The Life of the Weevil 



turn the sordid sewer into a valuable 

 glue- and varnish-factory. 



Will this lodging, so softly padded, be 

 its winter home? Not so. In January I 

 inspect the old thistle-heads; in none of them 

 do I find the Weevil. The autumnal popu- 

 lation has migrated. For this I see a very 

 good reason. 



The thistle, now dead and bare, an ash- 

 grey ruin, is still standing, is still holding 

 out against the north-wind, thanks to its 

 strength and the firmness of its roots; but its 

 flower-heads, emptied by age, are wide open, 

 exposing their contents to the inclemencies 

 of the weather. The fleece of the receptacle 

 is a sponge that swells up with the rain and 

 tenaciously retains the moisture. The same 

 may be said of the cardoon and the artichoke. 



In either case, we no longer find the for- 

 tress of the carlina, encompassed with con- 

 vergent folioles; what we see is a spacious, 

 roofless ruin, abandoned to the damp and the 

 cold. The white tuft of the ferocious thistle 

 and the blue tuft of the artichoke are delight- 

 ful villas in summer; in winter they are un- 

 inhabitable residences, sweating mildew. 

 Prudence, the safeguard of the humble, 

 70 



