Provender being gathered, the next thing is to retire from the mêlée, and carry it to a fitting place. Now we see some of the most characteristic habits of the Scarabæus. He sets out at once, embracing the ball with the long hind legs, whose talons, planted in the mass, serve as pivots—leans on the intermediary legs as pivots, and using as levers the flat of the toothed forefeet, which press the ground alternately, journeys backward with his load, the body bent, the head low, and the hinder part upraised. The hind feet, which are the chief organs in the mechanism, move continually, going and coming and changing the place where the talons are stuck in, to alter the axis of rotation, to keep the load balanced and advance by an alternate push right and left. Thus the ball comes in contact with the ground in every part of it, which gives it a perfect shape and lends consistency to the outer layer by a uniform pressure. Courage! it moves, it rolls, and the journey’s end will be reached, though not without trouble. Here is a first difficulty. The beetle has to cross a slope, and the heavy ball would naturally follow the incline, but for reasons best known to itself, the insect prefers to cross this natural slope—an audacious plan, which one false step or a grain of sand to upset the balance will defeat. The false step is made, the ball rolls to the bottom of the valley, and the insect, upset by the impetus of its load, staggers, gets again on its legs, and hastens to harness itself afresh. The mechanism works capitally. But look out, scatterbrain! follow the hollow of the valley, it will spare labour and misadventure. The road is good and quite level, and your ball will roll along with no exertion. Not a bit of it. The insect has made up its mind to remount the slope already so fatal to it. Perhaps it suits it to return to the heights. Against that I have nothing to say, the Scarabæus knows better than I do whether it be advisable to dwell in lofty regions. At all events, take this path which will lead you up by a gentle incline. Not at all. If there be near at hand some very stiff slope impossible to climb, then that slope this wrong-headed insect prefers. Then begins the labour of Sisyphus. With endless precautions the monstrous load is painfully hoisted, step by step to a certain height, the beetle always going tail first. One asks one’s self by what miracle of statics such a mass can be kept on the slope. Ah! a clumsy movement brings all this toil to naught. Down goes the ball, dragging the beetle with it. The escalade is repeated, soon followed by a fresh fall. The attempt is renewed, and better managed at the difficult points; a nasty grass-root, which occasioned the previous tumbles, is prudently turned; we have almost got to the top. But gently! gently! the ascent is perilous, and a mere nothing may ruin all. A leg slips on a bit of smooth gravel, and ball and scavenger roll down together. The beetle