“Couldn’t the wire be pushed in through another opening?” queried Jules.
“But, my boy, you don’t suppose the caterpillar is so simple as to make windows here and there in its dwelling and so make it easy for its foes, of which it has many besides man, to attack it! If it should take a fancy, let us say, to go out and get a little fresh air some fine day, a sparrow might spy [[293]]it and carry it off as a choice titbit for its brood under the roof tiles. All these dangers it knows; or, rather, it guesses them vaguely, for every creature, even to the smallest worm, knows how to protect itself and preserve its species. Unquestionably it lacks the reasoning faculty, which belongs only to man; but it none the less acts as if it reasoned out its own interests with an accuracy that astounds the thoughtful observer. As a matter of fact, my dear children, Another has already reasoned for it, and that Other is the universal Reason in and by whom all live; it is God, the Father of men, and also the Father of lilacs and of the caterpillars that gnaw them. The creature knows, then, without ever having learned; it is master of its art without having been taught; and at the very first trial, with no experience to rely on, it does admirably the thing it was intended to do. This gift bestowed at birth, this unfailing inspiration that guides it in its work, is called instinct.
“In its butterfly state the leopard-moth takes very little food, at the most a few drops of honey from the opening flowers. Its proboscis, so slender and so delicate, is fitted to get this food. Now that it no longer has its strong mandibles, how can the moth imagine that wood is eatable? Is it possible that it remembers what it liked as a caterpillar? Who can say? Moreover, how can the moth tell what trees have wood suitable for the larvæ, when we ourselves must have a certain degree of education in order to know the commonest varieties? The [[294]]moth, with no previous education, never mistakes a plane-tree for a pear-tree, a box-tree for a lilac, an oak for an elm. Thus the eggs are always laid on the right sort of tree, never on any other. Where man might make a mistake, the insect never errs.
“The young larva comes out of the egg. What does the poor little thing know from experience of the hard trade it is to follow? Nothing, absolutely nothing. No matter; as soon as it is born it attacks the wood it rests upon and hollows out a shelter for itself with the least possible delay. This most urgent business being attended to, it now leisurely gnaws its way ahead, nibbling a little here and a little there and shaping its course according to the quality of the wood. The passage lengthens, increasing in diameter as the creature grows, and sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, sometimes running horizontally quite through the trunk or branch. The mass of the wood may be attacked with little system and without economy, for the larva is assured of food enough in any event. One precaution, however, it invariably takes: it never bores through the bark, for fear of betraying its presence to hostile eyes. But how does the larva, working in total darkness, know when it is getting near the bark and must turn back? What gives it the fear it has of showing itself? What makes it so careful to remain in the heart of the wood and thus avoid the vigilant sparrow it has never seen? It is instinct, the inspiration that protects all animal-kind in the fierce battle of life.” [[295]]
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE GRAIN-WEEVIL
Uncle Paul had sent old Jacques to town to buy the drug they were going to apply to Simon’s wheat. Meanwhile he took occasion to tell his young hearers about the wheat-devourer that was to have the benefit of the drug. The handful of grain left by Simon was in a plate on the table. The little weevils were running about in frantic endeavors to escape, while Emile with a straw was pushing them back into the middle of the plate, where they cowered among the kernels of wheat. Louis and Jules were also there, all attention to what was going on.
Grain-weevils