The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



intervene too soon, at an inopportune moment, if 

 I attempted to see at once what is happening down 

 there. The preliminaries will possibly last the 

 greater part of the night, and long vigils are be- 

 ginning to tell upon my eighty years. My legs 

 give way and sand trickles into my eyes. Let us 

 go to bed. 



All night I dream of Scorpions. They run under 

 my blankets, they pass over my face, and I am 

 not greatly disturbed thereby, such remarkable 

 things do I see in my imagination! 1 



Incidentally we may remark that it is not 

 only in his imagination that insects frequent 

 his bed-clothes and caress his bare skin. 

 Here we come to an episode of the entomolo- 

 gist's private life. 



When wearing his last costume, the Pine Pro- 

 cessionary caterpillar is very disagreeable to handle, 

 or even to observe at close quarters. I happened, 

 quite unexpectedly, to learn this more thoroughly 

 than I wished. 



After unsuspectingly passing a whole morning 

 with my insects, stooping over them, magnifying- 

 glass in hand, to examine the working of their slits, 

 I found my forehead and eyelids suffering with red- 

 ness for twenty-four hours, and afflicted with an 

 itching even more painful and persistent than that 



1 Souvenirs, ix., pp. 302-312. The Life and Love of the 

 Insect, chap. xxii. 



250 



