The Life of the Weevil 
The mixture is the equivalent of the aioli 
dear to the Provencal palate. It sounds 
very well in verse, but it lacks substance. 
On such an occasion men would prefer such 
solid fare as a dish of red haricots seasoned 
with chopped onions. Capital: that ballasts 
the stomach, while remaining just as countri- 
fied as garlic. Thus filled, in the open air, 
to the chirping of the Cicada, the gang of 
harvesters could take a brief mid-day nap 
and gently digest their meal in the shade of 
the sheaves. Our modern Thestyles, differ- 
ing so little from their classic sisters, would 
take good care not to forget the gounflo-gus, 
that thrifty stand-by of big appetites. The 
Thestylis of the poet does not think of it, 
because she does not know it. 
The same author shows us Tityrus offering 
a night’s hospitality to his friend Melibcus, 
who, driven from his property by the soldiers 
of Octavius, goes off limping behind his flock 
of goats. 
““We shall have chestnuts,” says Tityrus, 
“cheese and fruits.” 
History does not say if Melibeus allowed 
himself to be tempted. It is a pity, for 
during the frugal meal we might have learnt, 
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