Anthrax must be such, at the beginning, as to permit of its moving
on the surface of the dome where the egg has been dropped so
carelessly; the nascent grub must be supplied with tools to pierce
the concrete wall and enter the Bee's cell through some cranny.
The fly grub, perhaps dragging the remnants of the egg behind it,
must set out in quest of board and lodging almost as soon as it is
born. It will succeed under the guidance of instinct, that faculty
which waits not to number the days and which is as far seeing at
the moment of hatching as after the trials of a busy life. This
primary grub does not seem to me outside the limits of possibility;
I see it, if not in the body, at least in its actions, as plainly
as though it were really under the lens. It exists, if reason be
not a vain and empty guide; I must find it; I shall find it. Never
in the history of my investigations has the logic of things been
more insistent; never has it directed me with greater certainty
towards a magnificent biological theory.

While vainly trying to witness the laying of the eggs, I inquire,
at the same time, into the contents of the Mason bee's nests, in
quest of the grub just issued from the egg. My own harvest and
that of my young shepherds, whose zeal I employ in a task less
difficult than the first, procure me heaps of nests, enough to fill
baskets and baskets. These are all inspected at leisure, on my
work table, with the excitement which the certainty of an
approaching fine discovery never fails to give. The Mason's
cocoons are taken from the cells, inspected without, opened and
inspected within. My lens explores their innermost recesses; speck
by speck, it explores the Chalicodoma's slumbering larva; it
explores the inner walls of the cells. Nothing, nothing, nothing!
For a fortnight and more, nests were rejected and heaped up in a