Now however distant the entrance of the bore may be, this egg is always at the bottom of the acorn, within the cup, at the base of the cotyledonary matter.  The cup furnishes a thin film like swan-skin which imbibes the sapid exudations from the stem, the source of nourishment.  I have seen a young grub, hatched under my eyes, eat as his first mouthfuls this tender cottony layer, which is moist and flavoured with tannin.

Such nutriment, juicy and easy of digestion, like all nascent organic matter, is only found in this particular spot; and it is only there, between the cup and the base of the cotyledons, that the elephant-beetle establishes her egg.  The insect knows to a nicety the position of the portions best adapted to the feeble stomach of the newly hatched larva.

Above this is the tougher nutriment of the cotyledons.  Refreshed by its first meal, the grub proceeds to attack this; not directly, but in the tunnel bored by the mother, which is littered with tiny crumbs and half-masticated shavings.  With this light mealy diet the strength of the grub increases, and it then plunges directly into the substance of the acorn.

These data explain the tactics of the gravid mother.  What is her object when, before proceeding to sink her hole, she inspects her acorn, from above, below, before and behind, with such meticulous care?  She is making sure that the acorn is not already occupied.  The larder is amply stored, but it does not contain enough for two.  Never in fact, have I found two larvae in the same acorn.  One only, always only one, digests the copious meal and converts it into a greenish dust before leaving it and descending to the ground.  Only an insignificant shell remains uneaten.  The rule is, to each grub one acorn.

Before trusting the egg to the acorn it is therefore essential to subject it to a thorough examination, to discover whether it already has an occupant.  This possible occupant would be at the base of the acorn, under the cover of the cup.  Nothing could be more secret than this hiding-place.  Not an eye could divine the inhabitant if the surface of the acorn did not bear the mark of a tiny perforation.

This mark, just visible, is my guide.  Its presence tells me that the acorn is inhabited, or at least that it has been prepared for the reception of the egg; its absence tells me that the acorn has not yet been appropriated.  The elephant-beetle undoubtedly draws the same conclusions.

I see matters from on high, with a comprehensive glance, assisted at will by the magnifying-glass.  I turn the acorn between my fingers for a moment, and the inspection is concluded.  The beetle, investigating the acorn at close quarters, is often obliged to scrutinise practically the entire surface before detecting the tell-tale spot.  Moreover, the welfare of her family demands a far more careful search than does my curiosity.  This is the reason for her prolonged and deliberate examination.