These little scenes afford us a glimpse of certain details of the highest interest in the manners of Halictus Zebrus. The mother who builds her nest in the spring no longer leaves her home, once her works are finished. Shut up at the bottom of the burrow, busied with the minute cares of housekeeping, or else drowsing, she waits for her daughters to come out. When, in the summer heats, the life of the colony recommences, having naught to do outside as a harvester, she stands sentry at the entrance to the hall, so as to let none in save the workers of the home, her own daughters. She wards off the ill-intentioned. None can enter without the door-keeper’s consent. There is nothing to tell us that the watcher at moments deserts her post. I never see her leave her house to go and refresh herself at the flowers. Her age and her sedentary occupation, which implies no great fatigue, relieve her perhaps of the need of nourishment. Perhaps, also, the young ones returning from pillage disgorge a drop of the contents of their crops for her benefit, from time to time. Fed or not, the old one no longer goes out. But what she does need is the joys of an active family. Many are deprived of these. The Dipteron’s burglary has destroyed the household. The sorely-tried Bees then abandon the deserted burrow. It is these who, ragged and careworn, wander through the hamlet. They move in short flights; more often, they remain motionless. It is they who, embittered in their natures, offer violence to their acquaintances and seek to dislodge them. They grow rarer and more languid from day to day; then they disappear for good. What has become of them? The little grey lizard had his eye on them: they are easy mouthfuls. Those settled in their own demesne, those who guard the honey-factory wherein their daughters, the heiresses of the maternal establishment, work display a wonderful vigilance. The more I visit them, the more I admire them. In the cool hours of the early morning, when the harvesters, not finding the pollen-flour sufficiently ripened by the sun, remain indoors, I see the portresses at their posts, at the top of the gallery. Here, motionless, their heads flush with the earth, they bar the door to all invaders. If I look at them too closely, they retreat a little way and, in the shadow, await the indiscreet observer’s departure. I return when the harvest is in full swing, between eight o’clock and twelve. There is now, as the Halicti go in or out, a succession of prompt descents to open the door and ascents to close it. The portress is in the busy exercise of her functions. In the afternoon, the heat is too great, the workers do not go to the fields. Retiring to the bottom of the house, they varnish the new cells, they bake the round loaf that is to receive the egg. The grandmother is still upstairs, stopping the door with her bald head. For her, there is no nap during the stifling hours: the general safety will not allow of it.