The almanac of the instincts has aroused it; it knows as well as the
gardener when the pea-vines are in flower, and seeks its favorite plant,
journeying thither from every side, running with quick, short steps, or
nimbly flying.
A small head, a fine snout, a costume of ashen grey sprinkled with
brown, flattened wing-covers, a dumpy, compact body, with two large
black dots on the rear segment--such is the summary portrait of my
visitor. The middle of May approaches, and with it the van of the
invasion.
They settle on the flowers, which are not unlike white-winged
butterflies. I see them at the base of the blossom or inside the cavity
of the "keel" of the flower, but the majority explore the petals and
take possession of them. The time for laying the eggs has not yet
arrived. The morning is mild; the sun is warm without being oppressive.
It is the moment of nuptial flights; the time of rejoicing in the
splendor of the sunshine. Everywhere are creatures rejoicing to be
alive. Couples come together, part, and re-form.
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