i 3 2 THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT 



If the road does not vary, the speed does. I measure 

 nine centimeters 1 a minute as the average distance cov- 

 ered. But there are more or less lengthy halts; the 

 pace slackens at times, especially when the temperature 

 falls. At ten o'clock in the evening the walk is little 

 more than a lazy swaying of the body. I foresee an 

 early halt, in consequence of the cold, of fatigue and 

 doubtless also of hunger. 



Grazing-time has arrived. The caterpillars have come 

 crowding from all the nests in the greenhouse to browse 

 upon the pine-branches planted by myself beside the 

 silken purses. Those in the garden do the same, for 

 the temperature is mild. The others, lined up along the 

 earthenware cornice, would gladly take part in the feast ; 

 they are bound to have an appetite after a ten hours' 

 walk. The branch stands green and tempting not a 

 hand's-breadth away. To reach it they need but go 

 down; and the poor wretches, foolish slaves of their 

 ribbon that they are, cannot make up their minds to do 

 so. . I leave the famished ones at half -past ten, persuaded 

 that they will take counsel with their pillow and that on 

 the morrow things will have resumed their ordinary 

 course. 



I was wrong I was expecting too much of them 

 When I accorded them that faint gleam of intelligence 

 which the tribulations of a distressful stomach ought, one 

 would think, to have aroused. I visit them at dawn. 

 They are lined up as on the day before, but motionless. 

 When the air grows a little warmer, they shake off their 

 1 3 J / 2 inches.— Translator's Note. 



