It is by the ingenious removal of this series of difficulties that the Odynerus succeeds in leaving a family. We have seen enough of her exquisite foresight to amaze us. What would it be were nothing to remain concealed from our dull eyes! Can the insect have acquired its skill gradually, from generation to generation, by a long series of casual experiments, of blind gropings? Can such order be born of chaos; such foresight of hazard; such wisdom of stupidity? Is the world subject to the fatalities of evolution, from the first albuminous atom which coagulated into a cell, or is it ruled by an Intelligence? The more I see and the more I observe, the more does this Intelligence shine behind the mystery of things. I know that I shall not fail to be treated as an abominable “final causer.” Little do I care! A sure sign of being right in the future is to be out of fashion in the present. CHAPTER III THE PELOPÆUS Of the several insects that elect to make their home in our houses, certainly the most interesting, for the beauty of its shape, the singularity of its manners and the structure of its nests, is the Pelopæus, a Wasp hardly known even to the people whose fireside she frequents. Her solitary habits and her peaceful occupation of the premises explain why history is silent in her regard. She is so extremely retiring that her host is nearly always ignorant of her presence. Fame is for the noisy, the importunate, the noxious. Let us try to rescue the modest creature from oblivion. An extremely chilly mortal, the Pelopæus pitches her tent under the kindly sun which ripens the olive and prompts the Cicada’s song; and even then she needs for her family the additional warmth furnished by our dwellings. Her usual refuge is the peasant’s lonely cottage, with its old fig-tree shading the well in front of the door. She chooses one exposed to all the heat of summer and, if possible, boasting a capacious fireplace in which a fire of sticks is frequently renewed. The cheerful blaze on winter evenings, when the sacred yule-log burns upon the hearth, is largely responsible for her choice, for the insect knows by the blackness of the chimney that the spot is a likely one. A chimney that is not well glazed by smoke does not inspire her with confidence: people must shiver with cold in that house. During the dog-days in July and August, the visitor suddenly appears, seeking a place for her nest. She is in no wise disturbed by the bustle and movement of the household: they take no notice of her nor she of them. Spasmodically she examines, now with her sharp eyes, now with her sensitive antennæ, the corners of the blackened ceiling, the angles of the rafters, the chimneypiece, the sides of the fireplace in particular and even the interior of the flue. Having finished her inspection and duly approved of the site, she flies away, soon to return with the little pellet of mud which will form the first layer of the edifice.