The Life of the Weevil 
may shine forth one day, a light far pre- 
ferable to the fireworks of theories which 
dazzle us for a moment only to leave us in 
blacker darkness. 
Here is this little detail. By some 
accident an egg has fallen from the blue 
globe, its regular lodging, into the axilla of 
a leaf half-way up the stem. We can even 
admit, if we choose, that the mother, either 
by inadvertence or by intention, laid it at this 
point herself. What will become of the egg 
under such conditions, so far removed from 
the rules? What I have before my eyes tell 
us. 
The grub, faithful to custom, has not 
failed to broach the stem of the thistle, which 
allows the nourishing moisture to ooze from 
the wound. As a defence it has built itself 
a pitcher similar in shape and size to that 
which it would have obtained in the thistle- 
head. This novel edifice lacks only one 
thing: the roof of dead florets bristling on 
the customary hut. 
The builder has contrived to do very well 
without its floral pantiles. It has made use 
of the base of the leaf, one lobe of which 
is involved, as a support, in the wall of the 
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