122 THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT 



is, especially at night, as inextricable a labyrinth as that 

 constructed for Minos. The Processionary finds his way 

 through it, without the possibility of a mistake, by the aid 

 of his bit of silk. At the time for going home, each 

 easily recovers either his own thread or one or other of 

 the neighboring threads, spread fanwise by the diverging 

 herd ; one by one the scattered tribe line up on the com- 

 mon ribbon, which started from the nest; and the sated 

 caravan finds its way back to the manor with absolute 

 certainty. 



Longer expeditions are made in the daytime, even in 

 Jwinter, if the weather be fine. Our caterpillars then 

 come down from the tree, venture on the ground, march 

 in procession for a distance of thirty yards or so. The 

 object of these sallies is not to look for food, for 

 the native pine-tree is far from being exhausted: the 

 shorn branches hardly count amid the vast leafage. 

 Moreover, the caterpillars observe complete abstinence 

 till nightfall. The trippers have no other object than 

 a constitutional, a pilgrimage to the outskirts to see what 

 these are like, possibly an inspection of the locality where, 

 later on, they mean to bury themselves in the sand for 

 their metamorphosis. 



It goes without saying that, in these greater evolu- 

 tions, the guiding cord is not neglected. It is now more 

 necessary than ever. All contribute to it from the pro- 

 duce of their spinnerets, as is the invariable rule when- 

 ever there is a progression. Not one takes a step for- 

 ward without fixing to the path the thread from his lips. 



If the series forming the procession be at all long, the 



