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resin, as well as on the oak, seasoned with 

 tannin. Reflection persuades us that we are 

 mistaken. The little creature is not engaged 

 in eating: it is toiling to make itself a deep 

 lodging in which it can feast in peace. 



When examined through the lens, the saw- 

 dust confirms our theory: this dust has not 

 passed through the digestive canal; it has 

 played no part in feeding the grub. It is 

 only so much meal, crumbled by the man- 

 dibles, and nothing more. 



When appetite has come and the requisite 

 depth has been reached, the grub at last be- 

 gins to eat. If it finds the traditional food 

 ready to its teeth, the sap-wood of the oak, 

 with its astringent flavour, it gorges itself 

 and proceeds to digest. If it finds nothing 

 of the sort, it abstains from eating. This is 

 certainly the reason why the heap of sawdust 

 grows larger on the billet of oak but remains 

 indefinitely stationary on the others. 



What do they do in their little galleries, 

 these grubs subjected to a strict fast in the 

 absence of suitable victuals? In March, six 

 months after the hatching, I look into the 

 matter. I split the billets. There they are, 

 the little grubs, no larger, but still lively, 

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