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Ogilvie, the Merlin figure, surely to us is Gandalf, the White
Magician.
SIR GEORGE TREVELYAN
 CONTENTS

Title Page
Prologue. HOW IT ALL BEGAN
Chapter 1. AFTERNOON WITH A FAUN
Chapter 2. AN EVENING ENCOUNTER
Chapter 3. MEETING PAN ON IONA
Chapter 4. AN ENCHANTED MOMENT
Chapter 5. PAN’S WORLD
Chapter 6. THE TRAVELLING ELF
Chapter 7. THE KING OF THE ELVES
Chapter 8. LIFE FORCE
Chapter 9. A KALEIDOSCOPE OF GARDENS
Chapter 10. MAGIC ON MIDSUMMER EVE
Chapter 11. ENCHANTMENTS OF AUTUMN
Chapter 12. PAN VISITS ROC AT HOME
Chapter 13. THE WILD GARDEN
Chapter 14. STRANGE OCCURRENCES AT FINDHORN
Chapter 15. SALAMANDERS, SYLPHS AND UNDINES
Chapter 16. ELVES, FAIRIES AND GOBLINS
Chapter 17. INSIGHTS INTO THE ELEMENTAL KINGDOM
Chapter 18. THE QUESTION OF EVIL
Chapter 19. MEETING NATURE SPIRITS
Afterword

My experiences with nature and Roc

Remembrances of Roc

Endnotes
Sources and Acknowledgments
Recommended Reading
About the Author
About Inner Traditions • Bear & Company
Books of Related Interest
Copyright & Permissions
Robert Ogilvie Crombie, or Roc, was a loving and gentle man,
a wondrous storyteller, a musician, an actor, and an
embodiment of the best of Scottish charm. He was the wise
old man, the grandfatherly figure children adore, and the
magician who guides heroes and heroines on their paths of
accomplishment. He was a man of culture who had one foot
in this world and one foot in the worlds of spirit and mystery.
There was a great deal to admire about Roc. He was a
self-taught mythologist, psychologist, historian and
esotericist, though his early training had been in science.
Though quiet and reserved, he was still a pleasure to be with.
He had a delightful, even impish, sense of humour matched
by a twinkle in his eyes that was rarely absent.
DAVID SPANGLER
 PROLOGUE
How it all began
•

MIKE SCOTT, MUSICIAN, WRITER AND ARCHIVIST

R Ogilvie Crombie was an Edinburgh man, born in that most

gracious of cities into an artistic, well-to-do family in the spring
of 1899. As a child he played piano, excelled at maths and
science, and read the books on parapsychology he found in his
father’s library, an interest that developed into teenage experiments
in telepathy and automatic writing. But though young Ogilvie—the
‘R’ stood for Robert but his friends called him by his middle name—
enjoyed rambling over the Braid Hills that lay south of the family
home, he was not a hardy lad. When he was nine it was discovered
his heart had a leaking mitral valve, a condition for which in those
days there was no treatment.
Thus, at a young age, the major strands of Ogilvie’s life were
established: the arts and sciences, a fragile heart and an interest in
the unseen.
On leaving school in 1915 he joined the Marconi radio company
as a trainee, then served as a radio operator in the Merchant Navy
during the latter part of the First World War. At war’s end he went to
Edinburgh University where he studied physics, chemistry and
mathematics, but after three years Ogilvie’s studies were curtailed
by illness. When he was thirty-three, he suffered a serious heart
attack and was told by his doctor to ‘consider himself retired’.
Prevented from working, Ogilvie was free to dedicate himself to his
interests, and immersed himself in the cultural life of Edinburgh. He
was a founding member of the famous Scottish theatre group The
Makars, and in the 1930s became, as one newspaper said, ‘a well-
known personality in Edinburgh dramatic circles’. He also wrote and
directed plays and in later years regularly appeared on Scottish
television playing small character parts—a judge here, a professor
there. His credits included popular series such as Dr Finlay's
Casebook, and he appeared as an extra in the Peter Sellers movie
The Battle of the Sexes, where he can be briefly glimpsed strolling
up Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.
Ogilvie was that rare kind of man who is interested in everything.
He performed piano recitals, led a choir, edited poetry journals and
formed a philosophical society. In his rich Edinburgh brogue he gave
talks on classical music and the appreciation of paintings. He kept
abreast of developments in science and medicine, wrote letters to
newspapers, and followed all of the arts with a sharp eye. Yet
running ever parallel with these pursuits, and as private as his
enjoyment of acting was public, was Ogilvie’s interest in the deeper
mysteries of life.
There is no doubt that Ogilvie was an initiate of an ancient and
veiled spiritual tradition. His lectures and writings of the 1960s and
70s, which comprise the major part of this book, intermingled with
recollections by others who were there, bear the hallmarks of the
adept: authority, humility, curiosity, encyclopaedic yet integrated
knowledge, and the tantalising sense of greater wisdom held
perpetually in reserve behind a nuanced boundary of well-weighed
words. It is not known to which school or system he belonged, nor is
it important. Ogilvie never revealed his spiritual lineage, but iťs clear
he had a profound understanding not only of what used to be called
‘the occult’ but of all the world’s major religions, and many of its
more obscure ones.
This sheathed mastery was matched by Ogilvie’s profound
understanding of nature, which sprang from his scientific interests
and his lifelong love of hill walks, fresh air and bathing in the sea.
Ogilvie’s empathy with the natural world deepened significantly
during his ten-year experience of living in an isolated rural cottage.
Ordered out of Edinburgh by his doctor at the outbreak of the
Second World War, lest his fragile health be broken in the event of
German bombings, Ogilvie lived an ascetic life in Cowford Cottage,
Perthshire. There was no electricity and he fetched his water from a
nearby spring, but the absence of modern comforts and the
immanent presence of nature acted powerfully upon the curious and
sensitive Ogilvie, who gradually became more and more subtly
aware of the natural world around him. By oil lamp and candle he
studied Jung and Plato, and among the multitude of books he read
was Paramahansa Yogananda’s then newly published Autobiography
of a Yogi. And though he kept in touch with the distant fortunes of
humanity by newspapers and radio, Ogilvie existed for those ten
years not unlike a medieval hermit: removed from the tides of men
and alert to the deeper rhythms of the world.
He returned to Edinburgh in 1949 and lived in a first-floor flat on
Albany Street, close to the city centre, where he would stay until his
death in 1975. Most of the experiences recounted in this book
occurred during the last decade of his life, and it was during this
period that Ogilvie made the only public displays of his interest in
occult matters. These took the form of lectures and were spurred in
part by his friendship with a former RAF officer named Peter Caddy
and his subsequent involvement in the spiritual community of which
Caddy was co-founder, the Findhorn Foundation in northeast
Scotland.
Though today world-renowned and numbering hundreds of
members, at the time Ogilvie met Caddy the community at Findhorn
comprised five adults whose little-known work was centred around
two mystical yet practical activities. Peter, his wife Eileen and their
friend Dorothy Maclean had been trained in a variety of spiritual
disciplines, and Eileen and Dorothy had each learned to contact
personal inner sources of guidance in meditation. The experience of
an ‘inner guiding voice’ is common to all spiritual traditions, and was
termed by Eileen ‘the still small voice within’. Following the directions
Eileen received inwardly, Peter had unconventionally but successfully
managed a large Scottish hotel for several years, and the group was
now establishing their fledgling community the same way.
 In 1963 their work had expanded into a dynamic cooperation
with nature when Dorothy discovered, also in meditation, that like a
human radio receiver she could tune into and contact the
overlighting angelic spirits of plants, subtle intelligences she called
‘devas’. Short of cash and struggling to grow food in their meagre
garden, Peter persuaded a bemused Dorothy to ask the devas for
planting advice. And the devas responded. Soon, amazingly, the
Findhorn group was receiving precise gardening instructions from
the inner intelligences of nature, resulting, by the mid 60s, in an
astonishingly abundant garden grown in the unlikely sandy soil of a
wind-lashed caravan park. This miraculous ‘Findhorn garden’ had
profound implications not only spiritually, but for ecology, land
reclamation and food creation; if humanity and nature could
cooperate like this around the world, what might be achieved? The
small group wasn’t yet ready to reveal their secret for fear of
disbelief and ridicule; nevertheless, the garden became famous
when a parade of horticultural experts, first local then national,
visited and pronounced themselves stunned and mystified.
This was the kind of intriguing development, blending science,
nature and the unseen, that was sure to grip the ever-curious
Ogilvie’s attention. And so it did; Ogilvie soon became a regular and
much-loved visitor to the community, where he was always known
by the acronym ‘Roc’. In fact, he became the community’s mentor,
Peter Caddy’s first port of call whenever any esoteric advice was
required, and is now remembered as one of its major early figures,
along with the three founders and David Spangler.
But most importantly, beyond mentorship, Ogilvie brought to
Findhorn a third connection with the subtler worlds. For in early
1966, even before he had an opportunity to see the miracle garden
for himself, Ogilvie made his own startling contact with the inner
spirits of nature. It happened on a March day in an Edinburgh park,
and nothing would ever be the same again.
 AFTERNOON WITH A FAUN
•

ROC

Over forty years ago something rather special happened. R.

Ogilvie Crombie, or Roc as he was often known, visited the
Royal Botanic Garden in Edinburgh, not far from his flat. It
was here, in one of his favourite places, that he was to have
an experience that proved life-changing.

I t was a glorious day and I went to the Garden in the afternoon. I

wandered about for a while enjoying the beauty and peace of the
rock garden and other favourite spots. Eventually I began walking
along a path skirting the north side of Inverleith House, which is
situated on rising ground in the centre of the Garden and houses
Edinburgh’s Modern Art Gallery.
Leaving the path I crossed an expanse of grass, dotted with trees
and bushes, to a seat under a tall beech tree. When I sat down I
leant my shoulders and the back of my head against the tree. I
became, in some way, identified with this tree, became aware of the
movement of the sap in the trunk and even of the infinitely slow
growth of the roots. There was a decided heightening of awareness
and a sense of expectation. I felt completely awake and full of
energy. There was a tension in the air, almost as if the air itself were
beginning to shimmer. I sat there in utter contentment.
Suddenly I saw a figure dancing round a tree about twenty yards
away from me—a beautiful little figure about three feet tall. I saw
with astonishment that it was a faun, the Greek mythological being,
half human, half animal. He had a pointed chin and ears and two
little horns on his forehead. His shaggy legs ended in cloven hooves
and his skin was honey-coloured. I looked at him in amazement, and
even did the obvious: I pinched myself. I was awake.
I wondered for a moment if perhaps he was a boy made up for a
school show. Yet he could not be—something about him was
decidedly not human. Was he an hallucination? There were one or
two other people walking about in the Garden. I looked at them and
then back at this beautiful little being. He was still there and seemed
to be as solid and real as they were. I tried hard to analyse this
experience and explain him away.
Suddenly I was brought up sharp—what was I trying to do? Here
was a strange and wonderful experience. Why should I not accept it,
see what happened and analyse it later? I watched the little being
with delight as he circled around another tree. He danced over to
where I was sitting, stood looking at me for a moment and then sat
cross-legged in front of me. I looked at him. He was very real. I bent
forward and said: ‘Hallo.’
He leapt to his feet, startled, and stared at me. ‘Can you see
me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Humans can’t see us.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I assured him. ‘Some of us can.’
‘What am I like?’ he asked.
 I described him as I saw him. Still looking bewildered, he began
to dance around in small circles. ‘What am I doing?’
I told him. He stopped dancing and said, ‘You must be seeing
me.’
He danced across to the seat beside me, sat down and, turning
towards me, looked up and said: ‘Why are human beings so stupid?’
In some ways I may be over-personalising this being. I realise I
was not seeing him with my physical sight, though when I closed my
eyes he was not there. And the communication between us was, no
doubt, taking place on a mental or telepathic level by means of
thought transference, probably in the form of images and symbols
projected into my unconscious mind and translated into words by my
consciousness. I cannot be certain as to whether I was speaking to
him mentally or aloud, however I have to report our exchanges in
the form of dialogue, since that is what I heard in my head. I am
aware that in a case like this there is always the possibility of
colouration from my own mind. However, applying my training as a
scientist in objective observation and analysis, I do try to report
experiments and experiences as accurately as possible.
To return to this question of why human beings are so stupid, I
asked him, ‘In what way stupid?’
‘In many ways.’ He wanted to know what were the strange skins
or coverings they had, some of which could be taken off? Why did
they not go about in the natural state as he did?
I told him the skins were called clothes and that we wore them
for protection and for warmth and because it was not considered
right to be without them. This latter he could not understand, so I
did not pursue the subject. We talked about houses, and motor cars
which seemed to him to be boxes on wheels in which human beings
dashed about, sometimes bumping into each other. ‘Was it a game?’
he wanted to know.
He told me he lived in the Garden. This was a partial truth, as he
was an inhabitant of another plane as well. His work was to help the
growth of trees. He also told me that many of the nature spirits have
lost interest in the human race, since they have been made to feel
that they are neither believed in nor wanted.
‘If you humans think you can get along without us, just try!’
‘Some of us do believe in you and want your help. I do, for one.’
The wonderful thing about this meeting was the sense of
companionship. I felt an amazing harmony with this wonderful little
being sitting beside me. A communication was taking place between
us that did not need to be put in words. We sat for some time
without speaking. Eventually I rose and said I must return home.
‘Call me when you return here and I will come to you,’ he said.
He told me his name was Kurmos. I asked him if he could visit me.
‘Yes, if you invite me,’ he replied.
‘I do. I shall be delighted if you will come and visit me.’
‘You do believe in me?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘And you like us?’ asked Kurmos.
‘Yes, I have much affection for the nature spirits.’ This was true
from childhood, though he was the first one I had actually seen.
‘Then I’ll come now.’
We walked through the west gate out of the Garden and through
the streets of Edinburgh back to my flat. I was amused to think of
the sensation it might have caused had this strange, delightful little
faun been as visible to the passers-by as he was to me.
We entered my flat. I have a fairly large collection of books and
my two main rooms are lined with bookshelves. Kurmos showed
great interest. What were they and why did I have so many? I
explained to him that they contained facts, ideas, speculations and
theories, accounts of past events, stories invented by the writers and
so on, all of which were written down, put into print and made up
into books which could be read by others.
His comment was: ‘Why? You can get all the knowledge you
want by simply wanting it.’
 I told him human beings could not do that very wonderful thing
—at least not yet. We had to be content to get our facts and
knowledge from other people or books.
Again we sat for some time in silence and contented harmony. It
was a simple awareness of each other, something like that between
a human being and a much-loved animal, an awareness that is only
felt between humans when there is great harmony. It was very
pleasant. This type of harmony is universal amongst the nature
spirits. Dissension and hatred are almost unknown.
Then he got up; it was time for him to return to the Garden. The
door of the room was open, and he walked into the hall. I followed
him and, probably because he looked so solid and real, I opened the
door onto the landing. He passed me and ran lightly down the stairs.
As he reached the bottom step, he faded out.
This was an astonishing experience, one I am certain I could not
have imagined. And why did he appear to me as a faun? That
puzzled me. I had read no Greek mythology for years.
Several times after that he appeared beside me when I went to
the Garden and called to him. I did not want to ask him questions;
the wonderful companionship and harmony were enough, though I
knew that here was infinite, mature wisdom—combined with the
naiveté of a child. I intuitively felt that what was right for me to
know regarding him would be given at the appropriate time.
I did not know then that these meetings with Kurmos were
leading me to something even more unusual which was to take place
over a month later, at the end of April.
 AN EVENING ENCOUNTER
•

ROC

O ne evening I had been visiting friends who lived on the south

side of Edinburgh. It was eleven o’clock and I was walking
home. I had reached the Mound, which is the street joining the
old and new towns. It runs from High Street to the middle of Princes
Street in a double curve. On the left side is the castle perched on its
rock above the railway and West Princes Street Gardens. On the
right, at the foot of the street, are two Greek-like buildings, the Royal
Scottish Academy facing Princes Street and, immediately behind it,
the National Gallery.
It was a beautiful night. There were few people about, and I
thought how peaceful the city was at that moment. Suddenly, as I
turned the corner onto the last part of the street which runs down
the side of the National Gallery, I stepped into an extraordinary
atmosphere. I had never before encountered anything quite like it.
While it is difficult to describe, I might say it was as if I had no
clothes on and was walking through a medium denser than air but
not as dense as water. I could feel it against my body. It produced a
sensation of warmth and tingling like a mixture of pins and needles
and an electric shock, and there was a suggestion of cobwebs
brushing against my skin. This was accompanied by a heightened
awareness and the same feeling of expectation I had had in the
Garden before meeting Kurmos.
Then I realised that I was not alone. A figure—taller than myself—
was walking beside me. It was a faun, radiating a tremendous power.
I glanced at him. Surely this was not my little faun grown up
suddenly?
We walked on. He turned his head and looked at me. ‘Well, aren’t
you afraid of me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? All human beings are afraid of me.’
‘I feel no evil in your presence. I see no reason why you should
want to harm me. I do not feel afraid.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
I did at that moment. ‘You are the great god Pan.’
‘Then you ought to be afraid. Your word “panic” comes from the
fear my presence causes,’ said Pan.
‘Not always. I am not afraid.’
‘Can you give me a reason?’ pressed Pan.
‘It may be because of my affinity with your subjects, the earth
spirits and woodland creatures.’
‘You believe in my subjects?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you love my subjects?’ Pan asked.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘In that case, do you love me?’ questioned Pan.
‘Why not?’
‘Do you love me?’ pressed Pan.
‘Yes.’
 He looked at me with a strange smile and a glint in his deep,
mysterious brown eyes. ‘You know, of course, that I’m the devil? You
have just said you love the devil.’
‘No, you are not the devil. You are the god of the woodlands and
the countryside. There is no evil in you. You are Pan.’
‘Did the early Christian church not take me as a model for the
devil? Look at my cloven hooves, my shaggy legs and the horns on
my forehead.’
‘The church turned all pagan gods and spirits into devils, fiends
and imps.’
‘Was the church wrong then?’
‘The church did it with the best intentions from its own point of
view. But it was wrong. The ancient gods are not necessarily devils.’
We crossed Princes Street and turned right towards South St
David Street. He turned to me: ‘What do I smell like?’
Since he had joined me I had been aware of a wonderful scent of
pine woods, of damp leaves, of newly turned earth and of woodland
flowers. I told him this.
ROC MEETS KURMOS IN THE BOTANIC GARDEN
 ‘Don’t I smell rank like a goat?’ asked Pan.
‘No, you don’t. There is a faint, musk-like smell, like the fur of a
healthy cat. It is pleasant—almost like incense. Are you still claiming
to be the devil?’
‘I have to find out what you think of me. It’s important.’
‘Why?’
‘For a reason,’ said Pan.
‘Won’t you tell me what it is?’
‘Not now. It will become apparent in time.’
We walked on. Pan was walking very close to me. ‘You don’t mind
me walking beside you?’
‘Not in the least.’
He put his arm around my shoulder. I felt the actual physical
contact. ‘You don’t mind if I touch you?’
‘No.’
‘You really feel no repulsion or fear?’
‘None.’
‘Excellent.’
I could not think why he was making this determined effort to
produce a sign of fear. I am not claiming to be a brave man; there
are many things that would scare me out of my life. But, for some
reason or other, I felt no fear of this being. Awe, because of his
power, but not fear—only love.
We turned into Queen Street and I asked him where his panpipes
were. He smiled at the question: ‘I do have them, you know.’ And
there he was, holding them in his hands. He began to play a curious
melody. I had heard it in woods before and I have often heard it
since, but it is so elusive that I have always been unable to
remember it afterwards.
When we reached the downstairs front door of my flat he
disappeared, but when I came into the house I had a strong feeling
that he was there though I could not see him.
 I had no idea why this strange encounter had happened, or why
this being had chosen to show himself to me. It looked as if the
meeting with the little faun in the Botanic Garden had been a
preliminary step in bringing it about, and I was feeling reasonably
certain that neither of these beings was imaginary. I wondered what
was going to happen next.
 MEETING PAN ON IONA
•

ROC

T he next significant meeting was in early May on Iona, a tiny

island of the Inner Hebrides which is considered to be an ancient
centre of spiritual power. Peter Caddy and I were standing in the
Hermit’s Cell, a ring of stones which is all that is left of the place
where Saint Columba used to go in retreat. It is about halfway
across the island, almost on a level with Iona Abbey.
In front of us was a gentle grassy slope, and I became aware of
a large figure lying in the ground there. I could see him through the
grass. It appeared to be a monk in a brown habit with the hood
pulled over his head so that his features were concealed. His feet
were towards me.
As I watched, he raised his hands and rolled back the hood. It
was Pan. He rose up out of the ground and stood facing us, an
immense figure at least twenty-five feet tall. As he did so, the habit
fell away. He was smiling and said: ‘I am the servant of Almighty
God, and I and my subjects are willing to come to the aid of
mankind, in spite of the way it has treated us and abused nature, if
it affirms belief in us and asks for our help.’
Through this and other encounters with Pan, I would come to a
greater understanding of why Pan and the nature spirits were
choosing to communicate with me. Here was a step towards the
reconciliation of Pan and the world of the nature spirits with
humanity. Because I had been able to respond to him without fear,
Pan could communicate with me and use me as a mediator between
humanity and nature. This does not make me important in myself—I
am simply a channel for his work.
Vital to this reconciliation is the recognition of Pan’s true nature.
He is a great being, the god of the whole elemental kingdom as well
as of the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms. People may feel
uneasy in his presence because of the awe he inspires, but there
ought to be no fear.
‘All human beings are afraid of me,’ he had said at our first
meeting, not as a threat but with sadness. ‘Did the early Christian
church not take me as a model for the devil?’ That is why Pan is
feared—because of the image projected onto him. This stigma must
be lifted in order to re-establish the true link between humanity and
nature.
Pan has said to me he would prefer not to be represented in any
material form at all. Yet, if he must be, he insists on being accepted,
in our culture, as the Greek myth depicts him, half human, half
animal. There is a fitness about it in its symbolism. The human
upper half represents intellect, united with a powerful, mysterious,
deep energy represented by the animal lower half—an energy not
yet revealed in humanity.
It is important to consider Pan and the nature spirits in their own
right when they take on these human-like forms and not compare
them with our own perception of human beauty. Some people
assume that Pan must be ugly. This is far from the case. In his own
right he is one of the most beautiful beings I have ever seen. Only
the horns on the forehead, the cloven hooves and the fine silky hair
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as it is carried forwards by the movement of the pistons attached to
the needles. If the needles be thrust into an object quite as far as, or
beyond, the point of the director much poison may be introduced into
a wound, as the barbs are provided with small orifices placed one
above the other, while if this be not the case much of the liquid will
flow on the outside of the object.

According to Carlet the poison of the bee is formed by the mixture of

the secretions of two glands, one of which is acid and the other
alkaline; it is very deadly in its effects on other Insects. We shall see,
however, that the Fossorial Hymenoptera, which catch and sting
living prey for their young, frequently do not kill but only stupefy it,
and Carlet states that in this group the alkaline gland is absent or
atrophied, so that the poison consists only of the acid; it is thus, he
thinks, deprived of its lethal power. Moreover, in the Fossoria the
needles are destitute of barbs, so that the sting does not remain in
the wound. Bordas, however, states[4] that in all the numerous
Hymenoptera he has examined, both acid and alkaline glands exist,
but exhibit considerable differences of form in the various groups. He
gives no explanation of the variety of effects of the poison of different
Aculeata.

The larvae (for figure of larva of Bombus, see Vol. V. p. 488) are,
without known exception, legless grubs, of soft consistence, living
entirely under cover, being protected either in cells, or, in the case of
social Hymenoptera, in the abodes of the parents. The larvae of Ants
and fossorial Hymenoptera have the anterior parts of the body long
and narrow and abruptly flexed, so that their heads hang down in a
helpless manner. All the larvae of Aculeates, so far as known, are
remarkable from the fact that the posterior part of the alimentary
canal does not connect with the stomach till the larval instar is more
or less advanced; hence the food amongst which they live cannot be
sullied by faecal matter. The pupa is invariably soft, and assumes
gradually the colour of the perfect Insect. Almost nothing is known as
to the intimate details of the metamorphosis, and very little as to the
changes of external form. According to Packard a period intervenes
between the stadium of the full-grown larva and that of the pupa, in
which a series of changes he speaks of as semi-pupal are passed
through; these, however, have not been followed out in the case of
any individual, and it is not possible to form any final idea about
them, but it seems probable that they are largely changes of external
shape, in conformity with the great changes going on in the internal
organs. Owing to the fragmentary nature of observations, much
obscurity and difference of opinion have existed as to the
metamorphosis of Aculeate Hymenoptera. Sir S. Saunders gives the
following statement as to the larva of a wasp of the genus
Psiliglossa,[5] just before it assumes the pupal form: "The respective
segments, which are very distinctly indicated, may be defined as
follows:—The five anterior, including the head, are compactly welded
together, and incapable of separate action in the pseudo-pupa state;
the third, fourth, and fifth bearing a spiracle on either side. The
thoracical region terminating here, the two anterior segments are
assignable to the development of the imago head, as pointed out by
Ratzeburg." This inference is not, however, correct. We have seen
that in the perfect Insect of Petiolate Hymenoptera the first
abdominal segment is fixed to the thorax, and Saunders' statement
is interesting as showing that this assignment of parts already exists
in the larva, but it in no way proves that the head of the imago is
formed from the thorax of the larva. It has been stated that the larvae
of the Aculeata have a different number of segments according to
the sex, but this also is incorrect. The difference that exists in the
perfect Insects in this respect is due to the withdrawal of the terminal
three segments to the interior in the female, and of two only in the
male. The larva consists of fourteen segments, and we find this
number distributed in the female perfect Insect as follows: one
constitutes the head, four segments the thorax and propodeum,
followed by six external segments of the restricted abdomen, and
three for the internal structures of the abdomen. This agrees with
Forel's statement that in the ants the sting is placed in a chamber
formed by three segments.

The development of the sting of the common bee has been studied
by Dewitz.[6] It takes place in the last larval stage. Although nothing
of the organ is visible externally in the adult larva, yet if such a larva
be placed in spirit, there can be seen within the skin certain small
appendages on the ventral surface of the penultimate and
antepenultimate abdominal segments (Fig. 4, A) placed two on the
one, four on the other; these are the rudiments of the sting. In the
course of development the terminal three segments are taken into
the body, and the external pair of the appendages of the twelfth body
segment (the ninth abdominal) become the sheaths of the sting, and
the middle pair become the director; the pair of appendages on the
eleventh segment give rise to the needles or spiculae. The sting-
rudiments at an earlier stage (Fig. 4, C) are masses of hypodermis
connected with tracheae; there is then but one pair on the twelfth
segment, and this pair coalesce to form a single mass; the rudiments
of the pair that form the director are differentiated secondarily from
the primary pair of these masses of hypodermis. A good deal of
discussion has taken place as to whether the component parts of the
sting—gonapophyses—are to be considered as modifications of
abdominal extremities (i.e. abdominal legs such as exist in
Myriapods). Heymons is of opinion that this is not the case, but that
the leg-rudiments and gonapophysal rudiments are quite distinct.[7]
The origin of the sting of Hymenoptera (and of the ovipositor of
parasitic Hymenoptera) is very similar to that of the ovipositor of
Locusta (Vol. V. p. 315 of this work), but there is much difference in
the history of the development of the rudiments.
 Fig. 4—Development of sting of the bee: A and C, ventral; B, side view.
A, End of abdomen of adult larva: a, b, c, d, the last four
segments, c being the eleventh body segment, 11; b bearing two
pairs, and c one pair, of rudiments. B, Tip of abdomen of adult
bee: 9, the ninth, d, the tenth body segment. C, Rudiments in the
early condition as seen within the body: c, first pair; b, the second
pair not yet divided into two pairs; b″, c′, commencement of
external growths from the internal projections. (After Dewitz.)

Dewitz has also traced the development of the thoracic appendages

in Hymenoptera.[8] Although no legs are visible in the adult larva,
they really arise very early in the larval life from masses of
hypodermis, and grow in the interior of the body, so that when the
larva is adult the legs exist in a segmented though rudimentary
condition in the interior of the body. Dewitz's study of the wing-
development is less complete.

Four primary divisions of Aculeates are generally recognised, viz.

Anthophila (Bees), Diploptera (Wasps), Fossores (Solitary Wasps),
Heterogyna (Ants). Though apparently they are natural, it is
impossible to define them by characters that are without some
exceptions, especially in the case of the males. Ashmead has
recently proposed[9] to divide the Fossores; thus making five
divisions as follows:—

Body with more or less of the hairs on it plumose .......... 1. Anthophila.

Hairs of body not plumose.
Pronotum not reaching back to tegulae .......... 2. Entomophila [= Fossores
part].
Pronotum reaching back to tegulae.
 Petiole (articulating segment of abdomen) simple without scales or
nodes.
Front wings in repose with a fold making them narrow .......... 3.
Diploptera.
Front wings not folded .......... 4. Fossores [part].
Petiole with a scale or node (an irregular elevation on the upper side)
.......... 5. Heterogyna.

We shall here follow the usual method of treating all the fossorial
wasps as forming a single group, uniting Ashmead's Entomophila
and Fossores, as we think their separation is only valid for the
purposes of a table; the Pompilidae placed by the American savant
in Fossores being as much allied to Entomophila as they are to the
other Fossores with which Ashmead associates them.

Division I. Anthophila or Apidae—Bees.

Some of the hairs of the body plumose; parts of the mouth

elongated, sometimes to a great extent, so as to form a
protrusible apparatus, usually tubular with a very flexible tip.
Basal joint of hind foot elongate. No wingless adult forms; in
some cases societies are formed, and then barren females
called workers exist in great numbers, and carry on the industrial
operations of the community. Food always derived from the
vegetable kingdom, or from other Bees.

There are about 150 genera and 1500 species of bees at present
known. Some call the division Mellifera instead of Anthophila. The
term Apidae is used by some authorities to denote all the bees, while
others limit this term to one of the families or sub-divisions. The bees
are, as a rule, distinguished from other Hymenoptera by the hairs, by
the great development of the mouth parts to form a proboscis
(usually, but not correctly, called tongue), and by the modification of
the hind-legs; but these distinctive characters are in some of the
species exhibited in so minor a degree of perfection that it is not
easy to recognise these primitive forms as Anthophila. A few general
remarks on the three points mentioned will enable the student to
better appreciate the importance of certain points we shall
subsequently deal with.

Fig. 5—Hairs of Bees: A, simple hair from abdomen of Osmia; B, spiral

hair from abdomen of Megachile; C, plumose hair from thorax of
Megachile; D, from thorax of Andrena dorsata; E, from thorax of
Prosopis.

The bees are, as a rule, much more covered with hair than any other
of the Hymenoptera. Saunders[10] states that he has examined the
structure of the hairs in all the genera of British Aculeata, and that in
none but the Anthophila do branched and plumose hairs occur. The
function of this kind of hairs is unknown; Saunders suggests[10] that
they may be instrumental in the gathering of pollen, but they occur in
the parasitic bees as well as in the males, neither of which gather
pollen. The variety of the positions they occupy on the body seems
to offer but little support to the suggestion. Not all the hairs of the
bee's body are plumose, some are simple, as shown in Fig. 5, A,
and this is specially the case with the hairs that are placed at the
edges of the dilated plates for carrying pollen. In some forms there is
an extensive system of simple hairs all over the body, and the
"feathers" are distributed between these; and we do not see any
reason for assuming that the feathered are superior to the simple
hairs for gathering and carrying pollen. Some bees, e.g. Prosopis,
Ceratina, have very little hair on the body, but nevertheless some
plumose hairs are always present even though they be very short.
 Fig. 6—A, Worker of the honey-bee (Apis mellifica), with pollen plates
laden; B, basal portions of a middle-leg (trochanter with part of
coxa and of femur) with plumose hairs and grains of pollen; C,
one hair bearing pollen-grains.

The hind-legs of bees are very largely used in the industrial

occupations of these indefatigable creatures; one of their chief
functions in the female being to act as receptacles for carrying pollen
to the nest: they exhibit, however, considerable diversity. The parts
most modified are the tibia and the first joint of the hind-foot. Pollen
is carried by other parts of the body in many bees, and even the
hind-leg itself is used in different ways for the purpose: sometimes
the outer face of the tibia is highly polished and its margins
surrounded by hair, in which case pollen plates are said to exist (Fig.
6, A); sometimes the first joint of the tarsus is analogous to the tibia
both in structure and function; in other cases the hind-legs are thick
and densely covered with hair that retains the pollen between the
separate hairs. In this case the pollen is carried home in a dry state,
while, in the species with pollen plates, the pollen is made into a
mass of a clay-like consistence.[11] The legs also assist in arranging
the pollen on the other parts of the body. The males do not carry
pollen, and though their hind-legs are also highly modified, yet the
modifications do not agree with those of the female, and their
functions are in all probability sexual. The parasitic bees also do not
carry pollen, and exhibit another series of structures. The most
interesting case in this series of modifications is that found in the
genus Apis, where the hind-leg of male, female, and worker are all
different (Fig. 25); the limb in the worker being highly modified for
industrial purposes. This case has been frequently referred to, in
consequence of the difficulty that exists in connection with its
heredity, for the structure exists in neither of the parents. It is, in fact,
a case of a very special adaptation appearing in the majority of the
individuals of each generation, though nothing of the sort occurs in
either parent.

The proboscis of the bee[12] is a very complex organ, and in its

extremely developed forms exhibits a complication of details and a
delicacy of structure that elicit the admiration of all who study it. In
the lower bees, however, especially in Prosopis, it exists in a
comparatively simple form (Fig. 9, B, C), that differs but little from
what is seen in some Vespidae or Fossores. The upper lip and the
mandibles do not take any part in the formation of the bee's
proboscis, which is consequently entirely made up from the lower lip
and the maxillae, the former of these two organs exhibiting the
greatest modifications. The proboscis is situate on the lower part of
the head, and in repose is not visible; a portion, and that by no
means an inconsiderable one, of its modifications being for the
purpose of its withdrawal and protection when not in use. For this
object the under side of the head is provided with a very deep
groove, in which the whole organ is, in bees with a short proboscis,
withdrawn; in the Apidae with a long proboscis this groove also
exists, and the basal part of the proboscis is buried in it during
repose, while the other parts of the elongate organ are doubled on
the basal part, so that they extend backwards under the body, and
the front end or tip of the tongue is, when in repose, its most
posterior part.

For the extrusion of the proboscis there exists a special apparatus

that comes into play after the mandibles are unlocked and the
labrum lifted. This extensive apparatus cannot be satisfactorily
illustrated by a drawing, as the parts composing it are placed in
different planes; but it may be described by saying that the cardo, or
basal hinge of the maxilla, changes from an oblique to a vertical
position, and thrusts the base of the proboscis out of the groove. The
maxillae form the outer sheath of the proboscis, the lower lip its
medial part (see Figs. 7 and 9); the base of the lower lip is attached
to the submentum, which rises with the cardo so that labium and
maxillae are lifted together; the co-operation of these two parts is
effected by an angular piece called the lorum, in which the base of
the submentum rests; the submentum is articulated with the mentum
in such a manner that the two can either be placed in planes at a
right angle to one another, or can be brought into one continuous
plane, and by this change of plane the basal part of the tongue can
also be thrust forwards.

Fig. 7.—Side view of basal portions of proboscis of Bombus. a,

Epipharyngeal sclerites; b, arrow indicating the position of the
entrance to pharynx, which is concealed by the epipharynx, c; d,
hypopharyngeal sclerites; e, vacant space between the scales of
the maxillae through which the nectar comes: f, lobe; f′, stipes; g,
cardo of maxilla: h, encephalic pillar on which the cardo swings; i,
angle of junction of lores and submentum lorum; k, mentum; l,
base of labial palp; m, maxillary palp.

There is considerable variety in the lengths of these parts in different

genera, and the lorum varies in shape in accordance with the length
of the submentum. The lorum is a peculiar piece, and its mechanical
adaptations are very remarkable; usually the base of the submentum
rests in the angle formed by the junction of the two sides of the
lorum, but in Xylocopa, where the submentum is unusually short, this
part reposes in a groove on the back of the lorum, this latter having a
very broad truncated apex instead of an angular one; in the condition
of repose the apex of the lorum rests in a notch on the middle of the
back of the oral groove, and in some of the forms with elongate
submentum, this depression is transformed into a deep hole, or even
a sort of tunnel, so as to permit the complete stowing away of the
base of the tongue, which would otherwise be prevented by the long
submentum; another function of the lorum appears to be that, as it
extends, its arms have an outward thrust, and so separate the
maxillae from the labium. In addition to these parts there are also
four elongate, slender sclerites that are only brought into view on
dissection, and that no doubt assist in correlating the movements of
the parts of the mouth and hypopharynx; one pair of these strap-like
pieces extends backwards from the two sides of the base of the
epipharynx; Huxley called them sclerites of the oesophagus; a better
name would be epipharyngeal sclerites (Fig. 7, a): the other pair
pass from the terminations of the epipharyngeal sclerites, along the
front face of the hypopharynx, down to the mentum, their lower parts
being concealed by the stipites of the maxillae; these are the
hypopharyngeal sclerites, and we believe it will prove that they play
a highly important part in deglutition. When the labrum of a bee is
raised and the proboscis depressed, the epipharynx is seen hanging
like a curtain from the roof of the head; this structure plays an
important part in the act of deglutition. The entrance to the pharynx,
or commencement of the alimentary canal, is placed below the base
of the epipharynx. As we are not aware of any good delineations of
the basal parts of the proboscis we give a figure thereof (Fig. 7). The
maxillae in the higher bees are extremely modified so as to form a
sheath, and their palpi are minute; in the lower bees the palpi have
the structure usual in mandibulate Insects.

Returning to the consideration of the lower lip, we find that there is

attached to the mentum a pair of elongate organs that extend
forwards and form a tube or sheath, enclosed by the maxillary
sheath we have previously mentioned; these are the greatly modified
labial palpi, their distal parts still retaining the palpar form; and in the
lower bees the labial palpi are, like the maxillary, of the form usual in
mandibulate Insects. Between the labial palps and the central organ
of the lip there is attached a pair of delicate organs, the paraglossae.

There remains for consideration the most remarkable part of the

proboscis, the long, delicate, hairy organ which the bee thrusts out
from the tip of the shining tube formed by the labial palps and the
maxillae, described above, and which looks like a prolongation of the
mentum. This organ is variously called ligula, lingua, or tongue.[13]
We prefer the first of these names.

According to Breithaupt and Cheshire the structure of the ligula is

highly remarkable; it is a tube (filled with fluid from the body cavity),
and with a groove underneath caused by a large part of the
circumference of the tube being invaginated; the invaginated part
can be thrust out by increase of the pressure of the fluid in the tube.
A portion of the wall of the invaginate part is thickened so as to form
a chitinous rod.

This description will suffice for present purposes, as the other parts
of the mouth will be readily recognised by the aid of figure 9, A, B, C.
In the exquisitely endowed South American genus Euglossa (Fig.
18), the proboscis is somewhat longer than the whole of the body, so
that its tip in repose projects behind the body like a sting.

Fig. 8.—Transverse section of ligula of honey-bee, diagramatic. A, With

the long sac invaginate. B, evaginate: a, chitinous envelope with
the bases of the hairs; b, rod; c, groove of rod; d, lumen due in A
to invagination of the rod, in B to its evagination; n, nerve; tr,
trachea.

The correct nomenclature of the parts connected with the lower lip is
not definitely settled, authorities not being agreed on several points.
The whole of the proboscis is usually called the tongue; this,
however, is admittedly an erroneous application of this term. The
terminal delicate, elongate, flexible organ is by some called the
tongue; but this again is wrong: the lingua in Insects is the
hypopharynx; this part is developed in a peculiar manner in bees, but
as it is not tongue-like in shape, the term lingua is not suitable for it,
and should be dismissed altogether from the nomenclature of the
bee's trophi; it is used at present in two different senses, both of
which are erroneous. We see no objection to describing the flexible
apical portion of the proboscis as the ligula. The lorum is probably a
special part peculiar to the higher bees; according to Saunders it is
not present as a specialised part in some of the primitive forms.[14]
The application of the terms mentum, submentum and hypoglottis is
open to the same doubts that exist with regard to them in so many
other Insects, and we have omitted the term hypoglottis altogether,
though some may think the mentum entitled to that name.

Fig. 9.—A, Proboscis of a "long-tongued" bee, Anthophora pilipes; B,

lower, C, upper view of proboscis of an "obtuse-tongued" bee,
Prosopis pubescens. a, Labrum; b, stipes; c, palpiger; d, scale: f,
lobe; g, palpus; h, cardo, of maxilla: i, lorum; k, submentum; l,
mentum; m, labial palp; n, paraglossa; o, ligula; p, tip of ligula
(with "spoon" at tip and some of the hairs more magnified); q,
hypopharyngeal sclerites.

The way in which the proboscis of the bee acts has been very largely
discussed, with special reference to the question as to whether it is a
sucking or a licking action. It is impossible to consider either of these
terms as applicable. The foundation of the action is capillary
attraction, by which, and by slight movements of increase and
contraction of the capacity of various parts, the fluid travels to the
cavity in front of the hypopharynx: here the scales of the maxillae
leave a vacant space, (Fig. 7, e) so that a cup or cavity is formed,
the fluid in which is within reach of the tip of the dependent
epipharynx (c), which hangs down over the front of the hypopharynx
(and is so shaped that its tip covers the cup); it is between these two
parts that the fluid passes to reach the pharynx. It is no doubt to
slight movements of the membranous parts of the hypopharynx and
of the epipharynx that the further progress of the nectar is due, aided
by contraction and expansion of the pharynx, induced by muscles
attached to it. It should be recollected that in addition to the
movements of the head itself, the hypopharynx is constantly
changing its dimensions slightly by the impulses of the fluid of the
general body cavity; also that the head changes its position, and that
the proboscis is directed downwards as well as forwards. Those who
wish to pursue this subject should refer to the works of Breithaupt[15]
and Cheshire.

The other external characters of the Bees call for little remark. The
pronotum is never very large or much prolonged in front, and its hind
angles never repose on the tegulae as they do in the wasps,[16] but
extend backwards below the tegulae. The hind body is never
narrowed at the base into an elongate pedicel, as it so frequently is
in the Wasps and in the Fossors; and the propodeum (the posterior
part of the thorax) is more perpendicular and rarely so largely
developed as it is in the Fossors; this last character will as a rule
permit a bee to be recognised at a glance from the fossorial
Hymenoptera.

Bees, as every one knows, frequent flowers, and it is usually

incorrectly said that they extract honey. They really gather nectar,
swallow it, so that it goes as far as the crop of their alimentary canal,
called in English the honey-sac, and is regurgitated as honey.
Bertrand states that the nectar when gathered is almost entirely pure
saccharose, and that when regurgitated it is found to consist of
dextrose and levulose:[17] this change appears to be practically the
conversion of cane- into grape-sugar. A small quantity of the
products of the salivary glands is added, and this probably causes
the change alluded to; so that honey and nectar are by no means
synonymous. According to Cheshire the glandular matter is added
while the nectar is being sucked, and is passing over the middle
parts of the lower lip, so that the nectar may be honey when
swallowed by the bee. In addition to gathering nectar the female
bees are largely occupied in collecting pollen, which, mixed with
honey, is to serve as food for the colony. Many, if not all, bees eat
pollen while collecting it. The mode in which they accumulate the
pollen, and the mechanism of its conveyance from hair to hair till it
reaches the part of the body it must attain in order to be removed for
packing in the cells, is not fully understood, but it appears to be
accomplished by complex correlative actions of various parts; the
head and the front legs scratch up the pollen, the legs move with
great rapidity, and the pollen ultimately reaches its destination. The
workers of the genus Apis, and of some other social bees, have the
basal joint of the hind foot specially adapted to deal with pollen (Fig.
25, 2). We have already mentioned the modifications of the legs
used for its conveyance, and need here only add that numerous
bees—the Dasygastres—carry the pollen by aid of a special and
dense clothing of hairs on the underside of the abdomen.

The buzzing of bees (and other Insects) has been for long a subject
of controversy: some having maintained that it is partially or wholly
due to the vibration of parts connected with the spiracles, while
others have found its cause in the vibrations of the wings. According
to the observations of Pérez and Bellesme,[18] two distinct sounds
are to be distinguished. One, a deep noise, is due to the vibration of
the wings, and is produced whenever a certain rapidity is attained;
the other is an acute sound, and is said to be produced by the
vibrations of the walls of the thorax, to which muscles are attached;
this sound is specially evident in Diptera and Hymenoptera, because
the integument is of the right consistence for vibration. Both of these
observers agree that the spiracles are not concerned in the matter.
The young of bees are invariably reared in cells. These (except in
the case of the parasitical bees) are constructed by the mothers, or
by the transformed females called workers. The solitary bees store
the cells with food, and close up each cell after having laid an egg in
it, so that in these cases each larva consumes a special store
previously provided for it. The social bees do not close the cells in
which the larvae are placed, and the workers act as foster-mothers,
feeding the young larvae after the same fashion as birds feed their
nestling young. The food is a mixture of honey and pollen, the mixing
being effected in various ways and proportions according to the
species; the honey seems to be particularly suitable to the digestive
organs of the young larvae, and those bees that make closed cells,
place on the outside of the mass of food a layer more thickly
saturated with honey, and this layer the young grub consumes
before attacking the drier parts of the provisions. The active life of
the larva is quite short, but after the larva is full-grown it usually
passes a more or less prolonged period in a state of quiescence
before assuming the pupal form. The pupa shows the limbs and
other parts of the perfect Insect in a very distinct manner, and the
development of the imago takes place gradually though quickly.
Some larvae spin cocoons, others do not.

A very large number of bees are parasitic in their habits, laying an

egg, or sometimes more than one, in the cell of a working bee of
some species other than their own; in such cases the resulting
larvae eat and grow more quickly than the progeny of the host bee,
and so cause it to die of starvation. It has been observed that some
of these parasitic larvae, after eating all the store of food, then
devour the larva they have robbed. In other cases it is possible that
the first care of the parasitic larva, after hatching, is to eat the rival
egg.

The taxonomy of bees is in a very unsatisfactory state. The earlier

Hymenopterists were divided into two schools, one of which
proposed to classify the bees according to their habits, while the
other adopted an arrangement depending on the length of the parts
of the mouth, the development of the palpi, and the form and
positions of the organs for carrying pollen. Neither of these
arrangements was at all satisfactory, and some entomologists
endeavoured to combine them, the result being a classification
founded partly on habits and partly on certain minor structural
characters. This course has also proved unsatisfactory; this is
especially the case with exotic bees, which have been placed in
groups that are defined by habits, although very little observation has
actually been made on this point. Efforts have recently been made to
establish an improved classification, but as they relate solely to the
European bees they are insufficient for general purposes.

The more important of the groups that have been recognised are—
(1) the Obtusilingues, short-tongued bees, with the tip of the lingua
bifid or broad; (2) Acutilingues, short-tongued bees, with acute tip to
the tongue; these two groups being frequently treated of as forming
the Andrenidae. Coming to the Apidae, or the bees with long and
folded tongues, there have been distinguished (3) Scopulipedes,
bees carrying pollen with their feet, and (4) Dasygastres, those that
carry it under the abdomen; some of the parasitic and other forms
have been separated as (5) Denudatae (or Cuculinae); the Bombi
and the more perfectly social bees forming another group, viz. (6)
Sociales. A group Andrenoides, or Panurgides, was also proposed
for certain bees considered to belong to the Apidae though exhibiting
many points of resemblance with the Andrenidae. This arrangement
is by no means satisfactory, but as the tropical bees have been but
little collected, and are only very imperfectly known, it is clear that we
cannot hope for a better classification till collections have been very
much increased and improved. The arrangement adopted in Dalla
Torre's recent valuable catalogue of bees[19] recognises no less than
fourteen primary divisions, but is far from satisfactory.
 Fig. 10—Prosopis signata. Cambridge. A, Female; B, front of head of
female; C, of male.

The two genera Prosopis and Sphecodes have been recently formed
into a special family, Archiapidae, by Friese,[20] who, however,
admits that the association is not a natural one. The term should be
limited to Prosopis and the genera into which it has been, or shortly
will be, divided. The primitive nature of the members of this genus is
exhibited in all the external characters that are most distinctive of
bees; the proboscis (Fig. 9, B, C), is quite short, its ligula being very
short, and instead of being pointed having a concave front margin.
The body is almost bare, though there is some very short feathered
plumage. The hind legs are destitute of modifications for industrial
purposes. Owing to these peculiarities it was for long assumed that
the species of Prosopis must be parasites. This is, however, known
not to be the case so far as many of the species are concerned.
They form cells lined with a silken membrane in the stems of
brambles and other plants that are suitable, or in burrows in the
earth, or in the mortar of walls; individuals of the same species
varying much as to the nidus they select. The food they store in
these cells is much more liquid than usual, and has been supposed
to be entirely honey, since they have no apparatus for carrying
pollen. Mr. R. C. L. Perkins has, however, observed that they
swallow both pollen and nectar, brushing the first-named substance
to the mouth by aid of the front legs. He has ascertained that a few
of the very numerous Hawaiian species of the genus are really
parasitic on their congeners: these parasites are destitute of a
peculiar arrangement of hairs on the front legs of the female, the
possession of which, by some of the non-parasitic forms, enables
the bee to sweep the pollen towards its mouth. These observations
show that the structural peculiarities of Prosopis are correlative with
the habits of forming a peculiar lining to the cell, and of gathering
pollen by the mouth and conveying it by the alimentary canal instead
of by external parts of the body. Prosopis is a very widely distributed
genus, and very numerous in species. We have ten in Britain;
several of them occur in the grounds of our Museum at Cambridge.
The species of the genus Colletes are hairy bees of moderate size,
with a good development of hair on the middle and posterior femora
for carrying pollen. They have a short, bilobed ligula like that of
wasps, and therein differ from the Andrenae, which they much
resemble. With Prosopis they form the group Obtusilingues of some
taxonomists. They have a manner of nesting peculiar to themselves;
they dig cylindrical burrows in the earth, line them with a sort of
slime, that dries to a substance like gold-beater's skin, and then by
partitions arrange the burrow as six to ten separate cells, each of
which is filled with food that is more liquid than usual in bees. Except
in regard to the ligula and the nature of the cell-lining, Colletes has
but little resemblance to Prosopis; but the term Obtusilingues may be
applied to Colletes if Prosopis be separated as Archiapidae. We
have six species of Colletes in Britain.

Sphecodes is a genus that has been the subject of prolonged

difference of opinion. The species are rather small shining bees, with
a red, or red and black, abdomen, almost without pollen-collecting
apparatus, and with a short but pointed ligula. These characters led
to the belief that the Insects are parasitic, or, as they are sometimes
called, cuckoo-bees. But evidence could not be obtained of the fact,
and as they were seen to make burrows it was decided that we have
in Sphecodes examples of industrial bees extremely ill endowed for
their work. Recent observations tend, however, to prove that
Sphecodes are to a large extent parasitic at the expense of bees of
the genera Halictus and Andrena. Breitenbach has taken S.
rubicundus out of the brood-cells of Halictus quadricinctus; and on
one of the few occasions on which this bee has been found in Britain
it was in circumstances that left little doubt as to its being a parasite
of Andrena nigroaenea. Marchal[21] has seen S. subquadratus fight
with Halictus malachurus, and kill it previous to taking possession of
its burrows; and similar observations have been made by Ferton. As
the older observations of Smith, Sichel, and Friese leave little doubt
that Sphecodes are sometimes industrial bees, it is highly probable
that we have in this genus the interesting condition of bees that are
sometimes parasitic, at other times not; but so much obscurity still
prevails as to the habits of Sphecodes that we should do well to
delay accepting the theories that have been already based on this
strange state of matters.[22] Friese states that in Sphecodes the first
traces of collecting apparatus exist; and, accepting the condition of
affairs as being that mentioned above, it is by no means clear
whether we have in Sphecodes bees that are abandoning the
parasitic habit or commencing it; or, indeed, whether the condition of
uncertainty may not be a permanent one. It is difficult to decide as to
what forms are species in Sphecodes owing to the great variation.
The Hymenopterist Forster considered that 600 specimens
submitted to him by Sichel represented no less than 140 species,
though Sichel was convinced that nearly the whole of them were one
species, S. gibbus. It has recently been found that the male sexual
organs afford a satisfactory criterion. The position of Sphecodes in
classification is doubtful.

Fig. 11.—Sphecodes gibbus ♀. Britain.

The great majority of the species of short-tongued bees found in

Britain belong to the genera Andrena and Halictus, and with some
others constitute the Andrenides of many writers. Halictus includes
our smallest British bees. Their economy escaped the earlier
observers, but has recently been to some extent unravelled by
Smith, Fabre, Nicolas, Verhoeff, and others, and proves to be of
great interest and variety. Fabre observed H. lineolatus and H.
sexcinctus[23] under circumstances that enabled him to give them
continuous attention, whenever requisite, throughout a whole year.
These bees are to a certain extent social; they are gregarious; each
bee works for its own progeny, but there is collaboration between
members of a colony, inasmuch as a piece of general work is
undertaken from which more families than one derive benefit. This
common work is a gallery, that, ramifying in the earth, gives access
to various groups of cells, each group the production of a single
Halictus; in this way one entrance and one corridor serve for several
distinct dwellings. The work of excavation is carried on at night. The
cells are oval, and are covered on the interior with a delicate
waterproof varnish; Fabre considers this to be a product of the
salivary glands, like the membrane we noticed when speaking of
Colletes. In the south of France both sexes of these species are
produced from the nests in September, and then the males are much
more numerous than the females; when the cold weather sets in the
males die, but the females continue to live on in the cells
underground. In the following spring the females come out and
recommence working at the burrows, and also provision the cells for
the young; the new generation, consisting entirely of females,
appears in July, and from these there proceeds a parthenogenetic
generation, which assumes the perfect form in September, and
consists, as we have above remarked, in greater part of males.
Pérez,[24] however, considers that Fabre's observations as to the
parthenogenetic generation were incomplete, and that males might
have been found a little earlier, and he consequently rejects
altogether the occurrence of parthenogenesis in Halictus. Nicolas
confirms Fabre's observations, so far as the interesting point of the
work done for common benefit is concerned; and adds that the
common corridor being too narrow to permit of two bees passing,
there is a dilatation or vestibule near the entrance that facilitates
passage, and also that a sentinel is stationed at this point.

Smith's observations on Halictus morio in England lead one to infer

that there is but one generation, the appearance of which extends
over a very long period. He says, "Early in April the females
appeared, and continued in numbers up to the end of June"; then
there was an interval, and in the middle of August males began to
appear, followed in ten or twelve days by females. Hence it is
probable that in different countries the times of appearance and the
number of generations of the same species may vary. Verhoeff has
described the burrows of Halictus quadricinctus with some detail.
The cells, instead of being distributed as usual throughout the length
of the burrow one by one, are accumulated into a mass placed in a