Obviously, big eater as the larva is and, moreover, sequestered in a cell allowing of no communication with the outside, it is utterly ignorant of what we call cleanliness. Let us not take this to mean that it is disgustingly filthy, soiled with excrement: we should be making a grave mistake. Nothing could be neater or glossier than its satiny skin. We wonder what pains it must take over its toilet, or else what special grace enables all these eaters of ordure to keep themselves so clean. Seeing them outside their usual environment, no one would suspect their sordid life. We must look elsewhere for any defect in cleanliness, if indeed it is right to give the name of defect to a quality which, all things considered, makes for the creature’s good. Language, the one and only mirror of our thoughts, easily goes astray and becomes treacherous when attempting to express reality. Let us substitute the larva’s point of view for our own, let us throw off the man and become the Dung-beetle: offensive epithets will disappear forthwith. The grub, that mighty eater, has no relations with the outside world. What is it to do with the remains of what it has digested? Far from being embarrassed by them, it takes advantage of them, as do many other solitaries cabined in a shell. It uses them to keep out the draughts from its hermitage and to pad it with quilting. It spreads them into a soft couch, grateful to its delicate skin; it builds them into a polished niche, a water-tight alcove which will protect the long winter torpor. I told you that one had but to imagine one’s self a Dung-beetle for a moment in order to change one’s language utterly. Behold that which was hateful and burdensome turned into something of value, which will contribute largely to the grub’s welfare. Onthophagi and Copres, Scarabæi and Gymnopleuri have accustomed us to this kind of industry.