The Spotted Larinus 



to the cement, it hardens Into a shell permit- 

 ting the peaceful somnolence of the trans- 

 formation. The flexible tent of the early 

 days becomes a stout manor-house. 



Here, I told myself, the adult would pass 

 the winter, protected against the damp, 

 which is more to be dreaded than the cold. 

 I was wrong. By the end of September, 

 most of the cells are empty, though their 

 support, the blue thistle, eager to open its 

 last blooms, is still in fairly good condition. 

 The Weevils have gone, in all the freshness 

 of their floured costume; they have broken 

 out through the top of their cells, which now 

 gape like broken pitchers. A few loiterers 

 still lag behind at home, but are quite ready 

 to make off, judging by their agility when 

 my curiosity chances to set them free. 



When the inclement months of December 

 and January have arrived, I no longer find a 

 single cell inhabited. The whole population 

 has migrated. Where has it taken refuge? 



I am not quite sure. Perhaps in the heaps 

 of broken stones, under cover of the dead 

 leaves, in the shelter of the tufts of grass 

 that grow beneath the hawthorn in the 

 hedges. For a Weevil the country-side is 

 47 



