The Life of the Weevil 



naturalist is not subject to these annoyances. 

 Its dwelling is an inviolable cell, a coffer 

 made all in one piece, with neither door nor 

 wicket for distressed bores to come knocking 

 at. Within is absolute quiet, nothing enters 

 of the sounds or cares of the outer world. 

 An excellent lodging, neither too hot nor too 

 cold, peaceful and closed to all. An excel- 

 lent table, besides, and a sumptuous. What 

 more could any one ask for? The smug 

 inmate waxes big and fat. 



We all know the rascal. Which of us, 

 when a boy, cracking a hazel-nut with his 

 strong teeth, has not bitten into something 

 acrid and sticky? Ugh! It's the nut- 

 maggot! Let us conquer our repugnance 

 and examine the creature closely. It is 

 worth the trouble. 



We see a plump and lusty grub, bent into a 

 bow, legless and milk-white, except the head, 

 which is capped with yellowish horn. When 

 taken from its cell and laid on the table, the 

 thing wriggles about, coiling and uncoiling 

 and fidgetting without contriving to shift its 

 place. It is denied the power of locomotion. 

 What would the worm do with that power, 

 boxed up as it is? For that matter, this is 

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