The Botanical Instinct 



the Sphex, who, having refreshed herself at 

 the sugar-works of the field eringo, suddenly 

 flies off, eager to stab the Cricket, the food 

 of her grub? 



It is a matter of memory, some will make 

 haste to reply. 



Ah no ! Please do not speak of memory 

 here; do not appeal to the belly's powers of 

 reminiscence! Man is fairly well endowed 

 with mnemonic aptitudes. Yet which of us 

 has retained the least recollection of his 

 mother's milk? If we had never seen a babe 

 at the breast, we could never suspect that we 

 began life in the same fashion. 



This food of earliest infancy is not remem- 

 bered; it is certified only by example, as by 

 that of the Lamb, which, with bended knees 

 and frisking tail, sucks at the udder and butts 

 it with its head. No, the mouthfuls of 

 mother's milk have left not a trace in the 

 mind. 



And you would have it that the insect, 

 after a transformation that has changed it 

 entirely, both inside and out, remembers its 

 first diet, when we ourselves, who are not 

 remoulded in the crucible of a metamorpho- 

 sis, remain in the most absolute darkness 

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