The Life of the Caterpillar 



I expose him to the direct rays of the sun, 

 on the window-ledge. This time, it is too 

 much of a good thing; I have gone beyond 

 all bounds. The sun-scorched one wriggles 

 about, flourishes his abdomen, always a sign 

 of discomfort. But the making of the hawk- 

 weed cassock is not suspended on this account; 

 on the contrary, it is pursued more hurriedly 

 than ever. Could this be because of the ex- 

 cessive light? Is not the cotton-wool bag a 

 retreat wherein the caterpillar isolates him- 

 self, sheltering from the importunities of 

 broad daylight, and gently digests and sleeps? 

 Let us get rid of the light, while retaining a 

 warm temperature. 



After a preliminary stripping, the little 

 caterpillars are now lodged in a cardboard 

 box, which I place in the sunniest corner of 

 my window. The temperature here is well 

 over 100 F. No matter: the swan's-down 

 sack is remade at a sitting of a few hours. 

 Tropical heat and the quiet that goes with 

 darkness have made no difference in the in- 

 sect's habits. 



Neither the degree of heat nor the degree 

 of light explains the pressing need of rai- 

 ment. Where are we to seek the reason for 

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