The Psyches: the Laying 



The quickness of the hatching balked my 

 watchfulness. The new-born caterpillars, 

 about forty in number, have already had time 

 to garb themselves. 



They wear a Persian head-dress, a mage's 

 tiara in dazzling white plush. Or, to aban- 

 don high-flown language, let us say a cotton 

 night-cap without a tassel; only the cap does 

 not stand up from the head: it covers the 

 hind-quarters. Great animation reigns in the 

 tube, which is a spacious residence for such 

 vermin. They roam about gaily, with their 

 caps sticking up almost perpendicular to the 

 floor. With a tiara like that and things to 

 eat, life must be sweet indeed. 



But what do they eat? I try a little of 

 everything that grows on the bare stone and 

 the gnarled old trees. Nothing is welcomed. 

 More eager to dress than to feed themselves, 

 the Psyches scorn what I set before them. 

 My ignorance as an insect-breeder will not 

 matter, provided that I succeed in seeing with 

 what materials and in what manner the first 

 outlines of the cap are woven. 



I may fairly hope to achieve this ambition, 

 as the chrysalid bag is far from having ex- 

 hausted its contents. I find in it, teeming 

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