THE GOLDEN GARDENER 103 



The procession is quickly re-formed ; the caterpillars, 

 to the number of perhaps a hundred and fifty, move 

 forward in an undulating line. They pass near the 

 piece of board, one following the other like the pigs 

 at Chicago. The moment is propitious. I cry Havoc ! 

 and let loose the dogs of war : that is to say, I remove 

 the plank. 



The sleepers immediately awake, scenting the abun- 

 dant prey. One of them runs forward ; three, four, 

 follow ; the whole assembly is aroused ; those who are 

 buried emerge ; the whole band of cut-throats falls 

 upon the passing flock. It is a sight never to be for- 

 gotten. The mandibles of the beetles are at work in 

 all directions ; the procession is attacked in the van, in 

 the rear, in the centre ; the victims are wounded on 

 the back or the belly at random. The furry skins are 

 gaping with wounds ; their contents escape in knots 

 of entrails, bright green with their aliment, the needles 

 of the pine-tree ; the caterpillars writhe, struggling with 

 loop-like movements, gripping the sand with their feet, 

 dribbling and gnashing their mandibles. Those as yet 

 unwounded are digging desperately in the attempt to 

 take refuge underground. Not one succeeds. They 

 are scarcely half buried before some beetle runs to 

 them and destroys them by an eviscerating wound. 



If this massacre did not occur in a dumb world we 

 should hear all the horrible tumult of the slaughter- 

 houses of Chicago. But only the ear of the mind 

 can hear the shrieks and lamentations of the evis- 

 cerated victims. For myself, I possess this ear, and 

 am full of remorse for having provoked such sufferings. 



Now the beetles are rummaging in all directions 



