The Stinging Power 



on the move, they are constantly opening and 

 closing their apparatus of information, the 

 dorsal mouths. At the moment of closing, the 

 lips of these slits, rolling on each other like 

 the cylinders of a flattening-mill, catch hold 

 of the fluff near them, tear it out and break 

 it into fragments which the bottom of the 

 pocket, presently reascending, shoots outside. 



Thus myriads of irritant particles are dis- 

 seminated and subtly introduced into every 

 part of the nest. The shirt of Nessus burnt 

 the veins of whoso wore it; the silk of the 

 Processionary, another poisoned fabric, sets 

 on fire the fingers that handle it. 



The loathsome hairs long retain their viru- 

 lence. I was once sorting out some handfuls 

 of cocoons, many of which were diseased. As 

 the hardness of the contents was usually an 

 indication that something was wrong, I tore 

 open the doubtful cocoons with my fingers, in 

 order to save the non-contaminated chrysalids. 

 My sorting was rewarded with the same kind 

 of pain, especially under the edges of the 

 nails, as I had already suffered when tearing 

 the nests. 



The cause of the irritation on this occasion 

 was sometimes the dry skin discarded by the 



