The Greenbottles 



in a trap, the Chicken dead of the pip, the 

 Mole slain by the gardener, the Kitten killed 

 by accident, the Rabbit poisoned by some 

 weed. The business proceeds to the mutual 

 satisfaction of sellers and buyer. No such 

 trade had ever been known before in the vil- 

 lage nor ever will be again. 



April ends; and the pans rapidly fill. An 

 Ant, ever so small, is the first arrival. I 

 thought I should keep this intruder off by 

 hanging my apparatus high above the ground: 

 she laughs at my precautions. A few hours 

 after the deposit of the morsel, fresh still and 

 possessing no appreciable smell, up comes the 

 eager picker-up of trifles, scales the stems of 

 the tripod in processions and starts the work 

 of dissection. If the joint suits her, she even 

 goes to live in the sand of the pan and digs 

 herself temporary platforms in order to work 

 the rich find more at her ease. 



All through the season, from start to finish, 

 she will always be the promptest, always the 

 first to discover the dead animal, always the 

 last to beat a retreat when nothing more 

 remains than a heap of little bones bleached 

 by the sun. How does the vagabond, pass- 

 ing at a distance, know that, up there, in- 

 visible, high on the gibbet, there is some- 



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