The Life of the Weevil 
yards distant. There is here, on _ this 
privileged tree, a small, accidental colony, a 
settlement of foreigners, who are becoming 
acclimatized before extending their domain. 
How did they come here? Undoubtedly 
_ brought by the torrent. The geographers 
call the Aygues a water-course. As an eye- 
witness, I should call it, more accurately, a 
pebble-course. Understand me: I do not 
mean that the dry pebbles flow down it of 
themselves; the low gradient does not permit 
of such an avalanche. But only let it rain; 
and they will stream fast enough. Then I 
can hear the roar of the grinding stones 
from my house, a mile and a quarter distant. 
During the greater part of the year, the 
Aygues is a broad expanse of white pebbles; 
of the torrent naught remains but the bed, 
a furrow of enormous width, comparable 
with that of its mighty neighbour, the Rhone. 
Let the rain fall persistently, let the snows 
melt on the slopes of the Alps; and the 
thirsty furrow fills for a few days: roaring, 
it overflows to a great distance and turbu- 
lently shifts its shoals of pebbles. Return 
a week later. The roar of the flood is 
succeeded by silence. The terrible waters 
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