FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



loose of themselves, or would be rubbed off like dead 

 skin. But the reality exceeds all possible expectation. 

 From the spurs and spikes of the infinitely thin envelope 

 there are drawn spurs and spikes so strong that they 

 can cut soft wood. This is done without violence, the 

 discarded skin remains where it was, hanging by the 

 claws to the top of the cage, uncreased and untorn. The 

 magnify ing-glass shows not a trace of rough usage. 



If it were suggested that one should draw out a saw 

 from some sort of gold-beater's skin sheath which had 

 been exactly moulded on the steel, and that one should 

 perform the operation without making the least tear, 

 one would simply laugh. The thing would be im- 

 possible. Yet Nature makes light of such im- 

 possibilities ; she can realise the absurd, in case of need. 



The difficulty is overcome in this way. While the leg 

 is being liberated it is not rigid, as it will presently be. 

 It is soft and highly flexible. Where it is exposed to 

 view I see it bending and curving: it is as supple as 

 elastic cord. And farther on, where it is hidden, it is 

 certainly still softer, it is almost fluid. The teeth of the 

 saw are there, but have none of their future sharpness. 

 The spikes lie backwards when the leg is about to be 

 drawn back: as it emerges they stand up and become 

 solid. A few minutes later the leg has attained the 

 proper state of stiffness. 



And now the fine tunic is wrinkled and rumpled, and 



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