Then what does the globulous form, which presents the most efficacious preventative against desiccation during the heat of summer, do here? Physically, this property of the sphere and of its near neighbour, the ovoid, is undeniable; but these shapes offer only a casual concord with the difficulty overcome. The animal built to roll balls across the fields also fashions balls underground. If the worm be all the better for finding tender foodstuffs under its mandibles to the very end, that is a capital thing for the worm, but it is no reason why we should extol the instinct of the mother. To complete my conviction, I shall need a portly Dung-beetle who is a total stranger to the pill-making craft in matters of every-day life and who, nevertheless, when the moment of laying is at hand, makes a sudden change in her habits and shapes her harvest into a ball. Is there any such in my neighbourhood? Yes, there is; and she is one of the handsomest and largest, next to the Sacred Beetle. I speak of the Spanish Copris, who is so remarkable for her suddenly sloping corselet and for the extravagant horn surmounting her head. Thick-set, round, dumpy, slow of gait, the Spanish Copris is certainly not equal to the athletic performances of the Sacred Beetle. The legs, of very middling length and folded under the belly at the least alarm, bear no comparison with the stilts of the pill-rollers. Their stiff and stunted form alone is enough to tell us that the insect would not care to wander about hampered by a rolling ball. The Copris is, in point of fact, of a sedentary habit. Once he has found his provisions, at night or in the evening twilight, he digs a burrow under the heap. It is a rough cave, large enough to hold a big apple. Here is introduced, piecemeal, the matter forming the roof or, at least, lying on the door-sill; here is engulfed, without definite shape, an enormous supply of victuals, bearing eloquent witness to the insect’s gluttony. As long as the hoard lasts, the Copris, engrossed in the pleasures of the table, does not return to the surface. The hermitage is not abandoned until the larder is emptied, when the insect recommences its nocturnal searches, finds a new treasure and digs itself a new temporary establishment. Plying this trade as a setter-in of ordure without preliminary manipulation, the Copris, evidently, is absolutely ignorant, for the time being, of the art of kneading and modelling a globular loaf. Besides, his short, awkward legs seem radically opposed to any such art. In May, or June at latest, comes laying-time. The insect, itself so ready to fill its belly with the most sordid materials, becomes particular, where the portion of its family is concerned. Like the Sacred Beetle, it now wants the soft produce of the sheep, deposited in a single lump. Even when copious, the cake is buried on the spot in its entirety. Not a trace of it remains outside. Economy demands that it be gathered to the last crumb.