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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
41
At
the
exact
centre
of
my
circle,
in
place
of
a
cavity,
I
now
found
a
tiny
pile
of
stones,
supported
upon
a
small
stick
and
fragment
of
leaf,
which
had
been
first
drawn
across
the
opening.
This
was
evidently
a
mere
temporary
protection
of
the
burrow,
I
reasoned,
while
the
digger
had
departed
in
search
of
prey,
and
my
surmise
was
soon
proved
to
be
correct,
as
I
observed
the
wasp,
with
bobbing
abdomen
and
flipping
wings,
zigzagging
about
the
vicinity.
Presently
disappearing
beneath
a
small
plantain
leaf,
she
quickly
emerged,
drawing
behind
her
not
a
spider,
as
in
the
case
of
her
smaller
predecessor,
but
a
big
green
caterpillar,
nearly
double
her
own
length,
and
as
large
around
as
a
slate-pencil--a
peculiar,
pungent,
waspy-scented
species
of
"puss-moth"
larva,
which
is
found
on
the
elm,
and
with
which
I
chanced
to
be
familiar.
The
victim
being
now
ready
for
burial,
the
wasp
sexton
proceeded
to
open
the
tomb.
Seizing
one
stone
after
another
in
her
widely
opened
jaws,
they
were
scattered
right
and
left,
when,
with
apparent
ease
and
prompt
despatch,
the
listless
larva
was
drawn
towards
the
burrow,
into
whose
depths
he
soon
disappeared.
Then,
after
a
short
and
suggestive
interval,
followed
the
emergence
of
the
wasp,
and
the
prompt
filling
in
of
the
requisite
earth
to
level
the
cavity,
much
as
already
described,
after
which
the
wasp
took
wing
and
disappeared,
presumably
bent
upon
a
repetition
of
the
performance
elsewhere.
But
she
had
not
simply
buried
this
caterpillar
victim,
nor
was
the
caterpillar
dead,
for
these
wasp
cemeteries
are,
in
truth,
living
tombs,
whose
apparently
dead
inmates
are
simply
sleeping,
narcotized
by
the
venom
of
the
wasp
sting,
and
thus
designed
to
afford
fresh
living
food
for
the
young
wasp
grub,
into
whose
voracious
care
they
are
committed.
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