The Sloe-Weevil 



ber is over, most of them have achieved the 

 adult form. I see them glittering in the 

 sand of my jars like living nuggets. These 

 golden globules foresee the rapidly approach- 

 ing winter: as a rule they do not stir from 

 their underground quarters. However, 

 enticed by the hot sunlight, the last of the 

 year, a few Poplar-weevils come up into the 

 open air to see what the weather is like. At 

 the first breath of the north wind, these 

 venturesome ones will take refuge under the 

 strips of dead bark; perhaps they will even 

 perish. 



The guest of the sloe is not in such a 

 hurry. Autumn is drawing to a close; and 

 my buried captives are still in the larval 

 state. What matters this delay? They will 

 all be ready when the beloved bush is covered 

 with blossom. By May, in point of fact, 

 the insect abounds on the sloes. 



This is the time of careless revelry. The 

 fruit is still too small, with its stone not set 

 and its kernel a transparent jelly; it would 

 not suit the grub, but it makes a feast for the 

 adult, who, with an imperceptible movement, 

 without any twisting of the boring-tool, 

 sinks her drill into the pulp, drives it half- 

 207 



