time, I see her also cutting bits out of the robinia, the quince-
tree and the cherry-tree. In the open country, I have found her
building with the leaves of the vine alone.

The Silvery Leaf-cutter (Megachile argentata, FAB.), another of my
guests, shares the taste of the aforesaid for the lilac and the rose,
but her domain includes in addition the pomegranate-tree, the
bramble, the vine, the common dogwood and the cornelian cherry.

The White-girdled Leaf-cutter likes the robinia, to which she adds,
in lavish proportions, the vine, the rose and the hawthorn and
sometimes, in moderation, the reed and the whitish-leaved rock-rose.

The Black-tipped Leaf-cutter (Megachile apicalis, SPIN.) has for her
abode the cells of the Mason-bee of the Pebbles and the ruined nests
of the Osmiae and Anthidia in the Snail-shells. I have not known her
to use any other materials than the wild briar and the hawthorn.

Incomplete though it be, this list tells us that the Megachiles do
not have exclusive botanical tastes. Each species manages extremely
well with several plants differing greatly in appearance. The first
condition to be fulfilled by the shrub exploited is that it be near
the nest. Frugal of her time, the Leaf-cutter declines to go on
distant expeditions. Whenever I come upon a recent Megachile-nest, I
am not long in finding in the neighbourhood, without much searching,
the tree or shrub from which the Bee has cut her pieces.

Another main condition is a fine and supple texture, especially for
the first disks used in the lid and for the pieces which form the
lining of the wallet. The rest, less carefully executed, allows of
coarser stuff; but even then the piece must be flexible and lend
itself to the cylindrical configuration of the tunnel. The leaves of
the rock-roses, thick and roughly fluted, fulfil this condition
unsatisfactorily, for which reason I see them occurring only at very
rare intervals. The insect has gathered pieces of them by mistake
and, not finding them good to use, has ceased to visit the
unprofitable shrub. Stiffer still, the leaf of the holm-oak in its
full maturity is never employed: the Silky Leaf-cutter uses it only
in the young state and then in moderation; she can get her velvety
pieces better from the vine. In the lilac-bushes so zealously
exploited before my eyes by the Hare-footed Leaf-cutter occur a
medley of different shrubs which, from their size and the lustre of
their leaves, should apparently suit that sturdy pinker. They are the
shrubby hare's-ear, the honeysuckle, the prickly butcher's-broom, the
box. What magnificent disks ought to come from the hare's-ear and the
honeysuckle! One could get an excellent piece, without further
labour, by merely cutting the leaf-stalk of the box, as Megachile
sericans does with her paliurus. The lilac-lover disdains them
absolutely. For what reason? I fancy that she finds them too stiff.
Would she think differently if the lilac-bush were not there? Perhaps

In short, apart from the questions of texture and proximity to the
nest, the Megachile's choice, it seems to me, must depend upon
whether a particular shrub is plentiful or not. This would explain
the lavish use of the vine, an object of widespread cultivation, and
of the hawthorn and the wild briar, which form part of all our
hedges. As these are to be found everywhere, the fact that the
different Leaf-cutters make use of them is no reflection upon a host
of equivalents varying according to the locality.

If we had to believe what people tell us about the effects of
heredity, which is said to hand down from generation to generation,
ever more firmly established, the individual habits of those who come
before, the Megachiles of these parts, experienced in the local flora
by the long training of the centuries, but complete novices in the
presence of plants which their race encounters for the first time,
ought to refuse as unusual and suspicious any exotic leaves,
especially when they have at hand plenty of the leaves made familiar
by hereditary custom. The question was deserving of separate study.

Two subjects of my observations, the Hare-footed and the Silvery
Leaf-cutter, both of them inmates of my open-air laboratory, gave me
a definite answer. Knowing the points frequented by the two
Megachiles, I planted in their work-yard, overgrown with briar and
lilac, two outlandish plants which seemed to me to fulfil the
required conditions of suppleness of texture, namely, the ailantus, a
native of Japan, and the Virginian physostegia. Events justified the
selection: both Bees exploited the foreign flora with the same
assiduity as the local flora, passing from the lilac to the ailantus,
from the briar to the physostegia, leaving the one, going back to the
other, without drawing distinctions between the known and the
unknown. Inveterate habit could not have given greater certainty,
greater ease to their scissors, though this was their first
experience of such a material.

The Silvery Leaf-cutter lent herself to an even more conclusive test.
As she readily makes her nest in the reeds of my apparatus, I was
able, up to a certain point, to create a landscape for her and select
its vegetation myself. I therefore moved the reed-hive to a part of
the enclosure stocked chiefly with rosemary, whose scanty foliage is
not adapted for the Bee's work, and near the apparatus I arranged an
exotic shrubbery in pots, including notably the smooth lopezia, from
Mexico, and the long-fruited capsicum, an Indian annual. Finding
close at hand the wherewithal to build her nest, the Leaf-cutter went
no further afield. The lopezia suited her especially, so much so that
almost the whole nest was composed of it. The rest had been gathered
from the capsicum.

Another recruit, whose co-operation I had in no way engineered, came
spontaneously to offer me her evidence. This was the Feeble Leaf-
cutter (Megachile imbecilla, GERST.). Nearly a quarter of a century
ago, I saw her, all through the month of July, cutting out her rounds
and ellipses at the expense of the petals of the Pelargonium zonale,
the common geranium. Her perseverance devastated--there is no other
word for it--my modest array of pots. Hardly was a blossom out, when
the ardent Megachiles came and scalloped it into crescents. The
colour was indifferent to her: red, white or pink, all the petals
underwent the disastrous operation. A few captures, ancient relics of
my collecting-boxes by this time, indemnified me for the pillage. I
have not seen this unpleasant Bee since. With what does she build
when there are no geranium-flowers handy? I do not know; but the fact
remains that the fragile tailoress used to attack the foreign flower,
a fairly recent acquisition from the Cape, as though all her race had
never done anything else.

These details leave us with one obvious conclusion, which is contrary
to our original ideas, based on the unvarying character of insect
industry. In constructing their jars, the Leaf-cutters, each
following the taste peculiar to her species, do not make use of this
or that plant to the exclusion of the others; they have no definite
flora, no domain faithfully transmitted by heredity. Their pieces of
leaves vary according to the surrounding vegetation; they vary in
different layers of the same cell. Everything suits them, exotic or
native, rare or common, provided that the bit cut out be easy to
employ. It is not the general aspect of the shrub, with its fragile
or bushy branches, its large or small, green or grey, dull or glossy
leaves, that guides the insect: such advanced botanical knowledge
does not enter into the question at all. In the thicket chosen as a
pinking-establishment, the Megachile sees but one thing: leaves
useful for her work. The Shrike, with his passion for plants with
long, woolly sprigs, knows where to find nicely-wadded substitutes
when his favourite growth, the cotton-rose, is lacking; the Megachile
has much wider resources: indifferent to the plant itself, she looks
only into the foliage. If she finds leaves of the proper size, of a
dry texture capable of defying the damp and of a suppleness
favourable to cylindrical curving, that is all she asks; and the rest
does not matter. She has therefore an almost unlimited field for her

These sudden and wholly unprovoked changes give cause for reflection.
When my geranium-flowers were devastated, how had the obtrusive Bee,
untroubled by the profound dissimilarity between the petals, snow-
white here, bright scarlet there, how had she learnt her trade?
Nothing tells us that she herself was not for the first time
exploiting the plant from the Cape; and, if she really did have
predecessors, the habit had not had time to become inveterate,
considering the modern importation of the geranium. Where again did
the Silvery Megachile, for whom I created an exotic shrubbery, make
the acquaintance of the lopezia, which comes from Mexico? She
certainly is making a first start. Never did her village or mine
possess a stalk of that chilly denizen of our hot-houses. She is
making a first start; and behold her straightway a graduate, versed
in the art of carving unfamiliar foliage.

People often talk of the long apprenticeships served by instinct, of
its gradual acquirements, of its talents, the laborious work of the
ages. The Megachiles affirm the exact opposite. They tell me that the
animal, though invariable in the essence of its art, is capable of
innovation in the details; but at the same time they assure me that
any such innovation is sudden and not gradual. Nothing prepares the
innovations, nothing improves them or hands them down; otherwise a
selection would long ago have been made amid the diversity of
foliage; and the shrub recognized as the most serviceable, especially
when it is also plentiful, would alone supply all the building-
materials needed. If heredity transmitted industrial discoveries, a
Megachile who thought of cutting her disks out of pomegranate-leaves
and found them satisfactory ought to have instilled a liking for
similar materials into her descendants; and we should this day find
Leaf-cutters faithful to the pomegranate-leaves, workers who remained
exclusive in their choice of the raw material. The facts refute these

People also say:

'Grant us a variation, however small, in the insect's industry; and
that variation, accentuated more and more, will produce a new race
and finally a fixed species.'

This trifling variation is the fulcrum for which Archimedes clamoured
in order to lift the world with his system of levers. The Megachiles
offer us one and a very great one: the indefinite variation of their
materials. What will the theorists' levers lift with this fulcrum?
Why, nothing at all! Whether they cut the delicate petals of the
geranium or the tough leaves of the lilac-bushes, the Leaf-cutters
are and will be what they were. This is what we learn from the
persistence of each species in its structural details, despite the
great variety of the foliage employed.



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