The Life of the Weevil 
the thistle-heads. Now the reader knows as 
much as IJ can tell him. 
All the summer, all the autumn, until the 
cold weather sets in, the most ornamental of 
our southern thistles grows profusely by the 
road-side. Its pretty, blue flowers, gathered 
into round, prickly heads, have won it the 
botanical name of Echinops, in allusion to the 
Hedgehog rolled into a ball. It is indeed 
like a Hedgehog. Better still: it is like a 
Sea-urchin stuck upon a stalk and turned into 
an azure globe. 
Beneath a screen of star-shaped flowerets 
the shapely tuft hides the thousand daggers 
of its scales. Whosoever touches it with an 
incautious finger is surprised to encounter 
such aggressiveness beneath an innocent 
appearance. The leaves that go with it, 
green above, white and fluffy underneath, do 
at least warn the inexperienced: they are 
divided into pointed lobes, each of which 
bears an extremely sharp needle at its tip. 
This thistle is the patrimony of the 
Spotted Larinus (L. maculosus, ScuH.), 
whose back is powdered with cloudy yellow 
patches. The Weevil browses very spar- 
ingly on the leaves. June is not yet over 
26 
