166 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



Now it is the turn of the fore-legs and intermediary legs to 

 shed their armlets and gauntlets, always without the least rent, 

 however small, without a crease of rumpled material, or a trace 

 of any change in the natural position. The insect is now fixed 

 to the top of the cage only by the claws of the long hind-legs. 

 It hangs perpendicularly by four tiny hooks, head downwards, 

 and it swings like a pendulum if I touch the wire-gauze. 



The wing-cases and wings now emerge. These are four 

 narrow strips, faintly grooved and looking like bits of paper 

 ribbon. At this stage they are scarcely a quarter of their 

 final length. They are so limp that they bend under their 

 own weight and sprawl along the insect's sides in the wrong 

 direction, with their points towards the head of the Locust. 

 Imagine four blades of thick grass, bent and battered by a 

 rain-storm, and you will have a fair picture of the pitiable 

 bunch formed by the future wings. 



The hind-legs are next released. The great thighs appear, 

 tinted on their inner surface with pale pink, which will soon 

 turn into a streak of bright crimson. They come out of the 

 sheath quite easily, for the thick haunch makes way for the 

 tapering knuckle. 



The shank is a different matter. The shank of the full- 

 grown insect bristles throughout its length with a double row 

 of hard, pointed spikes. Moreover, the lower extremity ends 

 in four large spurs. It is a genuine saw, but with two parallel 

 sets of teeth. 



Now this awkwardly shaped skin is enclosed in a sheath 

 that is formed in exactly the same way. Each spur is fitted 

 into a similar spur, each tooth into the hollow of a similar tooth. 

 And the sheath is as close and as thin as a coat of varnish. 



Nevertheless the saw-like skin slips out of its long narrow 

 case without catching in it at any point whatever. If I had 

 not seen this happen over and over again I could never have 

 believed it. The saw does no injury to the dainty scabbard 

 which a puff of my breath is enough to tear ; the formidable 

 rake slips through without leaving the least scratch behind it. 



