Arrogant
mice and humble bees
Bill Meredith
Among the visitors to our yard this summer
were two that most people would not welcome. One
has been a problem; the other, related to it in
a peculiar way, has been a source of pleasant
reflection.
The problem actually arrived last winter.
After a light snowfall melted, I was walking in
the yard and noticed that a trail had been
created in the grass where field mice had made a
tunnel under the snow. Such things are not
unusual, and I thought little of it at the time;
but as spring began, there were ominous signs on
the horizon. The new snapdragons and pansies we
set out in the flowerbed disappeared, gnawed off
at ground level. Chrysanthemums and four-o’clocks
that had survived the past several winters also
were missing. Gladioli and daffodils sprouted,
were bitten off, and sprouted again, to no
avail. Things were getting serious.
At first I suspected deer and rabbits were
the culprits; both had left tracks all over the
yard whenever it snowed throughout the winter.
However, there were no deer tracks at the scene
of the crime in the flower beds, and rabbits
often had nested among the various plantings
without eating them in the past; so my
suspicions were directed elsewhere. Finally, one
evening in May when I was sitting on the porch
with the crossword, a mouse darted across the
sidewalk and disappeared into the adjacent
flowerbed; and I recalled the tunnels under the
snow from months earlier.
My grandmother always said that if you see
one mouse, there are sure to be more, and she
was right. Within a few days I began to notice
flashes of dark fur darting about in the
flowerbed on the bank across from the kitchen
window. Next I discovered a winding path through
the lawn from that flowerbed to the one by the
porch; it was a well-worn runway two inches
wide, and the grass arched over and concealed it
from sight. Watching from the porch I could see
the grass wave like a wheatfield in the wind
whenever a mouse went by.
The first couple of times I saw them, I
jumped up and ran out into the yard with vague
intentions of stepping on them, but they were
much less arthritic than I; the tunnel in the
grass was empty by the time I got there. My
wife, always favoring the direct approach,
suggested setting snap traps throughout the lawn
and flowerbeds; I managed to convince her we
would catch more birds than mice by that method.
So for the next month or so I spent my evenings
on the porch with an air-powered pellet pistol
instead of the crossword in my lap, blazing away
like a rancher protecting his herd from wolves.
The mice recognized the absurdity of this long
before I did; every evening at 4:30 they would
start coming out into a bare spot on the bank,
where they would sit up on their hind legs like
squirrels and laugh at me before grabbing the
nearest green object. One in particular had the
same expression on its face as the golf course
attendant who once parked his mower squarely in
the center of the fairway and motioned for me to
go ahead and tee off, secure in the knowledge
that he was in the safest place on the course.
From 25 feet away with the air pistol, the
closest I ever came to hitting one of them was
about 3 inches; it sneered disdainfully at me
before ambling back to shelter. Eventually my
wife took matters in hand and spread DeCon
around the various runways, and soon the mouse
population declined.
Technically, they are not mice, but meadow
voles (Microtus pennsylvanicus), big headed,
short tailed, with small, beady eyes and short
ears. They may live as long as 3 years, and
reproduce the year round. A new litter arrives
about once a month; one particularly hyperactive
female in captivity produced 17 litters in a
year. Average litters have 3-5 young, but
sometimes there are as many as 9. Their
populations fluctuate in cycles; the first half
of this summer favored them, but the drought we
have experienced lately has probably had as much
effect as my wife’s DeCon. Both they and the
flowers are no longer in evidence.
I noticed the other visitor while trying to
ambush the mice; it was a large bumblebee that
hung around the front porch late in the spring.
Normally I would not have paid it much
attention, but the newspapers had just run a
story about bee populations in Maryland being
destroyed by parasitic mites, thus raising
concerns about crop pollination; and we had just
planted our squash and cucumbers. So the bee was
of interest. As I watched it buzz around the
porch one day, it disappeared into the myrtle
and lily-of-the-valley, which were not blooming
at the time; and by watching more closely I
found it had gone into a hole dug under the
porch steps by a chipmunk last fall.
In the early spring, all of the bumblebees
you meet are queens. They mated with drones the
previous fall, and spent the winter in
hibernation; they are young, fertile, and
impatient to start families. They find a
suitable hideout and make a honeypot or simple
comb consisting of only a few cells, more the
shape of a paper wasp’s nest than a regular
honeybee’s comb, and begin laying eggs. At
first, the queen has to forage for nectar and
pollen in addition to laying eggs and tending
the young, and the labor takes its toll; most of
the fur gets worn off her body. The young ones
all hatch into sterile worker females, however,
and soon they are doing most of the foraging;
the comb gets larger, and the old queen spends
more of her time resting and laying eggs. Just
before she dies in the fall, she lays some
unfertilized eggs which hatch into drones; they
mate with the youngest workers, who become next
year’s queens.
In England, these insects used to be called
Humble Bees, and they were the stuff of which
legends were made. In The Origin of Species,
Charles Darwin related a story that asserted
that old maids were the real power behind the
British Empire. The reasoning behind this
remarkable claim was that the British army lived
on beef; to raise beef you must have clover; and
clover, particularly red clover, is pollinated
only by humble bees. When field mice are
abundant, they often break into the nests of
humble bees to steal the honey pots, thus
killing the bees. Old maids keep cats, and cats
kill mice; hence the bee population, the clover
crop, and the beef supply all depend on the
number of old maids— well, you get the idea.
It’s the food chain in action again.
As luck would have it, the mice in my yard
never found the bee’s nest under the porch,
even though one of their runways went right by
its entrance. I pointed the nest out to the
grandchildren so they wouldn’t blunder into
it, and we have had a pleasant summer of
bee-watching; no one was stung, and the plants
in the garden were pollinated on schedule.
Except for the artillery barrage between the
porch and the flowerbed, it’s been a peaceful
summer.