I make my cut a third time. When the moment has come to resume the series of boxed cones, the caterpillar arms the breach with bristles arranged in a disk, as they appear in the last courses of the undisturbed structure. This configuration shows that the end of the task is at hand. The cocoon is strengthened for a little longer; then rest ensues and the metamorphosis begins in a dwelling with a niggardly fence to it, one which would not strike terror into the puniest invader. To sum up, the caterpillar, incapable of perceiving the dangers attendant upon an incomplete palisade, resumes its work, after each amputation of the cocoon, at the point where it had left it before the accident. Instead of thoroughly restoring the ruined exit, which its very abundant store of silk would allow it to do; instead of reerecting on the breach a projecting cone of many layers, to replace the one removed by my scissors, it runs up layers of threads that become gradually flatter and flatter and form a continuation and not a reconstruction of the missing layers. Moreover, this work of fence-building, the need for which would seem imperious to any reasoning creature, does not appear to preoccupy the caterpillar more than usual, for it keeps on alternating this work with that of the cocoon, which is much less urgent. Everything goes by rote, as though the serious incident of the housebreaking had not occurred. In a word, the caterpillar does not begin all over again a thing once made and then destroyed; it continues it. The early stages of the work are lacking; no matter: the sequel follows without any modification in the plans.