The Life of the Weevil 



the thistle-heads. Now the reader knows as 

 much as I can tell him. 



All the summer, all the autumn, until the 

 cold weather sets in, the most ornamental of 

 our southern thistles grows profusely by the 

 road-side. Its pretty, blue flowers, gathered 

 into round, prickly heads, have won it the 

 botanical name of Echinops, in allusion to the 

 Hedgehog rolled into a ball. It is indeed 

 like a Hedgehog. Better still: it is like a 

 Sea-urchin stuck upon a stalk and turned into 

 an azure globe. 



Beneath a screen of star-shaped flowerets 

 the shapely tuft hides the thousand daggers 

 of its scales. Whosoever touches it with an 

 incautious finger is surprised to encounter 

 such aggres"siveness beneath an innocent 

 appearance. The leaves that go with it, 

 green above, white and fluffy underneath, do 

 at least warn the inexperienced: they are 

 divided into pointed lobes, each of which 

 bears an extremely sharp needle at its tip. 



This thistle is the patrimony of the 

 Spotted Larinus (L. maculosus, ScH.), 

 whose back is powdered with cloudy yellow 

 patches. The Weevil browses very spar- 

 ingly on the leaves. June is not yet over 

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