Other Leaf-Rollers 



ing away a match, sets fire to the neighbour- 

 ing meadows. You cannot call it a summer : 

 it is a conflagration. 



What can the Attelabus be doing in such 

 disastrous weather? She is thriving com- 

 fortably in my jars, which keep her victuals 

 soft for her; but, at the foot of her oak, 

 amid the undergrowth shrivelled as though 

 by the breath of a furnace, on the calcined 

 earth, what becomes of the poor thing? Let 

 us go and see. 



Beneath the oaks which she was exploiting 

 in June, I succeed in finding, among the dead 

 leaves, a dozen of her little barrels. They 

 have retained their green colour, so suddenly 

 did the dessication seize them. They crack 

 and crumble into dust under the pressure of 

 the fingers. 



I open a barrel. In the middle is the 

 grub, looking fit enough, but how small! 

 It is hardly larger than when it left the egg. 

 Is it dead or alive, this yellow atom? Its 

 immobility proclaims it to be dead; its un- 

 faded colour proclaims it to be alive. I 

 break open a second barrel, a third. In the 

 middle there is always a yellow grub, motion- 

 less and quite small, as though newly-born. 

 191 



