The Life of the Weevil 
naturalist is not subject to these annoyances. 
Its dwelling is an inviolable cell, a coffer 
made all in one piece, with neither door nor 
wicket for distressed bores to come knocking 
at. Within is absolute quiet, nothing enters 
of the sounds or cares of the outer world. 
An excellent lodging, neither too hot nor too 
cold, peaceful and closed to all. An excel- 
lent table, besides, and a sumptuous. What 
more could any one ask for? The smug 
inmate waxes big and fat. 
We all know the rascal. Which of us, 
when a boy, cracking a hazel-nut with his 
strong teeth, has not bitten into something 
acrid and sticky? Ugh! It’s the nut- 
maggot! Let us conquer our repugnance 
and examine the creature closely. It is 
worth the trouble. 
We see a plump and lusty grub, bent into a 
bow, legless and milk-white, except the head, 
which is capped with yellowish horn. When 
taken from its cell and laid on the table, the 
thing wriggles about, coiling and uncoiling 
and fidgetting without contriving to shift its 
place. It is denied the power of locomotion. 
What would the worm do with that power, 
boxed up as it is? For that matter, this is 
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