presents difficulties, for the Bee has to do her excavating in a narrow
gully, where there is only just room for her to pass.

The rubbish soon becomes cumbersome. The insect collects it and then,
moving backwards, with its fore-legs closed over the load, it hoists it
up through the shaft and flings it outside, upon the mole-hill, which
rises by so much above the threshold of the burrow. Next come the dainty
finishing-touches: the milling of the wall, the application of a glaze
of better-quality clay, the assiduous polishing with the long-suffering
tongue, the waterproof coating and the jarlike mouth, a masterpiece of
pottery in which the stopping-plug will be fixed when the time comes
for locking the door of the room. And all this has to be done with
mathematical precision.

No, because of this perfection, the grubs' chambers could never be
work done casually from day to day, as the ripe eggs descend from the
ovaries. They are prepared long beforehand, during the bad weather,
at the end of March and in April, when flowers are scarce and the
temperature subject to sudden changes. This thankless period, often
cold, liable to hail-storms, is spent in making ready the home. Alone
at the bottom of her shaft, which she rarely leaves, the mother works at
her children's apartments, lavishing upon them those finishing-touches
which leisure allows. They are completed, or very nearly, when May comes
with the radiant sunshine and wealth of flowers.

We see the evidence of these long preparations in the burrows
themselves, if we inspect them before the provisions are brought. All of
them show us cells, about a dozen in number, quite finished, but still
empty. To begin by getting all the huts built is a sensible precaution:
the mother will not have to turn aside from the delicate task of
harvesting and egg-laying in order to perform rough navvy's work.

Everything is ready by May. The air is balmy; the smiling lawns are
gay with a thousand little flowers, dandelions, rock-roses, tansies
and daisies, among which the harvesting Bee rolls gleefully, covering
herself with pollen. With her crop full of honey and the brushes of her
legs befloured, the Halictus returns to her village. Flying very low,
almost level with the ground, she hesitates, with sudden turns and
bewildered movements. It seems that the weak-sighted insect finds its
way with difficulty among the cottages of its little township.

Which is its mole-hill among the ma