The Life of the Weevil 



yards distant. There is here, on this 

 privileged tree, a small, accidental colony, a 

 settlement of foreigners, who are becoming 

 acclimatized before extending their domain. 



How did they come here? Undoubtedly 

 brought by the torrent. The geographers 

 call the Aygues a water-course. As an eye- 

 witness, I should call it, more accurately, a 

 pebble-course. Understand me: I do not 

 mean that the dry pebbles flow down it of 

 themselves; the low gradient does not permit 

 of such an avalanche. But only let it rain; 

 and they will stream fast enough. Then I 

 can hear the roar of the grinding stones 

 from my house, a mile and a quarter distant. 



During the greater part of the year, the 

 Aygues is a broad expanse of white pebbles; 

 of the torrent naught remains but the bed, 

 a furrow of enormous width, comparable 

 with that of its mighty neighbour, the Rhone. 

 Let the rain fall persistently, let the snows 

 melt on the slopes of the Alps; and the 

 thirsty furrow fills for a few days: roaring, 

 it overflows to a great distance and turbu- 

 lently shifts its shoals of pebbles. Return 

 a week later. The roar of the flood is 

 succeeded by silence. The terrible waters 

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