Another experiment. I place the larva in a glass jar with a thin bed of sand, which makes progress possible. The animal moves along, but is not able to hoist itself up anywhere: the slippery sides of the glass prevent this. Under these conditions, the captive expires without trying to transform itself. I have known exceptions to this miserable ending; I have sometimes seen the larva undergo a regular metamorphosis on a layer of sand thanks to peculiarities of equilibrium which were very difficult to distinguish. In the main, when the normal attitude or something very near it is impossible, metamorphosis does not take place and the insect succumbs. That is the general rule. This result seems to tell us that the larva is capable of opposing the forces which are at work in it when the transformation is at hand. A cabbage-silique, a pea-pod invariably burst to set free their seeds. The Cicada-larva, a sort of pod containing, by way of seed, the perfect insect, is able to control its dehiscence, to defer it until a more opportune moment and even to suppress it altogether in unfavourable circumstances. Convulsed by the profound revolution that takes place in its body on the point of transfiguration, but at the same time warned by instinct that the conditions are not good, the insect makes a desperate resistance and dies rather than consent to open. Apart from the trials to which my curiosity subjects it, I do not see that the Cicada-larva is exposed to any danger of perishing in this way. There is always a bit of brushwood of some kind near the exit-hole. The newly-exhumed insect climbs on it; and a few minutes are enough for the animal pod to split down the back. This swift hatching has often been a source of trouble to me in my studies. A larva appears on the hills not far from my house. I catch sight of it just as it is fastening on the twig. It would form an interesting subject of observation indoors. I place it in a paper bag, together with the stick that carries it, and hurry home. This takes me a quarter of an hour, but it is labour lost: by the time that I arrive, the green Cicada is almost free. I shall not see what I was bent on seeing. I had to abandon this method of obtaining information and be content with an occasional lucky find within a few yards of my door. “Everything is in everything,” as Jacotot the pedagogue [12] used to say. In connection with that remarkably quick metamorphosis a culinary question arises. According to Aristotle, Cicadæ were a highly-appreciated dish among the Greeks. I am not acquainted with the great naturalist’s text: humble villager that I am, my library possesses no such treasure. I happen, however, to have before me a venerable tome which can tell me just what I want to know. I refer to Matthiolus’ Commentaries on Dioscorides. [13] As an eminent scholar, who must have known his Aristotle very well, Matthiolus inspires me with complete confidence. Now he says: