yields before that of the oyster plant. Nor must we forget the
lesser thistle tribe, with first of all, the prickly or 'cruel'
thistle, which is so well armed that the plant collector knows not
where to grasp it; next, the spear thistle, with its ample
foliage, ending each of its veins with a spear head; lastly, the
black knapweed, which gathers itself into a spiky knot. In among
these, in long lines armed with hooks, the shoots of the blue
dewberry creep along the ground. To visit the prickly thicket
when the Wasp goes foraging, you must wear boots that come to mid-
leg or else resign yourself to a smarting in the calves. As long
as the ground retains a few remnants of the vernal rains, this
rude vegetation does not lack a certain charm, when the pyramids
of the oyster plant and the slender branches of the cotton thistle
rise above the wide carpet formed by the yellow-flowered centaury
saffron heads; but let the droughts of summer come and we see but
a desolate waste, which the flame of a match would set ablaze from
one end to the other. Such is, or rather was, when I took
possession of it, the Eden of bliss where I mean to live
henceforth alone with the insect. Forty years of desperate
struggle have won it for me.

Eden, I said; and, from the point of view that interests me, the
expression is not out of place. This cursed ground, which no one
would have had at a gift to sow with a pinch of turnip seed, is an
earthly paradise for the bees and wasps. Its mighty growth of
thistles and centauries draws them all to me from everywhere
around. Never, in my insect hunting memories, have I seen so
large a population at a single spot; all the trades have made it
their rallying point. Here come hunters of every kind of game,
builders in clay, weavers of cotton goods, collectors of pieces