the second experiment, that is to say, only half-finished, in the form
of a shallow cup, but already containing honey. I make a hole in the
bottom, through which the provisions ooze and run to waste. Their
owners are harvesting. Let us imagine, on the other hand, cells very
nearly finished and almost completely provisioned. I perforate the
bottom in the same way and let out the honey, which drips through
gradually. The owners of these are building.

Judging by what has gone before, the reader will perhaps expect to see
immediate repairs, urgent repairs, for the safety of the future larva
is at stake. Let him dismiss any such illusion: more and more journeys
are undertaken, now in quest of food, now in quest of mortar; but not
one of the Mason-bees troubles about the disastrous breach. The
harvester goes on harvesting; the busy bricklayer proceeds with her
next row of bricks, as though nothing out of the way had happened.
Lastly, if the injured cells are high enough and contain enough
provisions, the Bee lays her eggs, puts a door to the house and passes
on to another house, without doing aught to remedy the leakage of the
honey. Two or three days later, those cells have lost all their
contents, which now form a long trail on the surface of the nest.

Is it through lack of intelligence that the Bee allows her honey to go
to waste? May it not rather be through helplessness? It might happen
that the sort of mortar which the Mason has at her disposal will not
set on the edges of a hole that is sticky with honey. The honey may
prevent the cement from adjusting itself to the orifice, in which case
the insect's inertness would merely be resignation to an irreparable
evil. Let us look into the matter before drawing inferences. With my
forceps, I deprive the Bee of her pellet of mortar and apply it to the
hole whence the honey is escaping. My attempt at repairing meets with