e fathomed. The science of
rational mechanics might find something here to whet its finest
theories upon. The strength and litheness of a clown cannot compare
with those of this budding flesh, this hardly coagulated glair.

Once isolated in its cell, the larva of the Necrophorus becomes a
nymph in ten days or so. I lack the evidence furnished by direct
observation, but the story is completed of itself. The Necrophorus
must assume the adult form in the course of the summer; like the
Dung-beetle, he must enjoy in the autumn a few days of revelry free
from family cares. Then, when the cold weather draws near, he goes to
earth in his winter quarters, whence he emerges as soon as spring
arrives.

CHAPTER XII
THE BURYING-BEETLES: EXPERIMENTS

Let us come to the feats of reason which have earned for the
Necrophorus the best part of his fame and, to begin with, submit the
case related by Clairville, that of the too hard soil and the call for
assistance, to the test of experiment.

With this object I pave the centre of the space beneath the cover,
flush with the soil, with a brick, which I sprinkle with a thin layer
of sand. This will be the soil that cannot be dug. All around it, for
some distance and on the same level, lies the loose soil, which is
easy to delve.

In order to approach the conditions of the anecdote, I must have a
Mouse; with a Mole, a heavy mass, the removal would perhaps present
too much difficulty. To obtain one, I place my friends and neighbours
under requisition; they laugh at my whim but none the less proffer
their traps. Yet, the moment a very common thing is needed, it becomes
rare. Defying decency in his speech, after the manner of his
ancestors' Latin, the Provencal says, but even more crudely than in my
translation:

"If you look for dung, the Donkeys become constipated!"

At last I possess the Mouse of my dreams! She comes to me from that
refuge, furnished with a truss of straw, in which official charity
grants a day's hospitality to the pauper wandering over the face of
the fertile earth, from that municipal hostel whence one inevitably
issues covered with Lice. O Reaumur,[1] who used to invite
marchionesses to see your caterpillars change their skins, what would
you have said of a future disciple conversant with such squalor as
this? Perhaps it is well that we should not be ignorant of it, so that
we may have compassion with that of the beast.

[Footnote 1: Rene Antoine Ferchau