The Life of the Weevil 



full of winter-resorts. We need not be 

 anxious about the emigrants; they are well 

 able to look after themselves. 



None the less, in the face of this exodus, 

 my first impression is one of surprise. To 

 leave such an excellent lodging for a casual 

 shelter, of doubtful safety, seems to me a 

 rash and ill-advised expedient. Can the 

 insect be lacking in prudence? No; it has 

 serious motives for decamping as quickly as 

 possible when the autumn draws to an end. 

 Let me explain matters. 



In the winter the echinops is a brown ruin 

 which the north-wind tears from its hold, 

 flings on the ground and reduces to tatters 

 by rolling it in the mud of the roads. A 

 few days of bad weather turn the handsome 

 blue thistle into a mass of lamentable decay. 



What would become of the Weevil on 

 this support, now the plaything of the winds? 

 Would her tarred cask resist the assaults of 

 the storm? Would she survive rolling over 

 the rough soil and prolonged steeping in the 

 puddles of melted snow? 



The Weevils foreknow the dangers of a 

 crazy support; warned by the almanack of 

 instinct, they foresee the winter and its mis- 

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