he
females ought to be; but their hints are very vague, because they go so
far in every direction. If I wished to examine the soil which a single
male explores in his flight, with its constantly changing course, I
should have to turn over, to the depth of perhaps a yard, at least four
poles of earth. This is too much for my strength and the time at my
disposal. Then, as the season advances, the males disappear, whereupon I
am suddenly deprived of their hints. To know more or less where I should
thrust my luchet, I have only one resource left, which is to watch for
the females emerging from the ground or else entering it. With a great
expenditure of time and patience I have at last had this windfall, very
rarely, I admit.

The Scoliae do not dig a burrow which can be compared with that of the
other Hunting Wasps; they have no fixed residence, with an unimpeded
gallery opening on the outer world and giving access to the cells, the
abodes of the larvae. They have no entrance- and exit-doors, no corridor
built in advance. If they have to make their way underground, any point
not hitherto turned over serves their purpose, provided that it be
not too hard for their digging-tools, which, for that matter, are
very powerful; if they have to come out, the point of exit is no less
indifferent. The Scolia does not bore the soil through which she passes:
she excavates and ploughs it with her legs and forehead; and the stuff
shifted remains where it lies, behind her, forthwith blocking the
passage which she has followed. When she is about to emerge into the
outer world, her advent is heralded by the fresh soil which heaps itself
into a mound as though heaved up by the snout of some tiny Mole. The
insect sallies forth; and the mound collapses, completely filling up the
exit-hole. If the Wasp is entering the ground, the digging-operations,
undertaken at an arbitrary point, quickly yield a cavity in which the
Scolia disappears, separated from the surface by the whole track of
shifted material.

I can easily trace her passage through the thickness of the soil by
certain long, winding cylinders, formed of loose materials in the
midst of compact and stable earth. These cylinders are numerous;
they sometimes run to a depth of twenty inches; they extend in all
directions, fairly often crossing one another. Not one of them ever
exhibits so much as a suspicion of an open gallery. They are obviously
not permanent ways of communication with th