THE ICHNEUMON. 51 



travels; in fact, it is not at home here. I recognise it now : 

 it is striped with pale blue and yellow, spotted with black. 

 It comes from the kitchen garden yonder, behind that screen 

 of poplars ; for there is nothing here that suits it. It lives 

 upon the leaves of the cabbage tribe, which it shares with 

 other green caterpillars, which are metamorphosed into those 

 white butterflies so common in our gardens and fields. I do 

 not know what sort of a butterfly this becomes. I will catch 

 it, and imprison it, to witness its metamorphosis.* But what 

 is going on now? A little fly,t of a reddish-brown colour, 

 whose body seems to be attached to its corselet by a slender 

 thread only, has pounced upon the caterpillar, which appears 

 to be not at all inconvenienced by it, biit keeps on its way. 

 It is most likely breakfast time, and it is in search of a 

 cabbage. Blit what is the fly about? What does it want ? 

 Is it a fly of prey? Does it mean, like a little eagle, to 

 carry off the caterpillar as a meal for itself and its young 

 ones ? The caterpillar weighs twenty times as much as it 

 does — that is impossible. But the fly is armed with a sting 

 twice as long as its whole body, and as fine as a hair. It is an 

 enemy. It is going to kill the caterpillar with that formid- 

 able weapon, and, without doubt, eat it. It raises its sting, 

 .and this slender hair separates into three parts, in its whole 

 length: two are hollow, and are the halves of a sheath for the 

 third, which is a sharp, toothed wimble. It darts it into the 

 body of the caterpillar, which appears to perceive or know 

 nothing of the matter. It soon withdraws its sword, returns 

 it to the scabbard, flies oS, and disappears. The caterpillar 

 did not stop; nor does it stop. It is going to find its cloth 

 laid, and an excellent breakfast ready. In a few days, it will 

 descend into the earth to go through its metamorphosis ; but 

 if I do not shut it up, in order to ascertain what sort of a 

 butterfly it becomes, my expectations would be disappointed. 

 The fly which stung it, and which naturalists call the ichneu- 

 mon, has only laid an egg in its body. That sword, the 



* It is tTansfonned into one of those white butterflies that are so common in this 

 country as well as in France. — Ed. 



t The ichneumon tliat generally attacks the cahbage caterpillar, is Micrttgaster 

 gtomeratus. The autlior, however, describes an entirely different insect. Pimpla 

 manifeslata, and it ha» accordingly been figured. — £d. 



