Any one seeing it for the first time, unless conversant with its history, might think that it bore yet another crop of fruit, quite different from that of the berries. On the tips of the boughs, singly or in bunches, are certain twisted horns, a fairly good imitation of certain pimentos, if the coral-red of maturity were replaced by a straw-yellow washed with rose. What is more, mimic apricots, fresher and more satiny than those of our orchards, are seen hanging from the leaves. Tempted by appearances, we open these deceptive productions. Horror! The contents consist of myriads of Lice, swarming about in the midst of a floury dust. Pilgrims to the Holy Land tell us that on certain bushes in the neighbourhood of Sodom beautiful-looking apples may be gathered, which are full of ashes within. The pretty apricots and cornute pimentos of the terebinth-tree are the apples of Sodom, the Dead Sea fruit. Beneath an attractive exterior, they too contain nothing but ashes, live ashes, a wriggling whirl of dusty vermin. These are excrescences, galls, in which the opulent family of the Plant-lice lives isolated from the outer world. To follow the progress of these strange productions I needed a terebinth which I could inspect often and in comfort. I happen to have one a few steps from my door. When I was stocking the enclosure with a certain amount of woody vegetation, I conceived the happy thought of planting a terebinth. A profitable tree, yielding acceptable fruit, would have died in this ungrateful soil; but this, which is good for nothing but firewood, is prospering excellently. It has grown into a magnificent specimen; and year after year it never fails to be covered with galls. So here I am, the fortunate possessor of a tree full of Lice. Let us call it by its Provençal name: lou Petelin, or lou Pesouious, the lousy one. Scarcely a day passes but I give it a glance, attracted as I am by the daily happenings in the enclosure. Let us examine it closely. The “lousy one” has its merits: it is the depository of interesting secrets. In winter it is bare. With the foliage the wigwams of Lice have disappeared, though towards the end of the summer they were weighing it down with their numbers. Nothing is left but the horn-shaped shells, now black and dilapidated ruins. What has become of the vast population of the bush? How will it recover possession of its terebinth? In vain I inspect the bark of the trunk and branches and twigs: I see nothing capable of explaining the coming invasion. Nowhere are there any lice in a state of lethargy, nowhere any eggs awaiting the spring hatching. Nor are there any in the neighbourhood, nor, in particular, in the heap of dead leaves rotting at the foot of the tree. Yet the tiny creature cannot come from a distance: a mere atom, as I see it in imagination, does not go wandering across country. It is certainly on the tree that feeds it; but where?