The Life of the Caterpillar 



In the summer, I proclaim myself a buyer 

 of caterpillars at a sou apiece. The offer ap- 

 peals to some urchins in the neighbourhood, 

 my usual purveyors. On Thursdays, emanci- 

 pated from the horrors of parsing, 1 they scour 

 the fields, find the fat caterpillar from time 

 to time and bring him to me clinging to the 

 end of a stick. They dare not touch him, 

 poor mites; they are staggered at my audacity 

 when I take him in my fingers as they might 

 take the familiar Silk-worm. 



Reared on almond-tree branches, my me- 

 nagerie in a few days supplies me with mag- 

 nificent cocoons. In the winter, assiduous 

 searches at the foot of the fostering tree com- 

 plete my collection. Friends interested in my 

 enquiries come to my assistance. In short, by 

 dint of trouble, much running about, commer- 

 cial bargains and not a few scratches from 

 brambles, I am the possessor of an assortment 

 of cocoons, of which twelve, bulkier and 

 heavier than the others, tell me that they be- 

 long to females. 



A disappointment awaits me, for May ar- 

 rives, a fickle month which brings to naught 



1 Thursday is the weekly holiday in French schools. 

 Translator's Note. 



264 



