the fullest success, though I do not pretend to compete with the Mason
in dexterity. For a piece of work done by a man's hand it is quite
creditable. My dab of mortar fits nicely into the mutilated wall; it
hardens as usual; and the escape of honey ceases. This is quite
satisfactory. What would it be had the work been done by the insect,
equipped with its tools of exquisite precision? When the Mason-bee
refrains, therefore, this is not due to helplessness on her part, nor
to any defect in the material employed.

Another objection presents itself. We are going too far perhaps in
admitting this concatenation of ideas in the insect's mind, in
expecting it to argue that the honey is running away because the cell
has a hole in it and that to save it from being wasted the hole must
be stopped. So much logic perhaps exceeds the powers of its poor
little brain. Then, again, the hole is not seen; it is hidden by the
honey trickling through. The cause of that stream of honey is an
unknown cause; and to trace the loss of the liquid home to that cause,
to the hole in the receptacle, is too lofty a piece of reasoning for
the insect.

A cell in the rudimentary cup-stage and containing no provisions has a
hole, three or four millimetres (.11 to .15 inch.--Translator's Note.)
wide, made in it at the bottom. A few moments later, this orifice is
stopped by the Mason. We have already witnessed a similar patching.
The insect, having finished, starts foraging. I reopen the hole at the
same place. The pollen runs through the aperture and falls to the
ground as the Bee is rubbing off her first load in the cell. The
damage is undoubtedly observed. When plunging her head into the cup to
take stock of what she has stored, the Bee puts her antennae into the
artificial hole: she sounds it, she explores it, she cannot fail to