The Arbutus Caterpillar 



abounds: a magnificent shrub, with lustrous 

 evergreen foliage, vermilion fruit, round and 

 fleshy as strawberries, and hanging clusters of 

 little white bells resembling those of the lily 

 of the valley. When the frosts come at the 

 approach of December, nothing could be more 

 charming than the arbutus, decking its gay 

 verdure with both fruits and flowers, with 

 coral balls and plump little bells. Alone of 

 our flora, it combines the flowering of to-day 

 with the ripening of yesterday. 



Then the bright-red raspberries — the dar- 

 bouses, as we call them here — beloved by the 

 Blackbird, grow soft and sweet to the palate. 

 The housewives pluck them and make them 

 into preserves that are not without merit. As 

 for the shrub itself, when the season for cut- 

 ting has come, it is not, despite its beauty, 

 respected by the woodman. It serves, like any 

 trivial brushwood, in the making of faggots 

 for heating ovens. Frequently, too, the showy 

 arbutus is ravaged by a caterpillar yet more 

 to be dreaded than the woodcutter. After 

 this glutton has been at it, it could not look 

 more desolate had it been scorched and black- 

 ened by fire. 



The Moth, a pretty little, snow-white Bom- 



iSi 



