when devouring its caterpillar. A hole is
made in the victim's side; and the head and neck of the nursling dive
deep into the wound, to root luxuriously among the entrails. There is
never a withdrawal from the gnawed belly, never a recoil to interrupt
the feast and to take breath awhile. The vivacious animal always goes
forward, chewing, swallowing, digesting, until the caterpillar's skin is
emptied of its contents. Once seated at table, it does not budge as long
as the victuals last. To tease it with a straw is not always enough
to induce it to withdraw its head outside the wound; I have to use
violence. When removed by force and then left to its own devices, the
creature hesitates for a long time, stretches itself and mouths around,
without trying to open a passage through a new wound. It needs the
attacking point that has just been abandoned. If it finds the spot,
it makes its way in and resumes the work of eating; but its future is
jeopardized from this time forward, for the game, now perhaps tackled at
inopportune points, is liable to go bad.

With the Anthrax' grub, there is none of this mangling, none of this
persistent clinging to the entrance wound. I have but to tease it with
the tip of a hair pencil and forthwith it retires; and the lens reveals
no wound at the abandoned spot, no such effusion of blood as there would
be if the skin were perforated. When its sense of security is restored,
the grub once more applies its pimple head to the fostering larva,
at any point, no matter where; and, so long as my curiosity does not
prevent it, keeps itself fixed there, without the least effort, or the
least perceptible movement that could account for the adhesion. If I
repeat the touch with the pencil, I see the same sudden retreat and,
soon after, the same contact just as readily renewed.

This facility for gripping, quitting and regripping, now here, now
there and always without a wound, the part of the victim whence the
nourishment is drawn tells us of itself that the mouth of the Anthrax
is not armed with mandibular fangs capable of digging into the skin and
tearing it. If the flesh were gashed by any such pincers, one or two
attempts would be necessary before they could be released or reapplied;
besides, each point bitten would display a lesion. Well, there is
nothing of the kind: a conscientious examination through the magnifying
glass shows conclusively that the skin is intact; the grub glues
its mouth to its p