The Pea-Weevil: The Eggs 
bodied. Might not the central portion of 
the pea be the Weevil-grub’s feeding-bottle? 
Fired by one ambition and endowed with 
equal rights, all the occupants of the seed 
set out towards the delicious morsel. It is 
a laborious journey; and frequent halts are 
made in temporary recesses. The grubs 
rest; pending better things to come, they 
frugally crunch the ripe substance around 
them; they gnaw even more to open a way 
than to fill their stomachs. 
At last one of the excavators, favoured by 
the direction taken, reaches the central dairy. 
It settles there and the thing is done: there 
is nothing for the rest but to die. How do 
they come to know that the place is taken? 
Do they hear their kinsman’s mandibles 
striking against the wall of his cell? Can 
they feel the vibration of the nibbling at a 
distance? Something of the sort must hap- 
pen, for from that moment they cease their 
attempts to burrow any farther. Without 
struggling with the lucky winner, without 
seeking to dislodge him, those beaten in the 
race allow themselves to die. I like this 
frank resignation on the part of the late 
arrivals. 
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