Let us dwell for a moment upon a sight which cannot fail to attract our attention. The Wasp’s prey lies on its back, motionless. In the cell of the Yellow-winged Sphex it is a Cricket, or rather three or four Crickets stacked one atop the other; in the cell of the Languedocian Sphex it is a single head of game, but large in proportion, a fat-bellied Ephippiger. The grub is lost should it happen to be torn from the spot whence it derives life; a fall would be the end of it, for, weak as it is and deprived of all means of motion, how could it make its way back to the spot at which it slakes its appetite? The slightest movement would enable the victim to rid itself of the atom gnawing at its entrails; and yet the gigantic prey submits meekly, without the least quiver of protest. I well know that it is paralysed, that it has lost the use of its legs through the sting of its murderess; but still, recent victim that it is, it retains more or less power of movement and sensation in the regions not affected by the dart. The abdomen throbs, the mandibles open and close, the abdominal filaments wave to and fro, as do the antennæ. What would happen if the worm were to bite into one of the still impressionable parts, near the mandibles, or even on the belly, which, being more tender and more succulent, seems as though it ought, after all, to supply the first mouthfuls of the feeble grub? Bitten to the quick, the Cricket, Locust or Ephippiger would at least shiver; and this faint tremor of the skin would be enough to shake off the tiny larva and bring it to the ground, where it would no doubt perish, for it might at any moment find itself in the grips of those dreadful mandibles. But there is one part of the body where no such danger is to be feared, the part which the Wasp has wounded with her sting—in short, the thorax. Here and here alone, on a victim of recent date, the experimenter can rummage with a needle, driving it through and through, without producing a sign of suffering in the patient. Well, it is here that the egg is invariably laid; it is here that the young larva always takes its first bite at its prey. Gnawed at a point no longer susceptible to pain, the Cricket remains motionless. Later, when the wound has reached a sensitive point, he will doubtless toss about to such extent as he can; but then it will be too late: his torpor will be too deep; and besides the enemy will have gained strength. This explains why the egg is laid on a spot which never varies, near the wounds caused by the sting—in short, on the thorax: not in the middle, where the skin would perhaps be too thick for the new-born grub, but on one side, towards the juncture of the legs, where it is much thinner. What a judicious choice, how logical on the part of the mother when, underground, in complete darkness, she discerns the one suitable spot on the victim and selects it for her egg!