I was no novice in the art of dividing an old pen-box into compartments in which I laid a bed of sand and, on this bed, the larva and her provisions delicately removed from the maternal cell.

Success was almost certain at each attempt: I used to watch the larvae at their meals, I saw my nurselings grow up and spin their cocoons.

Relying upon the experience thus gained, I reckoned upon success in raising my Eumenes.
The results, however, in no way answered to my expectations.

All my endeavours failed; and the larva allowed itself to die a piteous death without touching its provisions.
I ascribed my reverse to this, that and the other cause: perhaps I had injured the frail grub when demolishing the fortress; a splinter of masonry had bruised it when I forced open the hard dome with my knife; a too sudden exposure to the sun had surprised it when I withdrew it from the darkness of its cell; the open air might have dried up its moisture.

I did the best I could to remedy all these probable reasons of failure.