Nobody asks after the Dung-beetle and the Necrophorus, [69] invaluable scavengers both, whereas everybody knows the Gnat, that drinker of men’s blood; the Wasp, that hot-tempered swashbuckler, with her poisoned dagger; and the Ant, that notorious evil-doer, who, in our southern villages, saps and imperils the rafters of a dwelling with the same zest with which she devours a fig. I need not trouble to say more: every one will discover in the records of mankind similar instances of usefulness ignored and frightfulness exalted. The massacre instituted by the Ants and other exterminators is so great that my erstwhile populous colonies in the enclosure become too small to enable me to continue my observations; and I am driven to have recourse to information outside. In August, among the fallen leaves, in those little oases where the grass has not been wholly scorched by the sun, I find the young Cricket already rather big, black all over like the adult, with not a vestige of the white girdle of his early days. He has no domicile. The shelter of a dead leaf, the cover of a flat stone are enough for him; they represent the tents of a nomad who cares not where he lays his head. This vagabond life continues until the middle of autumn. It is then that the Yellow-winged Sphex [70] hunts down the wanderers, an easy prey, and stores her bag of Crickets underground. She decimates those who have survived the Ants’ devastating raids. A settled dwelling, dug a few weeks before the usual time, would save them from the spoilers. The sorely-tried victims do not think of it. The bitter experience of the centuries has taught them nothing. Though already strong enough to dig a protecting burrow, they remain invincibly faithful to their ancient customs and would go on roaming though the Sphex stabbed the last of their race. It is at the close of October, when the first cold weather threatens, that the burrow is taken in hand. The work is very simple, judging by the little that my observation of the caged insect has shown me. The digging is never done at a bare point in the pan, but always under the shelter of a withered lettuce-leaf, some remnant of the food provided. This takes the place of the grass screen that seems indispensable to the secrecy of the establishment. The miner scrapes with his fore-legs and uses the pincers of his mandibles to extract the larger bits of gravel. I see him stamping with his powerful hind-legs, furnished with a double row of spikes; I see him raking the rubbish, sweeping it backwards and spreading it slantwise. There you have the method in its entirety.