168 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



wings are in the right position. They are no longer curved 

 backwards like the petals of a flower, they are no longer upside 

 clown ; but they still look shabby and insignificant. All that 

 we see is a few wrinkles, a few winding furrows, which tell us 

 that the stumps are bundles of cunningly folded material, 

 arranged so as to take up as little space as possible. 



Very gradually they expand, so gradually that their un- 

 folding cannot be seen even under the microscope. The pro- 

 cess continues for three hours. Then the wings and wing- 

 cases stand up on the Locust's back like a huge set of sails, 

 sometimes colourless, sometimes pale-green, like the Cicada's 

 wings at the beginning. One is amazed at their size when one 

 thinks of the paltry bundles that represented them at first. 

 How could so much stuff find room there ? 



The fairy tale tells us of a grain of hempseed that contained 

 the under-linen of a princess. Here is a grain that is even more 

 astonishing. The one in the story took years and years to 

 sprout and multiply, till at last it yielded the hemp required 

 for the trousseau : the Locust's tiny bundle supplies a sump- 

 tuous set of sails in three hours. They are formed of exquisitely 

 fine gauze, a network of innumerable tiny bars. 



In the wing of the larva we can see only a few uncertain 

 outlines of the future lace-work. There is nothing to suggest 

 the marvellous fabric whose every mesh will have its form 

 and place arranged for it, with absolute exactness. Yet it 

 is there, as the oak is inside the acorn. 



There must be something to make the matter of the wing 

 shape itself into a sheet of gauze, into a labyrinth of meshes. 

 There must be an original plan, an ideal pattern which gives 

 each atom its proper place. The stones of our buildings are 

 arranged in accordance with the architect's plan ; they form 

 an imaginary building before they exist as a real one. In the 

 same way a Locust's wing, that sumptuous piece of lace 

 emerging from a miserable sheath, speaks to us of another 

 Architect, the Author of the plans which Nature must follow 

 in her labours. 



