The Life of the Weevil 
turn the sordid sewer into a_ valuable 
glue- and varnish-factory. 
Will this lodging, so softly padded, be 
its winter home? Not so. In January I 
inspect the old thistle-heads; in none of them 
do I find the Weevil. The autumnal popu- 
lation has migrated. For this I see a very 
good reason. 
The thistle, now dead and bare, an ash- 
grey ruin, is still standing, is still holding 
out against the north-wind, thanks to its 
strength and the firmness of its roots; but its 
flower-heads, emptied by age, are wide open, 
exposing their contents to the inclemencies 
of the weather. The fleece of the receptacle 
is a sponge that swells up with the rain and 
tenaciously retains the moisture. The same 
may be said of the cardoon and the artichoke. 
In either case, we no longer find the for- 
tress of the carlina, encompassed with con- 
vergent folioles; what we see is a spacious, 
roofless ruin, abandoned to the damp and the 
cold. The white tuft of the ferocious thistle 
and the blue tuft of the artichoke are delight- 
ful villas in summer; in winter they are un- 
inhabitable residences, sweating mildew. 
Prudence, the safeguard of the humble, 
70 
