The Poplar-Weevil 
excellently well. She is a peaceable enthu- 
siast who works on my table with the same 
zest as on her poplar-tree. A few young 
shoots, planted in fresh sand, under a wire- 
gauze cover, and renewed as and when they 
fade, take the place of the tree in my work- 
room. The Weevil, not in the least intimi- 
dated, devotes herself to her industry even 
under my magnifying-glass and supplies me 
with as many cylinders as I could wish for. 
Let us watch her at work. From this 
year’s growth, sprouting in sheaves at the 
base of the trunk, she chooses the leaf to be 
rolled; but she picks it not among the lower 
leaves, which are already of the usual green 
and of a firm texture, nor yet among the end 
leaves, which are still growing. Above, they 
are too young, not large enough; below, 
they are too old, too tough, too difficult 
to manage. 
The leaf selected belongs to the inter- 
mediate rows. Though still of a doubtful 
green, in which yellow predominates, soft 
and shiny with varnish, it has very nearly 
attained the final dimensions. Its denticula- 
tions swell into delicate glandular pads, 
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