The Life of the Weevil 
release into the tangle of verdure large num- 
bers of Bruchi from my glass jars, the 
general depot. Each time the result is 
plainly negative. In vain, all through the 
season, I repeat my almost daily search, 
until both the crops are exhausted: I can 
never discover a single colonized pod, nor 
even a single Weevil perched upon the plant. 
And yet this is not for lacking of watch- 
ing. My family are enjoined not to touch 
any part of certain rows which I reserve for 
my purposes; they are told to mind the eggs 
which might occur on the pods gathered. 
I myself examine the beans brought from 
my own or the neighbouring gardens, before 
handing them to the housekeeper to be 
shelled. All my trouble is wasted: there is 
nowhere a trace of any laying. 
To these experiments in the open air I 
add others under glass. I place in long, 
narrow flasks fresh pods hanging from their 
stalks, some green, others mottled with crim- 
son and containing seeds which are nearly 
ripe. Each flask receives its complement of 
Weevils. This time I obtain eggs, but they 
do not inspire me with much hope: the 
mother has laid them on the sides of the 
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