The Spotted Larinus 
to the cement, it hardens into a shell permit- 
ting the peaceful somnolence of the trans- 
formation. The flexible tent of the early 
days becomes a stout manor-house. 
Here, I told myself, the adult would pass 
the winter, protected against the damp, 
which is more to be dreaded than the cold. 
I was wrong. By the end of September, 
most of the cells are empty, though their 
support, the blue thistle, eager to open its 
last blooms, is still in fairly good condition. 
The Weevils have gone, in all the freshness 
of their floured costume; they have broken 
out through the top of their cells, which now 
gape like broken pitchers. A few loiterers 
still lag behind at home, but are quite ready 
to make off, judging by their agility when 
my curiosity chances to set them free. 
When the inclement months of December 
and January have arrived, I no longer find a 
single cell inhabited. The whole population 
has migrated. Where has it taken refuge? 
I am not quite sure. Perhaps in the heaps 
of broken stones, under cover of the dead 
leaves, in the shelter of the tufts of grass 
that grow beneath the hawthorn in the 
hedges. For a Weevil the country-side is 
47 
