The Cabbage-caterpillar 



is that it reminds me of a custom still observed 

 in our own days, at least in my part of the 

 country. Nothing is so long-lived as absurd- 

 ity. Tradition has retained, in a simplified 

 form, the ancient defensive apparatus of 

 which Pliny speaks. For the Horse's skull 

 our people have substituted an eggshell on the 

 top of a switch stuck among the cabbages. It 

 is easier to arrange; also, it is quite as useful, 

 that is to say, it has no effect whatever. 



Everything, even the nonsensical, is capable 

 of explanation with a little credulity. When 

 I question the peasants, our neighbours, they 

 tell me that the effect of the eggshell is as 

 simple as can be: the Butterflies, attracted by 

 the whiteness, come and lay their eggs on it. 

 Broiled by the sun and lacking all nourishment 

 on that thankless support, the little caterpil- 

 lars die; and that makes so many fewer. 



I insist; I ask them if they have ever seen 

 slabs of eggs or masses of young caterpillars 

 on those white shells. 



"Never," they reply, with one voice. 



"Well, then?" 



"It was done in the old days and so we go 

 on doing it: that's all we know; and 

 enough for us." 



347 



