The Life of the Weevil 



the wound, which have set like cement. 

 This envelope rises into an irregular cone and 

 ends in the withered florets. In the centre 

 of the tuft we generally see an opening, 

 which might well be a ventilating-shaft. 



The number of eggs entrusted to a single 

 head may easily be ascertained without 

 destroying the cells: all that we need do is 

 to count the yellow blurs unevenly distributed 

 over the blue background. I have found 

 five, six and more, even in a head smaller 

 than a cherry. Each covers an egg. Do all 

 these eggs come from the same mother? It 

 is possible. At the same time, they may be 

 of diverse origin, for it is not unusual to 

 surprise two mothers both occupied in laying 

 eggs on the same globe. 



Sometimes the points worked upon almost 

 touch. The mother, it seems, has a very 

 restricted numerical sense and is incapable of 

 keeping count of the occupants. She drives 

 her probe into the florets, unheeding that the 

 place beside her is already taken. As a rule 

 there are too many, far too many feasters 

 at the niggardly banquet of the blue thistle. 

 Three at most will find enough to live on. 

 The first-comers will thrive; the laggards 

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