the median line
and then reunite its two halves. The thread itself gives convulsive
tremblings; it comes out of its scabbard, goes back and slips out again.
It is as though the laying-implement could not persuade itself to die
before accomplishing its mission. The insect's supreme aim is the egg;
and, so long as the least spark of life remains, it makes dying efforts
to lay.

Leucopsis gigas exploits the nests of the Mason-bee of the Pebbles and
the Mason-bee of the Sheds with equal zest. To observe the insertion
of the egg at my ease and to watch the operator at work over and over
again, I gave the preference to the last-named Mason, whose nests,
removed from the neighbouring roofs by my orders, have hung for some
years in the arch of my basement. These clay hives fastened to tiles
supply me with fresh records each summer. I am much indebted to them in
the matter of the Leucopsis' life-history.

By way of comparison with what took place under my roof, I used to
observe the same scenes on the pebbles of the surrounding wastelands. My
excursions, alas, did not all reward my zeal, which zeal was not
without merit in the merciless sunshine; but still, at rare intervals,
I succeeded in seeing some Leucopsis digging her probe into the mortar
dome. Lying flat on the ground, from the beginning to the end of the
operation, which sometimes lasted for hours, I closely watched the
insect in its every movement, while my Dog, weary of being out of doors
in that scorching heat, would discreetly retire from the fray and,
with his tail between his legs and his tongue hanging out, go home and
stretch himself at full length on the cool tiles of the hall. How wise
he was to scorn this pebble-gazing! I would come in half-roasted, as
brown as a berry, to find my friend Bull wedged into a corner, his
back to the wall, sprawling on all fours, while, with heaving sides, he
panted forth the last sprays of steam from his overheated interior. Yes,
he was much better-advised to return as fast as he could to the shade of
the house. Why does man want to know things? Why is he not indifferent
to them, with the lofty philosophy of the animals? What interest can
anything have for us that does not fill our stomachs? What is the use of
learning? What is the use of truth, when profit is all that matters?
Why am I--the descendant, so they tell me, of some tertiary
Baboon--afflicted with the passion for knowledge from which Bull, my
friend and companion,