CHAPTER VIII 
THE VINE-WEEVIL 
[NX the spring, while the poplar-leaves are 
being worked into cylinders, another 
Rhynchites, who is likewise magnificently 
attired, is making cigars out of vine-leaves. 
She is a little bigger, of a metallic lustre, a 
golden green that changes to blue. Were 
she only larger, the resplendent Vine-Weevil 
would occupy a very respectable place among 
the gems of entomology. 
To attract our eyes, she has something 
better than her brilliancy: she has her in- 
dustry, which has earned her the hatred of 
the vine-grower, jealous of his property. 
The peasant knows her: he even calls her by 
a special name, an honour rarely bestowed 
in the world of the smaller creatures. 
The rural vocabulary is rich in names of 
plants, but very poor in names of insects. A 
couple of dozen words, inextricably confused 
because of their general character, represent 
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