Seeing him frisking in this joyful occupation, who can doubt that he experiences all the satisfactions of a father assured of the future of his family?
It is I, he seems to say, it is I who have made this loaf, so beautifully round; it is I who have made the hard crust to preserve the soft dough; it is I who have baked it for my sons! And he raises on high, in the sight of all, this magnificent testimonial of his labours.
But now the mother has chosen the site.

A shallow pit is made, the mere commencement of the projected burrow.

The ball is pushed and pulled until it is close at hand.

The father, a vigilant watchman, still retains his hold, while the mother digs with claws and head.

Soon the pit is deep enough to receive the ball; she cannot dispense with the close contact of the sacred object; she must feel it bobbing behind her, against her back, safe from all parasites and robbers, before she can decide to burrow further.