th wherewith to eat it."

As it turned out, however, this wasn't true. He had not only plenty of
time, but in my opinion, too much. He lived to be over ninety and he
wrote and he wrote and he wrote: he wrote more about insects than any
one man or woman can read. I consider it lucky that he didn't begin
until sixty.

Insects, as every one knows, are the worst foes of man. Fabre not only
studied these implacable beings but loved them. There was something
unnatural about it; something disloyal to the whole human race. It is
probable that Fabre was not really human at all. He may have been found
in some human cradle, but he was a changeling. You can see he has insect
blood in him, if you look at his photograph. He is leathery, agile,
dried up. And his grandmother was waspish. He himself always felt
strangely close to wasps, and so did wasps to him. I dare say that in
addition to Fabre's "Life of the Wasp," there exists, if we could only
get at it, a wasp's Life of Fabre.

If the wasp wrote as Fabre does, he would describe Fabre's birth, death,
and matings, but tell us hardly anything else about Fabre's real life.
He would dwell chiefly on Fabre's small daily habits and his reactions
to the wasp's interference.

"Desirous of ascertaining what the old Fabre would do if stung," writes
the wasp, "I repeatedly stuck my sting in his leg--but without any
effect. I afterward discovered however I had been stinging his boots.
This was one of my difficulties, to tell boots and Fabre apart, each
having a tough wizened quality and a powdery taste.

"The old Fabre went into his wooden nest or house after this, and
presently sat down to eat one of his so-called meals. I couldn't see an
atom of dung on the table however, and though there were some fairly
edible flowers he never once sucked them. He had only an immense brown
root called a potato, and a 'chop' of some cow. Seizing a prong in his
claws, the old Fabre quickly harpooned this 'chop' and proceeded to rend
it, working his curious mandibles with sounds of delight, and making a
sort of low barking talk to his mate. Their marriage, to me, seemed
unnatural. Although I watched closely for a week this mate laid no eggs
for him: and instead of saving food for their larvae they ate it all up
themselves. How strange that these humans should differ so much from us
wasps!"

Another life of Fabre that we ought to have is one by his family. _They_
were not devoted to insects; they proba