Some already contain the cocoon—­slender and translucid, like that of the Cerceris, and, like it, recalling the shape of certain homoeopathic phials, with oval bodies surmounted by a tapering neck.  By the extremity of the neck, which is blackened and hardened by the dejecta of the larvae, the cocoon is fixed to the end of the cell without any other support.  It reminds one of a short club, planted by the end of the handle, in a line with the horizontal axis of the cell.  Other cells contain the larva in a stage more or less advanced.  The grub is eating the last victim proffered; around it lie the remains of food already consumed.  Others, again, show me a bee, a single bee, still intact, and having an egg deposited on the under-side of the thorax.  This bee represents the first instalment of rations; others will follow as the grub matures.  My expectations are thus confirmed; as with Bembex, slayer of Diptera, so Philanthus, killer of bees, lays her egg upon the first body stored, and completes, at intervals, the provisioning of the cells.

The problem of the dead bee is elucidated; there remains the other problem, of incomparable interest—­Why, before they are given over to the larvae, are the bees robbed of their honey?  I have said, and I repeat, that the killing and emptying of the bee cannot be explained solely by the gluttony of the Philanthus.  To rob the worker of its booty is nothing; such things are seen every day; but to slaughter it in order to empty its stomach—­no, gluttony cannot be the only motive.  And as the bees placed in the cells are squeezed dry no less than the others, the idea occurs to me that as a beefsteak garnished with confitures is not to every one’s taste, so the bee sweetened with honey may well be distasteful or even harmful to the larvae of the Philanthus.  What would the grub do if, replete with blood and flesh, it were to find under its mandibles the honey-bag of the bee?—­if, gnawing at random, it were to open the bees stomach and so drench its game with syrup?  Would it approve of the mixture?  Would the little ogre pass without repugnance from the gamey flavour of a corpse to the scent of flowers?  To affirm or deny is useless.  We must see.  Let us see.

I take the young larvae of the Philanthus, already well matured, but instead of serving them with the provisions buried in their cells I offer them game of my own catching—­bees that have filled themselves with nectar among the rosemary bushes.  My bees, killed by crushing the head, are thankfully accepted, and at first I see nothing to justify my suspicions.  Then my nurslings languish, show themselves disdainful of their food, give a negligent bite here and there, and finally, one and all, die beside their uncompleted meal.  All my attempts miscarry; not once do I succeed in rearing my larvae as far as the stage of spinning the cocoon.  Yet I am no novice in my duties as dry-nurse.  How many pupils have passed through my hands and have reached the final stage in my old sardine-boxes as well as in their native burrows!  I shall draw no conclusions from this check, which my scruples may attribute to some unknown cause.  Perhaps the atmosphere of my cabinet and the dryness of the sand serving them for a bed have been too much for my nurslings, whose tender skins are used to the warm moisture of the subsoil.  Let us try another method.