That ardent lover of roses and hawthorn-blossom, the Golden Cetonia, leaves the luxury of the flowers, to burrow in the shame of putrescence. She repairs to the compost-heap, but is certainly not tempted by any dish to her taste. She cannot sip honey there nor intoxicate herself with perfumed essences. Another reason draws her to this corruption. At first sight it would seem as if these strange instincts might be explained by the larva’s diet, of which the adult would retain a lively recollection. The caterpillar of the Pieris fed on cabbage-leaves; the caterpillar of the Vanessa fed on nettle-leaves; and each of the two Butterflies, endowed with a faithful memory, exploits the plant which has no attraction for her now, but which was a treat for her in her infancy. In the same way, the Cetonia dives into the heap of leaf-mould because she remembers the feasts of former days, when she was a grub in the midst of the fermenting vegetable matter; and the Pine Cockchafer seeks the sandy tracts covered with lean tufts of grass, because she remembers her youthful revels underground amid the decaying rootlets. Such a memory would be almost admissible if the adult’s diet were the same as the larva’s. We can more or less understand the Dung-beetle, who, herself feeding upon animal droppings, makes them into canned provisions for her family. The diet of maturity and that of infancy are linked as though each were a reminiscence of the other. Uniformity offers a very simple solution of the food-problem. But what shall we say of the Cetonia passing from the flowers to the sordid refuse of the decayed leaves? Above all, what shall we say of the Hunting Wasps? These fill their own crops with honey and feed their youngsters on prey! By what inconceivable inspiration does the Cerceris [36] leave the refreshment-bar of the blossoms, dripping with nectar, to go a-hunting and to slay the Weevil, the game destined for her offspring? How are we to explain the Sphex, who, having refreshed herself at the sugar-works of the field eringo, suddenly flies off, eager to stab the Cricket, the food of her grub? It is a matter of memory, some will make haste to reply. Ah no! Please do not speak of memory here; do not appeal to the belly’s powers of reminiscence! Man is fairly well endowed with mnemonic aptitudes. Yet which of us has retained the least recollection of his mother’s milk? If we had never seen a babe at the breast, we could never suspect that we began life in the same fashion. This food of earliest infancy is not remembered; it is certified only by example, as by that of the Lamb, which, with bended knees and frisking tail, sucks at the udder and butts it with its head. No, the mouthfuls of mother’s milk have left not a trace in the mind.