The Sloe-Weevil 
ber is over, most of them have achieved the 
adult form. I see them glittering in the 
sand of my jars like living nuggets. These 
golden globules foresee the rapidly approach- 
ing winter: as a rule they do not stir from 
their underground quarters. However, 
enticed by the hot sunlight, the last of the 
year, a few Poplar-weevils come up into the 
open air to see what the weather is like. At 
the first breath of the north wind, these 
venturesome ones will take refuge under the 
strips of dead bark; perhaps they will even 
perish. 
The guest of the sloe is not in such a 
hurry. Autumn is drawing to a close; and 
my buried captives are still in the larval 
state. What matters this delay? They will 
all be ready when the beloved bush is covered 
with blossom. By May, in point of fact, 
the insect abounds on the sloes. 
This is the time of careless revelry. The 
fruit is still too small, with its stone not set 
and its kernel a transparent jelly; it would 
not suit the grub, but it makes a feast for the 
adult, who, with an imperceptible movement, 
without any twisting of the boring-tool, 
sinks her drill into the pulp, drives it half- 
207 
