The burrows, which may be recognized by the little mound that surmounts them first become numerous in autumn, when the rains have at last come to moisten the soil parched by the scorching heat of summer. Then the young of this year emerge slowly from underground and for the first time come out to enjoy the light; then, for a few weeks, they feast in temporary marquees; and next they begin to hoard with a view to the winter. Let us inspect the dwelling: an easy task, for which a simple pocket-trowel will suffice. The mansion occupied in the late autumn is a shaft as wide as a man’s finger and about nine inches deep. There is no special chamber, but a sunk pit, as perpendicular as the inequalities of the soil will allow it to be. The owner, now of one sex, now of the other, is at the bottom, always alone. The time to settle down and establish a family not having yet arrived, each of them lives like an anchorite and thinks only of his own welfare. Above the hermit a vertical column of Sheep-droppings blocks the dwelling. There is often enough to fill the palm of one’s hand. How did the Minotaur acquire so much wealth? He amasses it easily, being spared the worry of seeking it, for he is always careful to install himself near a copious defecation. He gleans on the very threshold of his door. When he thinks fit, especially at night, he chooses from the heap of pellets one to suit him. Using his clypeus as a lever, he loosens it below; rolling it gently, he brings it to the orifice of the pit, where the booty is swallowed up. More follow, one by one, all easily handled because of the olive-like shape. They roll like casks trundled by the cooper. When the Sacred Beetle proposes to go banqueting underground far from the madding crowd, he packs his share of victuals into a ball; he gives it its spherical form, that best adapted to transport. The Minotaur, though also versed in the mechanics of rolling, has no occasion to make these preparations: the Sheep saves him the trouble by modelling fragments which are easily moved. At last, satisfied with his harvest, the gleaner goes indoors. What will he do with his treasure? Feed on it, that goes without saying, until the cold and its consequent torpor stay the appetite. But eating is not everything. In the winter, certain precautions become essential in a retreat of only middling depth. When December draws nigh, already we find a few mounds as large as those of spring. They correspond with burrows running down three feet or more. In these deeply buried crypts there is always a female who, sheltered from the rough weather outside, is frugally nibbling at her scanty provender.