The Vine-Weevil 



When July comes, there is not a living thing 

 left in my glass jars. 



All have died. And of what? Of star- 

 vation, yes, of starvation in a well-stored 

 granary. This is evident from the small 

 amount of food consumed. The cylinders 

 are almost untouched; at most I perceive in 

 the midst of their layers a few scratches, 

 the traces of a scornful tooth. Probably the 

 food was too dry, had been rendered uneat- 

 able by dessication. 



Under natural conditions, while the burn- 

 ing heat of the sun hardened the leaves by 

 day, the mists and the dew softened them at 

 night. Thus, in the heart of the spiral 

 layers, a column of soft crumb is preserved, 

 a necessity for the tender nurselings. A 

 sojourn in the uniformly dry atmosphere of 

 the jars has, on the other hand, turned the 

 roll into a hard, stale crust which the grubs 

 refused to touch. The failure is due to that. 



A year later, I begin again, this time more 

 cautiously. The rolled leaves, I said to my- 

 self, remain hanging for some days on the 

 vine or the poplar. The perforation of the 

 leaf-stalk has not completely severed the 

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