From the same dome come forth brothers and sisters—reddish males and black females—all descendants of the same bee. The males lead a careless life, avoiding all labour, and only returning to their clay dwellings for a brief courtship of their ladies; and they care nothing for the deserted dwelling. What they want is nectar from flower-cups, not mortar between their mandibles. But there are the young mothers, who have sole charge of the future of the family—to which of them will fall the inheritance of the old nest? As sisters they have an equal right to it—so would human justice decide, now that it has made the enormous progress of freeing itself from the old savage right of primogeniture; but Mason Bees have not got beyond the primitive basis of property—the right of the first comer. So when the time to lay has come, a bee takes the first free nest which suits her and establishes herself there, and woe to any sister or neighbour who thenceforward disputes possession of it. A hot reception and fierce pursuit would soon put the new-comer to flight; only one cell is wanted at the moment out of all which gape like little wells around the dome, but the bee calculates that by and by the rest will be useful, and she keeps a jealous watch on them all and drives away every visitor. I cannot remember having seen two Mason Bees working on the same pebble. The work is now very simple. The bee examines the inside of the old cell to see where repairs are needed, tears down the rags of cocoon hanging on the walls, carries out the bits of earth fallen from the vault pierced by the inhabitant in order to get out, mortars any places out of repair, mends the orifice a little, and that is all. Then comes storage, laying an egg, and stopping up the cell. When these are successively completed, the general cover, the mortar dome, is repaired if necessary, and all is finished.