Well, this surgical outfit, intended for stabbing the jugular artery of the prey, suddenly becomes a pick-axe and does rough navvy’s work.  To witness the underground digging is impossible; but we can, at least, with the exercise of a little patience, see the rubbish carted away.  If I watch my captives, without tiring, at a very early hour—­for the work takes place mostly at night and at long intervals—­in the end I catch them coming up with a load.  Contrary to what I expected, the legs take no part in the carting.  It is the mouth that acts as the barrow.  A tiny ball of earth is held between the fangs and is supported by the palpi, or feelers, which are little arms employed in the service of the mouth-parts.  The Lycosa descends cautiously from her turret, goes to some distance to get rid of her burden and quickly dives down again to bring up more.

We have seen enough:  we know that the Lycosa’s fangs, those lethal weapons, are not afraid to bite into clay and gravel.  They knead the excavated rubbish into pellets, take up the mass of earth and carry it outside.  The rest follows naturally; it is the fangs that dig, delve and extract.  How finely-tempered they must be, not to be blunted by this well-sinker’s work and to do duty presently in the surgical operation of stabbing the neck!

I have said that the repairs and extensions of the burrow are made at long intervals.  From time to time, the circular parapet receives additions and becomes a little higher; less frequently still, the dwelling is enlarged and deepened.  As a rule, the mansion remains as it was for a whole season.  Towards the end of winter, in March more than at any other period, the Lycosa seems to wish to give herself a little more space.  This is the moment to subject her to certain tests.

We know that the Field Cricket, when removed from his burrow and caged under conditions that would allow him to dig himself a new home should the fit seize him, prefers to tramp from one casual shelter to another, or rather abandons every idea of creating a permanent residence.  There is a short season whereat the instinct for building a subterranean gallery is imperatively aroused.  When this season is past, the excavating artist, if accidentally deprived of his abode, becomes a wandering Bohemian, careless of a lodging.  He has forgotten his talents and he sleeps out.

That the bird, the nest-builder, should neglect its art when it has no brood to care for is perfectly logical:  it builds for its family, not for itself.  But what shall we say of the Cricket, who is exposed to a thousand mishaps when away from home?  The protection of a roof would be of great use to him; and the giddy-pate does not give it a thought, though he is very strong and more capable than ever of digging with his powerful jaws.

What reason can we allege for this neglect?  None, unless it be that the season of strenuous burrowing is past.  The instincts have a calendar of their own.  At the given hour, suddenly they awaken; as suddenly, afterwards, they fall asleep.  The ingenious become incompetent when the prescribed period is ended.