ork, quite a centimeter deep, is the obstacle to be pierced for
an outlet. Well, instead of the mad haste and the ruinous lack of
organization which I expected to find, my broods show me in their glass
prison an exceedingly well regulated workshop. One insect, one only,
works at perforating the cork. Patiently, with its mandibles, grain by
grain, it digs a tunnel the width of its body. The gallery is so narrow
that, in order to return to the tube, the worker has to move backwards.
It is a slow process; and it takes hours and hours to dig the hole, a
hard job for the frail miner.

Should her fatigue become too great, the excavator leaves the forefront
and mingles with the crowd, to polish and dust herself. Another, the
first neighbor at hand, at once takes her place and is herself relieved
by a third when her task is done. Others again take their turn, always
one at a time, so much so that the works are never at a standstill
and never overcrowded. Meanwhile, the multitude keeps out of the way,
quietly and patiently. There is no anxiety as to the deliverance.
Success will come: of that they are all convinced. While waiting, one
washes her antennae by passing them through her mouth, another polishes
her wings with her hind legs, another frisks about to while away the
period of inaction. Some are making love, a sovran means of killing
time, whether one be born that day or twenty years ago.

Some, I said, make love. These favored ones are rare; they hardly count.
Is it through indifference? No, but the gallants are lacking. The sexes
are very unequally represented in the population of a cell: the males
are in a wretched minority and sometimes even completely absent. This
poverty did not escape the older observers. Brulle [Gaspard August
Brulle (1809-1873)], the author of many works on natural history and one
of the founders of the Societe entomologique de France, the only author
whom I am able to consult in my hermitage, says, literally: 'The males
do not appear to be known.'

I, for my part, know them; but, considering their feeble number, I keep
asking myself what part they play in a harem so disproportionate to
their forces. A few figures will show us what my hesitations are based
upon.

In twenty-two Osmia cocoons (Osmia tricornis), the total census of the
inmates yields three hundred and fifty-four, of whom forty-seven
are males and three hundred and seven females. The average number of
inmates, therefore, is sixtee