This is the chief domain of a third Larinus (L. scolymi, Oliv.), a big Weevil, thickset, broad-backed, powdered with yellow ochre. The cardoon, [[50]]which provides our table with the fleshy veins of its leaves, but whose heads are disdained, is the insect’s customary home; but, should the gardener leave the artichoke a few late heads, these are accepted by the Larinus as eagerly as the cardoon’s. Under different names, the two plants are merely horticultural varieties; and the Weevil, a thorough expert, makes no mistake about it.
Under the scorching July sun, a cardoon-head exploited by the Larini is a sight worth seeing. Drunk with heat, busily staggering amid the thicket of blue florets, they dive with their tails in the air, sinking and even disappearing into the depths of the shaggy forest.
What do they do down there? It is not possible to observe them directly; but a local inspection after the work is finished will tell us. Between the tufts of hairs, not far from the base, they clear with the rostrum a place to receive their egg. If they are able to reach a seed, they rid it of its feathers and cut a shallow cup in it, an egg-cup as it were. The probe is pushed no farther. The fleshy dome, the tasty heart which one would at first suppose to be the favourite morsel, is never attacked by the pregnant mothers.
As might have been expected, so rich an establishment implies a numerous population. If the head is a good-sized one, it is not unusual to find a score or more of table-companions, plump, [[51]]red-headed grubs, with fat, glossy backs. There is plenty of room for all.
For the rest, they are of a very stay-at-home habit. Far from straying at random over the abundant food-supply, in which they might well sample the best and pick their mouthfuls, they remain encamped within the narrow area of the place where they were hatched. Moreover, despite their corpulence, they are extremely frugal, to such a point that, excepting the inhabited patches, the floral head retains its full vigour and ripens its seeds as usual.
In this blazing summer weather, three or four days are enough for the hatching. If the young grub is at some distance from the seeds, it reaches them by slipping along the hairs, a few of which it gathers on its way. If it is born in contact with a seed, it remains in its native cup, for the desired point is attained.
Its food consists, in fact, of the few surrounding seeds, five or six, hardly more; and even so the greater number are only in part consumed. True, when it has grown stronger, the larva bites deeper and digs in the fleshy receptacle a little pit that will serve as the foundation of its future cell. The waste products of nutrition are pushed backwards, where they set in a hard lump, held in position by the palisade of the hairs.
A modest scale of diet, when all is said: half a dozen unripe seeds and a few mouthfuls taken [[52]]from the cake consisting of the receptacle. These peaceful creatures must derive singular benefit from their food to acquire such plumpness so cheaply. An undisturbed and temperate diet is better than an uneasy feast.
Two or three weeks devoted to these pleasures of the table and our grub has become a fat baby. Then the blissful consumer becomes a craftsman. The placid gratification of the belly is followed by the worries of the future. We have to build ourselves a castle in which to effect the metamorphosis.
From all around it the grub collects hairs, which it chops into fragments of different lengths. It places them in position with the tip of its mandibles, butts them with its head and presses them by rolling them with its rump. Without further manipulation this would remain a crazy protection, constantly collapsing and forcing the recluse to make continual repairs. But the builder is thoroughly acquainted with the eccentric ways of its fellow-craftsmen on the echinops; it possesses a cement-factory in the end of its intestine.