The Life of the Caterpillar 



where you won't mix it up with the turnip- 

 money." 



Dazzled with delight at the sight of so 

 much wealth, my little ragamuffin promises to 

 search with a will, already seeing visions of a 

 fortune to be his. 



When he has gone, I examine the thing. 

 It is worth while. It is a handsome cocoon, 

 blunt-shaped, not at all unlike the product of 

 our Silk-worm nurseries, of a firm consistency 

 and a tawny colour. The cursory informa- 

 tion which I have picked up from books of 

 reference makes me almost certain that it is 

 the Bombyx of the Oak, the Oak Eggar. If 

 this is so, what luck ! I shall be able to con- 

 tinue my observations and perhaps complete 

 what the Great Peacock began to show me. 



The Oak Eggar is, in fact, a classic; there 

 is not an entomological treatise but speaks of 

 his exploits in the wedding-season. They tell 

 us how a mother hatches in captivity, inside a 

 room and even hidden in a box. She is far 

 away from the country, amid the tumult of a 

 big town. The event is nevertheless divulged 

 to those whom it concerns in the woods and 

 the meadows. Guided by some inconceivable 

 compass, the males arrive, hastening from the 

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