The ball is soon ready. It must now, by vigorous rolling, be given the crust which will protect the soft stuff within from becoming too dry. The mother, who can be recognised by her slightly larger size, harnesses herself in the place of honour, in front. With her long hind-legs on the ground and her fore-legs on the ball, she hauls it towards her, backwards. The father pushes behind in the reverse position, head downwards. It is precisely the same method as that of the Sacred Beetle when working in twos, but it has another object. The Sisyphus team conveys a store of food for the grubs, whereas the big pill-rollers trundle a banquet which they themselves will eat up underground. The couple start off along the ground. They have no definite goal, but walk in a direct line, without regard to the obstacles that lie in the way. In this backward march the obstacles could not be avoided; but even if they were seen the Sisyphus would not try to go round them. For she even makes obstinate attempts to climb the wire-work of my cage. This is an arduous and impossible task. Clawing the meshes of the gauze with her hind-legs the mother pulls the load towards her; then, putting her fore-legs round it, she holds it suspended in air. The father, finding nothing to stand upon, clings to the ball—encrusts himself in it, so to speak, thus adding his weight to that of the lump, and taking no further pains. The effort is too great to last. The ball and its rider, forming one mass, fall to the floor. The mother, from above, looks down for a moment in surprise, and then drops to recover the load and renew her impossible attempt to scale the side. After repeated falls the climb is abandoned. Even on level ground the carting is not carried on without difficulty. At every moment the load swerves on some mound made by a bit of gravel; and the team topple over and kick about, upside down. This is a trifle, the merest trifle. These tumbles, which so often fling the Sisyphus on his back, cause him no concern; one would even think he liked them. After all, the ball has to be hardened and made of the right consistency. And this being the case, bumps falls, and jolts are all part of the programme. This mad steeple-chasing goes on for hours. At last the mother, regarding the work as completed, goes off a little way in search of a suitable spot. The father mounts guard, squatting on the treasure. If his companion’s absence be unduly long, he relieves his boredom by spinning the ball nimbly between his uplifted hind legs. He treats his precious pellet as a juggler treats his ball. He tests its perfect shape with his curved legs, the branches of his compasses. No one who sees him frisking in that jubilant attitude can doubt his lively satisfaction—the satisfaction of a father assured of his children’s future. “It is I,” he seems to say, “I who kneaded this round loaf, I who made this bread for my sons!”