suitable retreat. Others, still numerous, are less hasty in quitting
the native seed. They remain within during the whole winter, sheltered
behind the trap-door, which they take care not to touch. The door of the
cell will not open on its hinges, or, to be exact, will not yield along
the line of least resistance, until the warm days return. Then the late
arrivals will leave their shelter and rejoin the more impatient, and
both will be ready for work when the pea-vines are in flower.

To take a general view of the instincts in their inexhaustible variety
is, for the observer, the great attraction of the entomological world,
for nowhere do we gain a clearer sight of the wonderful way in which the
processes of life are ordered. Thus regarded, entomology is not, I know,
to the taste of everybody; the simple creature absorbed in the doings
and habits of insects is held in low esteem. To the terrible
utilitarian, a bushel of peas preserved from the weevil is of more
importance than a volume of observations which bring no immediate
profit.

Yet who has told you, O man of little faith, that what is useless to-day
will not be useful to-morrow? If we learn the customs of insects or
animals, we shall understand better how to protect our goods. Do not
despise disinterested knowledge, or you may rue the day. It is by the
accumulation of ideas, whether immediately applicable or otherwise, that
humanity has done, and will continue to do, better to-day than
yesterday, and better to-morrow than to-day. If we live on peas and
beans, which we dispute with the weevil, we also live by knowledge, that
mighty kneading-trough in which the bread of progress is mixed and
leavened. Knowledge is well worth a few beans.

Among other things, knowledge tells us: "The seedsman need not go to the