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which is no less regular than that of the 

 seasons. When the longest days come, those 

 days which seem endless and gild the harvest, 

 he never fails to hurry to his tree. The 

 Midsummer bonfires, reminiscent of the 

 festivals of the sun, which the children kindle 

 in the village streets, are no more punctual in 

 date. At this season, every evening, in the 

 gloaming, if the weather be still, the Cock- 

 chafer comes to visit the pine-trees in the en- 

 closure. I follow his evolutions with my eyes. 

 With a silent, impetuous flight, the males 

 especially veer to and fro, displaying their 

 great antennary plumes; they make for the 

 branches where the females await them; they 

 fly back and forth, visible as dark streaks 

 against the pallor of the sky, from which the 

 last remnants of daylight are fading. They 

 settle, take flight again and resume their busy 

 rounds. What do they do up there, evening 

 after evening, during the fortnight of the 

 festival? 



The thing is evident: they are wooing the 

 ladies and they continue to pay their respects 

 until night has fallen. Next morning, both 

 males and females commonly occupy the 

 lower Branches. They lie singly motionless, 

 indifferent to passing events. They do not 



