nd take their seats at the table.
Their fellows must still, for the most part, be wandering through the
pores of the masonry; and this was what made my search so vain at the
start.

A few facts seem to suggest that the entrance into the cell may be
delayed for several months by the difficulty of the passages. There are
a few Anthrax grubs beside the remains of pupae not far removed from the
final metamorphosis; there are others, but very rarely, on Mason bees
already in the perfect state. These grubs are sickly and appear to be
ailing; the provisions are too solid and do not lend themselves to
the delicate suckling of the worms. Who can these laggards be but
animalcules that have roamed too long in the walls of the nest? Failing
to make their entrance at the proper time, they no longer find viands to
suit them. The primary larva of the Sitaris continues from the autumn to
the following spring. Even so the initial form of the Anthrax might well
continue, not in inactivity, but in stubborn attempts to overcome the
thick bulwark.

My young worms, when transferred with their provisions into tubes,
remained stationary, on the average, for a couple of weeks. At last, I
saw them shrink and then rid themselves of their epidermis and become
the grub which I was so anxiously expecting as the final reply to all
my doubts. It was indeed, from the first, the grub of the Anthrax, the
cream-colored cylinder with the little button of a head, followed by
a hump. Applying its cupping glass to the mason bee, the worm, without
delay, began its meal, which lasts another fortnight. The reader knows
the rest.

Before taking leave of the animalcule, let us devote a few lines to its
instinct. It has just awakened to life under the fierce kisses of the
sun. The bare stone is its cradle, the rough clay its welcomer, as it
makes its entrance into the world, a poor thread of scarce cohering
albumen. But safety lies within; and behold the atom of animated glair
embarking on its struggle with the flint. Obstinately, it sounds each
pore; it slips in, crawls on, retreats, begins again. The radical of the
germinating seed is no more persevering in its efforts to descend into
the cool earth than is the Anthrax grub in creeping into the lump of
mortar. What inspiration urges it towards its food at the bottom of the
clod, what compass guides it? What does it know of those depths, of what
lies therein or where? Nothing. What does the root know of the ear