More Beetles 



What would it not be if the art of the ancient 

 epicures had been lavished on its cooking! 



The skin alone leaves something to be de- 

 sired: it is very tough. One might describe 

 the new dish as the daintiest of force-meat, 

 wrapped in parchment; the inside is delicious, 

 but the outside defies the teeth. I offer it to 

 my Cat: she refuses it, though she is very 

 fond of sausage-skin. The two Dogs, my 

 assiduous acolytes at dinner-time, refuse it 

 likewise, refuse it obstinately, certainly not 

 because cf its hard texture, for their omniv- 

 orous gullets are sublimely indifferent to dif- 

 ficulties of deglutition. But their subtle 

 sense of smell recognizes in the proffered 

 morsel something unfamiliar, something ab- 

 solutely unknown to all their race; and, after 

 sniffing at it, they draw back as suspiciously 

 as though I had offered them a mustard-sand- 

 wich. It is too new to them. 



They remind me of the innocent wonder of 

 my neighbours, the women of the village, 

 when they pass in front of the fishwives' stalls 

 at Orange on market-days. Here are bas- 

 kets filled with Shell-fish, others with Craw- 

 fish, others with Sea-urchins. 



"Eh," they ask one another, "are those 

 things meant to be eaten? And how? 

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