The Life of the Caterpillar 



that is beginning to fester. All the rest of 

 the day and all through the night, the pain 

 persists, troublesome enough to rob me of 

 my sleep. It does not quiet down until the 

 following day, after twenty-four hours of 

 petty torment. 



How did this new misadventure befall me? 

 I had not handled the caterpillars: indeed, 

 there were very few of them in the nest at 

 the time. I had come upon no shed skins, 

 for the moults do not take place inside the 

 silken purse. When the moment has come to 

 doff the second costume, that of the red mo- 

 saic, the caterpillars cluster outside, on the 

 dome of their dwelling, and there leave in a 

 single heap their old clothes entangled with 

 bits of silk. What is left to explain the un- 

 pleasant consequences to which the handling 

 of the nest exposes us? 



The broken red bristles are left, the fallen 

 hairs forming a dust that Is invisible with- 

 out a very careful examination. For a 

 long time the Processionaries crawl and 

 swarm about the nest; they pass to and fro, 

 penetrating the thickness of the wall when 

 they go to the pastures and when they return 

 to their dormitory. Whether motionless or 



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