LOCUSTS 



pushed back along the body towards the tip. Except at 

 this point the Locust is bare. After a rest of twenty 

 minutes he makes a supreme effort; he raises himself as 

 he hangs, and grabs hold of his cast skin. Then he 

 climbs higher, and fixes himself to the wire of the cage 

 with his four front feet. He loosens the empty husk 

 with one last shake, and it falls to the ground. The 

 Locust's transformation is conducted in much the same 

 way as the Cicada's. 



The insect is now standing erect, and therefore the 

 flexible wings are in the right position. They are no 

 longer curved backwards like the petals of a flower, they 

 are no longer upside down; but they still look shabby 

 and insignificant. All that we see is a few wrinkles, a 

 few winding furrows, which tell us that the stumps are 

 bundles of cunningly folded material, arranged so as 

 to take up as little space as possible. 



Very gradually they expand, so gradually that their 

 unfolding cannot be seen even under the microscope. 

 The process continues for three hours. Then the wings 

 and wing-cases stand up on the Locust's back like a huge 

 set of sails, sometimes colourless, sometimes pale-green, 

 like the Cicada's wings at the beginning. One is amazed 

 at their size when one thinks of the paltry bundles that 

 represented them at first. How could so much stuff find 

 room there? 



The fairy tale tells us of a grain of hempseed that 



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