I uncover the burrow from end to end as I have just explained, but without touching the contents: I leave the larva in its place, I respect the provisions; everything in the house is in order; there is nothing lacking but the roof. Well, in front of this open dwelling, of which the eye freely takes in every detail: entrance-hall, gallery, cell at the back with the grub and its heap of Flies; in front of this dwelling now a trench, at the end of which the larva wriggles under the blistering rays of the sun, the mother behaves exactly as her predecessor did. She alights at the point where the entrance used to be. It is here that she does her digging and sweeping; and it is here that she always returns after hurried visits elsewhere, within a radius of a few inches. There is no exploration of the tunnel, no anxiety about the tortured larva. The grub, whose delicate epidermis has just passed from the cool moisture of an underground cave to the fierce blaze of an untempered sun, is writhing on its heap of chewed Flies; the mother does not give it a thought. To her it is no more than any other object lying on the sand: a little pebble, a pellet of earth, a scrap of dry mud, nothing more. It is unworthy of attention. This tender and faithful mother, who wears herself out in trying to reach her nurseling’s cradle, is wanting at the moment her entrance-door, the usual door and nothing but that door. What stirs her maternal heart is her yearning for the well-known passage. And yet the way is open: there is nothing to stop the mother; and the grub, the ultimate object of her anxiety, is tossing restlessly before her eyes. One bound would bring her to the side of the poor thing clamouring for assistance. Why does she not rush to her beloved nurseling? She could dig it a new dwelling and swiftly place it in safety underground. But no; the mother persists in seeking a passage that no longer exists, while her child is grilling in the sun before her eyes. My surprise is intense in the presence of this short-sighted mother, though the sense of motherhood is the most powerful and resourceful of all the feelings that stir the animal creation. I should hardly believe the evidence of my eyes but for experiments endlessly repeated with Cerceres and Philanthi as well as with Bembex of different species.