The Life of the Weevil 
full of winter-resorts. We need not be 
anxious about the emigrants; they are well 
able to look after themselves. 
None the less, in the face of this exodus, 
my first impression is one of surprise. To 
leave such an excellent lodging for a casual 
shelter, of doubtful safety, seems to me a 
rash and ill-advised expedient. Can the 
insect be lacking in prudence? No; it has 
serious motives for decamping as quickly as 
possible when the autumn draws to an end. 
Let me explain matters. 
In the winter the echinops is a brown ruin 
which the north-wind tears from its hold, 
flings on the ground and reduces to tatters 
by rolling it in the mud of the roads. A 
few days of bad weather turn the handsome 
blue thistle into a mass of lamentable decay. 
What would become of the Weevil on 
this support, now the plaything of the winds? 
Would her tarred cask resist the assaults of 
the storm? Would she survive rolling over 
the rough soil and prolonged steeping in the 
puddles of melted snow? 
The Weevils foreknow the dangers of a 
crazy support; warned by the almanack of 
instinct, they foresee the winter and its mis- 
48 
