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absolutely necessary to the existence of the caterpillar, and therefore to the 

 preservation of the species ; how then is this to be accomplished ? The cater- 

 pillar, by spinning a number of silken threads wound round and round the 

 twig, and round and round the leaf stalk, fastens the leaf stalk to the twig 

 to which it is still attached. The next process is to make a winter habitation 

 of that portion of leaf that still remains uneaten, the corners of this uneaten 

 portion are fastened tightly together, and then the edges are united, these 

 operations being effected by means of silk spun from the mouth ; the work 

 is then finished, and the little caterpillar is laid up for winter quarters 

 inside his hammock, the bristle-like mid rib of the leaf curling over it 

 like a tail. Now the process of fastening the leaf to the twig by silken 

 cables has done nothing to prevent the natural dehiscence of the leaf stalk at 

 its base, so that this inevitable process takes place at the appointed 

 time, and then the little cot, instead of standing erect falls as far as the 

 cables will permit, always less than half-an-inch, and rocks to and fro all the 

 winter, lulling the infant caterpillar to sleep, and keeping him asleep for six 

 consecutive months; rain, snow, ice, wind, and all the vicissitudes of our 

 winter, have no power to injure or even to awaken him ; hung aloft in his 

 little cradle he rocks in comfort and security, and rides out the roughest 

 storm without a thought of harm. In April he wakes up. The same in- 

 crease of temperature which poets tell us rouses ' the torpid sap detruded to 

 the roots ' — a very apocryphal doctrine, by the way, as the change of tempera- 

 ture is more likely to be felt in the air than on the earth : however, the same 

 change of temperature which compels the leaf buds to burst, also resuscitates 

 the little caterpillar ; he wakes up, crawls out of his hammock, but goes no 

 further than to the upper side of the twig immediately above the aperture he 

 has just quitted.'" At this time he is about three lines long. His first pro- 

 ceeding, Mr Buckler tells us, is to cast off his winter's coat, and accordingly 

 he attaches himself to a spinning of silk on a twig, and by degrees crawls 

 out of his old skin, which is left adhering to the silk, not shrivelled up, but 

 looking still much like a caterpillar. He now no longer confines himself to 

 the tip of the leaf, but feeds away, with all the voracity which a winter's fast 

 may be supposed to have engendered, during nearly the whole of April and 

 May, and by the beginning of June is full fed. When full fed he spins a 

 silken web over the under surface of a leaf of the honeysuckle, thickened into 

 the form of a pad on the mid rib, and attaching himself to this by the anal 

 claspers, suspends himself in a curved position waiting for the change to a 

 chrysalis. He remains motionless for three days, rapidly becoming paler. In 

 the course of the third day the creature seems to wake up, unbends his head, 

 swings himself to and fro a few times, then stretches himself downwards in a 



