I explain the thing to him; for that matter, he has known all about it for some time. I have talked to him of my little creatures and the caterpillars which they hunt; he has a general knowledge of the habits of the insect which I am studying. He understands at once and goes in search. He digs at the foot of the lettuces, he scrapes among the strawberry-beds, he inspects the iris-borders. I know his sharp eyes and his intelligence; I have every confidence in him. Meanwhile, time passes. ‘Well, Favier? Where’s that Grey Worm?’ ‘I can’t find one, sir.’ ‘Bother! Then come to the rescue, you others! Claire, Aglaé, all of you! Hurry up, hunt and find!’ The whole family is brought into requisition. All its members display an activity worthy of the serious events at hand. I myself, chained to my post lest I should lose sight of the Ammophila, keep one eye upon the huntress and with the other watch for Grey Worms. Nothing turns up: three hours pass and not one of us has found the caterpillar. The Ammophila does not find it either. I see her hunting with some persistency in spots where the earth is slightly cracked. The insect wears itself out in clearing operations; with a mighty effort it removes lumps of dry earth the size of an apricot-stone. Those spots are soon abandoned, however. Then a suspicion comes to me: the fact that there are four or five of us vainly hunting for a Grey Worm does not prove that the Ammophila is troubled with the same want of skill. Where man is helpless, the insect often triumphs. The exquisite delicacy of perception that guides it cannot leave it at a loss for hours together. Perhaps the Grey Worm, foreseeing the gathering storm, has dug its way lower down. The huntress very well knows where it lies, but cannot extract it from its deep hiding-place. When she abandons a spot after a few attempts, it is not for want of sagacity, but for want of the requisite power of digging. Wherever the Ammophila scratches, there must a Grey Worm be: the place is abandoned because the work of extraction is admittedly beyond her strength. It was very stupid of me not to have thought of it earlier. Would such an experienced poacher pay any attention to a place where there is really nothing? What nonsense! I thereupon resolve to come to her assistance. The insect, at this moment, is digging a tilled and absolutely bare spot. It leaves the place, as it has already done with so many others. I myself continue the work, with the blade of a knife. I do not find anything either; and I retire. The insect comes back and again begins to scratch at a certain part of my excavations. I understand: ‘Get out of that, you clumsy fellow!’ the Hymenopteron seems to say. ‘I’ll show you where the thing lives!’ Upon her indications I dig at the required spot and unearth a Grey Worm. Well done, my canny Ammophila! Did I not say that you would never have raked at an empty burrow?