THE CAPRICORN 



feeds on its home; it lives on the wood that gives it shel- 

 ter. Nevertheless I tested it. In a log of fresh cypress 

 wood I made a groove of the same width as that of the 

 natural galleries, and I placed the grub inside it. Cy- 

 press wood is strongly scented; it has the smell charac- 

 teristic of most of the pine family. This resinous scent, 

 so strange to a grub that lives always in oak, ought to 

 vex it, to trouble it; and it should show its displeasure 

 by some kind of commotion, some attempt to get away. 

 It did nothing of the kind : once it had found the right 

 position in the groove it went to the end, as far as it 

 could go, and made no further movement. Then I set 

 before it, in its usual channel, a piece of camphor. 

 Again no effect. Camphor was followed by naphtha- 

 line. Still no result. I do not think I am going too far 

 when I deny the creature a sense of smell. 



Taste is there no doubt. But such taste! The food 

 is without variety : oak, for three years at a stretch, and 

 nothing else. What can the grub's palate find to enjoy 

 in this monotonous fare? The agreeable sensation of 

 a fresh piece, oozing with sap ; the uninteresting flavour 

 of an over-dry piece. These, probably, are the only 

 changes in the meal. 



There remains the sense of touch, the universal pas- 

 sive sense common to all live flesh that quivers under the 

 goad of pain. The Capricorn-grub, therefore, is limited 

 to two senses, those of taste and touch, and both of these 



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