her load
up the wire gauze of her cage!

A hopeless undertaking! Fixing her hinder claws in the meshes of the
wire gauze the mother drags her burden towards her; then, enlacing it
with her legs, she holds it suspended. The father, finding no purchase
for his legs, clutches the ball, grows on to it, so to speak, thus
adding his weight to that of the burden, and awaits events. The effort
is too great to last. Ball and beetle fall together. The mother, from
above, gazes a moment in surprise, and suddenly lets herself fall, only
to re-embrace the ball and recommence her impracticable efforts to scale
the wall. After many tumbles the attempt is at last abandoned.

Even on level ground the task is not without its difficulties. At every
moment the load swerves on the summit of a pebble, a fragment of gravel;
the team are overturned, and lie on their backs, kicking their legs in
the air. This is a mere nothing. They pick themselves up and resume
their positions, always quick and lively. The accidents which so often
throw them on their backs seem to cause them no concern; one would even
think they were invited. The pilule has to be matured, given a proper
consistency. In these conditions falls, shocks, blows, and jolts might
well enter into the programme. This mad trundling lasts for hours and
hours.

Finally, the mother, considering that the matter has been brought to a
satisfactory conclusion, departs in search of a favourable place for
storage. The father, crouched upon the treasure, waits. If the absence
of his companion is prolonged he amuses himself by rapidly whirling the
pill between his hind legs, which are raised in the air. He juggles with
the precious burden; he tests its perfections between his curved legs,
calliper-wise. Seeing him frisking in this joyful occupation, who can
doubt that he experiences all the satisfactions of a father assured of
the future of his family? It is I, he seems to say, it is I who have
made this loaf, so beautifully round; it is I who have made the hard
crust to preserve the soft dough; it is I who have baked it for my sons!
And he raises on high, in the sight of all, this magnificent testimonial
of his labours.

But now the mother has chosen the site. A shallow pit is made, the mere
commencement of the projected burrow. The ball is pushed and pulled
until it is close at hand. The father, a vigilant watchman, still
retains his hold, while the mother digs with claws and head. Soon the