Taking its length and diameter into account, we find the excavation has a total volume of about twelve cubic inches.  What becomes of the earth which is removed?

Sunk in a very dry, crumbling soil, we should expect the shaft and the chamber at the bottom to have soft, powdery walls, subject to petty landslips, if no work were done but that of excavation.  On the contrary, the walls are neatly daubed, plastered with a sort of clay-like mortar.  They are not precisely smooth, indeed they are distinctly rough; but their irregularities are covered with a layer of plaster, and the crumbling material, soaked in some glutinous liquid and dried, is held firmly in place.

The larva can climb up and down, ascend nearly to the surface, and go down into its chamber of refuge, without bringing down, with his claws, the continual falls of material which would block the burrow, make ascent a matter of difficulty, and retreat impossible.  The miner shores up his galleries with uprights and cross-timbers; the builder of underground railways supports the sides and roofs of his tunnels with a lining of brick or masonry or segments of iron tube; the larva of the Cigale, no less prudent an engineer, plasters the walls of its burrow with cement, so that the passage is always free and ready for use.

If I surprise the creature just as it is emerging from the soil in order to gain a neighbouring bough and there undergo transformation, I see it immediately make a prudent retreat, descending to the bottom of its burrow without the slightest difficulty—­a proof that even when about to be abandoned for ever the refuge is not encumbered with rubbish.

The ascending shaft is not a hurried piece of work, scamped by a creature impatient to reach the sunlight.  It is a true dwelling, in which the larva may make a long stay.  The plastered walls betray as much.  Such precautions would be useless in the case of a simple exit abandoned as soon as made.  We cannot doubt that the burrow is a kind of meteorological observatory, and that its inhabitant takes note of the weather without.  Buried underground at a depth of twelve or fifteen inches, the larva, when ripe for escape, could hardly judge whether the meteorological conditions were favourable.  The subterranean climate varies too little, changes too slowly, and would not afford it the precise information required for the most important action of its life—­the escape into the sunshine at the time of metamorphosis.

Patiently, for weeks, perhaps for months, it digs, clears, and strengthens a vertical shaft, leaving only a layer of earth a finger’s breadth in thickness to isolate it from the outer world.  At the bottom it prepares a carefully built recess.  This is its refuge, its place of waiting, where it reposes in peace if its observations decide it to postpone its final departure.  At the least sign of fine weather it climbs to the top of its burrow, sounds the outer world through the thin layer of earth which covers the shaft, and informs itself of the temperature and humidity of the outer air.