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Updated: May 28, 2025
America is anything but considerate when she sends us her entomological pests. We owe the Phylloxera to America; the Phylloxera, that calamitous insect against which our vine-growers wage incessant war: and to-day she is sending us the haricot-weevil, which threatens to be a plague of the future. A few experiments gave me some idea of the peril of such an invasion.
Unlike the Bruchus pisi, the female of the haricot-weevil refuses to trust her family to beans that are not hardened by age and desiccation; she refused to settle on my bean-patch because the food she required was not to be found there. What does she require? Evidently the mature, dry, hard haricot, which falls to earth with the sound of a small pebble. I hasten to satisfy her.
For nearly three years there have stood, on my laboratory table, some dozens of jars and bottles covered with pieces of gauze which prevent escape while permitting of a constant ventilation. These are the cages of my menagerie. In them I rear the haricot-weevil, varying the system of education at will.
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