She explores the trellis-work, chooses a mesh through which she inserts the tip of her abdomen, and, undisturbed by my presence, emits, one after the other, a certain number of grubs, about ten or so.

True, her visits will be repeated, increasing the family at a rate of which I am ignorant.
The new-born worms, thanks to a slight viscidity, cling for a moment to the wire-gauze; they swarm, wriggle, release themselves and leap into the chasm.

It is a nine-inch drop at least.

When this is done, the mother makes off, knowing for a certainty that her offspring will shift for themselves.

If they fall on the meat, well and good; if they fall elsewhere, they can reach the morsel by crawling.
This confidence in the unknown factor of the precipice, with no indication but that of smell, deserves fuller investigation.