[1] Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695).—Translator’s Note. [↑]
Chapter vii
THE POPLAR-WEEVIL
Generally speaking, the mother Weevil’s attainments are limited to slipping her eggs into places where the grubs will find food to suit them and occasionally, with wonderfully assured botanical tact, to varying the diet. She does little or no industrial work. The niceties of the baby-linen or the feeding-bottle do not concern her. To this uncouth maternity I know but one exception, appertaining to certain Weevils who, in order to endow their young with preserved foodstuffs, have the knack of rolling a leaf, which serves as board and lodging in one.
Among these manufacturers of vegetable sausages the most skilful is the Poplar-weevil (Rhynchites populi, Lin.), who is of modest size but splendidly attired. Her back glitters with gold and copper, her abdomen with indigo-blue. Would you see her at work, you need but inspect the lower twigs of the common black poplar, at the edge of the meadows, about the end of May.
While, overhead, spring’s caressing breezes stir the majestic green distaff and set the leaves quivering on their flat stalks, down below, in a layer of [[113]]calmer air, this year’s tender shoots remain quiescent. Here above all, far from the wind-tossed heights uncongenial to the industrious, the Rhynchites labours. And, as the workshop is just at a man’s height, nothing is more easy than to watch the roller’s actions.
Easy, yes, but distressing, under a blazing sun, if you wish to follow the insect in every detail of its method and the progress of its work. Moreover, this involves long journeys, which take up time; and again it is none too favourable to precise observations, which demand indefinite leisure and assiduous inspections at all hours of the day. It is greatly preferable to pursue our studies in the comfort of our own home; but it is above all things necessary that the insect should lend itself to our plan.
The Rhynchites fulfils this condition excellently well. She is a peaceable enthusiast who works on my table with the same zest as on her poplar-tree. A few young shoots, planted in fresh sand, under a wire-gauze cover, and renewed as and when they fade, take the place of the tree in my work-room. The Weevil, not in the least intimidated, devotes herself to her industry even under my magnifying-glass and supplies me with as many cylinders as I could wish for.
Let us watch her at work. From this year’s growth, sprouting in sheaves at the base of the trunk, she chooses the leaf to be rolled; but she [[114]]picks it not among the lower leaves, which are already of the usual green and of a firm texture, nor yet among the end leaves, which are still growing. Above, they are too young, not large enough; below, they are too old, too tough, too difficult to manage.