chase when, at every moment, she finds her almost
under her feet and even in her house. Yet she pays no attention to her.

The bitter experience of her ancestors, therefore, has bequeathed
nothing to her of a nature to alter her placid character; nor have her
own tribulations aught to do with the sudden awakening of her vigilance
in July. Like ourselves, animals have their joys and their sorrows.
They eagerly make the most of the former; they fret but little about the
latter, which, when all is said, is the best way of achieving a purely
animal enjoyment of life. To mitigate these troubles and protect the
progeny there is the inspiration of instinct, which is able without the
counsels of experience to give the Halicti a portress.

When the victualling is finished, when the Halicti no longer sally forth
on harvesting intent nor return all befloured with their spoils, the old
Bee is still at her post, vigilant as ever. The final preparations for
the brood are made below; the cells are closed. The door will be kept
until everything is finished. Then grandmother and mothers leave the
house. Exhausted by the performance of their duty, they go, somewhere or
other, to die.

In September appears the second generation, comprising both males and
females. I find both sexes wassailing on the flowers, especially the
Compositae, the centauries and thistles. They are not harvesting now:
they are refreshing themselves, holding high holiday, teasing one
another. It is the wedding-time. Yet another fortnight and the males
will disappear, henceforth useless. The part of the idlers is played.
Only the industrious ones remain, the impregnated females, who go
through the winter and set to work in April.

I do not know their exact haunt during the inclement season. I expected
them to return to their native burrow, an excellent dwelling for the
winter, one would think. Excavations made in January showed me my
mistake. The old homes are empty, are falling to pieces owing to the
prolonged effect of the rains. The Zebra Halictus has something better
than these muddy hovels: she has snug corners in the stone-heaps,
hiding-places in the sunny walls and many other convenient habitations.
And so the natives of a village become scattered far and wide.

In April, the scattered ones reassemble from all directions. On the
well-flattened garden-paths a choice is made of the site for their
common labours. Operations soon begin. Close to the first who b