The Life of the Caterpillar 



flight is possible, right in front of him. The 

 mother, unprovided with wings and plumes, 

 is not compelled to observe any such precau- 

 tions. Her cylindrical form, bare and differ- 

 ing but little from that of the caterpillar, 

 allows her to crawl, to slip into the narrow 

 passage and to come forth without obstacle. 

 Her cast chrysalid skin is, therefore, left 

 right at the back of the case, well covered by 

 the thatched roof. 



And this is an act of prudence marked by 

 exquisite tenderness. The eggs, in fact, are 

 packed in the barrel, in the parchmentlike 

 wallet formed by the slough. The mother 

 has thrust her telescopic ovipositor to the bot- 

 tom of that receptacle and has methodically 

 gone on laying until it is full. Not satisfied 

 with bequeathing her home and her velvet 

 coronet to her offspring, as a last sacrifice she 

 leaves them her skin. 



With a view to observing at my ease the 

 events which are soon to happen, I extract 

 one of these chrysalid bags, stuffed with eggs, 

 from its faggot and place it by itself, beside 

 its case, in a glass tube. I have not long to 

 wait. In the first week of July, I find myself 

 all of a sudden in possession of a large family. 



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