The intestine rules the world.  In the midst of our most serious affairs there intrudes the imperious question of bread and butter.  So long as there are stomachs to digest—­and as yet we are unable to dispense with them—­we must find the wherewithal to fill them, and the powerful will live by the sufferings of the weak.  Life is a void that only death can fill.  Hence the endless butchery by which man nourishes himself, no less than beetles and other creatures; hence the perpetual holocausts which make of this earth a knacker’s yard, beside which the slaughter-houses of Chicago are as nothing.

But the feasters are legion, and the feast is not abundant in proportion.  Those that have not are envious of those that have; the hungry bare their teeth at the satisfied.  Then follows the battle for the right of possession.  Man raises armies; to defend his harvests, his granaries, and his cellars, he resorts to warfare.  When shall we see the end of it?  Alas, and many times alas!  As long as there are wolves in the world there must be watch-dogs to defend the flock.

This train of thought has led us far away from our beetles.  Let us return to them.  What was my motive in provoking the massacre of this peaceful procession of caterpillars who were on the point of self-burial when I gave them over to the butchers?  Was it to enjoy the spectacle of a frenzied massacre?  By no means; I have always pitied the sufferings of animals, and the smallest life is worthy of respect.  To overcome this pity there needed the exigencies of scientific research—­exigencies which are often cruel.

In this case the subject of research was the habits of the Carabus auratus, the little vermin-killer of our gardens, who is therefore vulgarly known as the Gardener Beetle.  How far is this title deserved?  What game does the Gardener Beetle hunt?  From what vermin does he free our beds and borders?  His dealings with the procession of pine-caterpillars promise much.  Let us continue our inquiry.

On various occasions about the end of April the gardens afford me the sight of such processions, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.  I capture them and place them in the vivarium.  Bloodshed commences the moment the banquet is served.  The caterpillars are eviscerated; each by a single beetle, or by several simultaneously.  In less than fifteen minutes the flock is completely exterminated.  Nothing remains but a few shapeless fragments, which are carried hither and thither, to be consumed at leisure under the shelter of the wooden board.  One well-fed beetle decamps, his booty in his jaws, hoping to finish his feast in peace.  He is met by companions who are attracted by the morsel hanging from the mandibles of the fugitive, and audaciously attempt to rob him.  First two, then three, they all endeavour to deprive the legitimate owner of his prize.  Each seizes the fragment, tugs at it, commences to swallow it without further ado.  There is no actual battle; no violent assaults, as in the case of dogs disputing a bone.  Their efforts are confined to the attempted theft.  If the legitimate owner retains his hold they consume his booty in common, mandibles to mandibles, until the fragment is torn or bitten through, and each retires with his mouthful.