The Life of the Weevil 



may shine forth one day, a hght far pre- 

 ferable to the fireworks of theories which 

 dazzle us for a moment only to leave us in 

 blacker darkness. 



Here is this little detail. By some 

 accident an egg has fallen from the blue 

 globe, its regular lodging, into the axilla of 

 a leaf half-way up the stem. We can even 

 admit, if we choose, that the mother, either 

 by inadvertence or by intention, laid it at this 

 point herself. What will become of the egg 

 under such conditions, so far removed from 

 the rules? What I have before my eyes tell 

 us. 



The grub, faithful to custom, has not 

 failed to broach the stem of the thistle, which 

 allows the nourishing moisture to ooze from 

 the wound. As a defence it has built itself 

 a, pitcher similar in shape and size to that 

 which it would have obtained in the thistle- 

 head. This novel edifice lacks only one 

 thing: the roof of dead florets bristling on 

 the customary hut. 



The builder has contrived to do very well 



without its floral pantiles. It has made use 



of the base of the leaf, one lobe of which 



is involved, as a support, in the wall of the 



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