The Vine-Weevil 
When July comes, there is not a living thing 
left in my glass jars. 
All have died. And of what? Of star- 
vation, yes, of starvation in a well-stored 
granary. This is evident from the small 
amount of food consumed. The cylinders 
are almost untouched; at most I perceive in 
the midst of their layers a few scratches, 
the traces of a scornful tooth. Probably the 
food was too dry, had been rendered uneat- 
able by dessication. 
Under natural conditions, while the burn- 
ing heat of the sun hardened the leaves by 
day, the mists and the dew softened them at 
night. Thus, in the heart of the spiral 
layers, a column of soft crumb is preserved, 
a necessity for the tender nurselings. A 
sojourn in the uniformly dry atmosphere of 
the jars has, on the other hand, turned the 
roll into a hard, stale crust which the grubs 
refused to touch. The failure is due to that. 
A year later, I begin again, this time more 
cautiously. The rolled leaves, I said to my- 
self, remain hanging for some days on the 
vine or the poplar. ‘The perforation of the 
leaf-stalk has not completely severed the 
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