the Societe entomologique de France), the only author whom I am
able to consult in my hermitage, says, literally: 'The males do not
appear to be known.'

I, for my part, know them; but, considering their feeble number, I
keep asking myself what part they play in a harem so
disproportionate to their forces. A few figures will show us what
my hesitations are based upon.

In twenty-two Osmia cocoons (Osmia tricornis), the total census of
the inmates yields three hundred and fifty-four, of whom forty-
seven are males and three hundred and seven females. The average
number of inmates, therefore, is sixteen individuals; and there are
six females at least to one male. This disparity is maintained, in
more or less marked proportions, whatever the species of the bee
invaded. In the cocoons of the Mason bee of the Sheds, I discover
the average proportion to be six females to one male; in those of
the Mason bee of the Walls, I find one male to fifteen females.

These facts, which I am unable to state with any greater precision,
are enough to give rise to the suspicion that the males, who are
even tinier dwarfs than the females and who, moreover, like all
insects, are injured by a single act of pairing, must, in most
cases, remain strangers to the females. Can the mothers, in fact,
dispense with their assistance, without being deprived of offspring
on that account? I do not say yes, but I do not say no. The
duality of the sexes is a hard problem. Why two sexes? Why not
just one? It would have been much simpler and saved a great deal
of foolery. Why such a thing as sex, when the tuber of the
Jerusalem artichoke can do without it? These are the pregnant