The Life of the Weevil 
But suspicion, however well-founded, is 
not certainty. I shall not know the secret 
unless and until I witness the performance. 
Chance, the servant of those who solicit 
her patiently, procures me a meeting with 
the Acorn-weevil at work in the first fort- 
night of October. My surprise is great, for 
at this late period all industrial activity as a 
rule is at anend. The entomological season 
closes with the first touch of cold. 
It happens to be wild weather to-day; an 
icy north-wind is roaring, chapping one’s 
lips. One needs a stout faith to go out on 
a day like this to inspect the thickets. Yet, 
if the Weevil with the long churchwarden 
exploits the acorns, as I imagine that she 
does, now or never is the time to look into 
things. The acorns, still green, have 
attained their full dimensions. In two or 
three weeks they will possess the deep brown 
of perfect maturity, soon to be followed by 
their fall. 
My hare-brained excursion gives me a suc- 
cess. On the ilexes I surprise a Weevil, 
with her proboscis half-sunk in an acorn. 
To observe her with due care is impossible 
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