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The glittering cuirass of the Rhynchites goes to take its place beside the grey cloak of the Phynotomus. No, it is not the colour that guides the choice. Neither is it the shape. Cerceris arenaria hunts any medium-sized Weevil. I should be putting the reader's patience to too great a test if I attempted to give in this place a complete inventory of the specimens identified in her larder.
Any such encounters probably found her lacking in expert knowledge; her race cannot have handed down to her other than very indeterminate propensities, for she does not appear to make frequent use of the Rhynchites, as is proved by my infrequent discovery of them amid the mass of my numerous excavations.
Each plant has its lover, drawn to it by a kind of elective affinity and invariable tendency. The Larra makes for the thistle, the Vanessa for the nettle, the Clytus for the ilex, and the Crioceris for the lily. "The weevil knows nothing but its peas and beans, the golden Rhynchites only the sloe, and the Balaninus only the nut or acorn."
Well, the Rhynchites have told us that the build does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decide the trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. I question three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At the proper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them, whenever I want to ask them for information.
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