“YOU have heard that certain creatures emit poison, that is to say, shoot from a distance into the face and on to the hands of those who approach a liquid capable of causing death, or at least of blinding or otherwise injuring them. Last week Jules found on the leaves of the potato-vines a large caterpillar armed with a curved horn.” “I know, I know,” put in Jules. “It is the caterpillar, you told me, that turns into a magnificent butterfly called the sphinx Atropos. This butterfly, large as my hand, has on its back a white spot that frightens many people, for it has a vague resemblance to a death’s-head. And besides, its eyes shine in the dark. You added that it was a harmless creature of which it would be unreasonable to be afraid.” “Jacques, who was weeding the potatoes,” continued Uncle Paul, “knocked the sphinx caterpillar out of Jules’s hands, and hastened to crush it with his big wooden shoe. ‘What you are doing is very dangerous,’ said the good Jacques. ‘Handling poisonous creatures—of all things! Do you see that green venom? Don’t get too close; the silly thing is not quite dead; it might yet throw some poison on you.’ The worthy man took the green entrails of the crushed caterpillar for poison. Those entrails did not contain anything dangerous; they were green because they were swollen with the juice of the leaves that the poor thing had just eaten. “Many persons are of the same opinion as Jacques: they are afraid of a caterpillar and the green of its entrails. They think that certain creatures poison everything they touch and throw out venom. Well, my dear children, you must bear this in mind, for it is a very important thing and frees us from foolish fears, while it puts us on guard against real danger: no animal of any kind, absolutely none, shoots venom and can harm us from a distance. To be convinced of this it suffices to know what venom really is. Divers creatures, large or small, are endowed with a poisoned weapon that serves them either as defense or to attack their prey. The bee is our best known venomous creature.” “What!” exclaimed Emile, “a bee is poisonous, the bee that makes honey for us?” “Yes, the bee; the bee without which we could not have those honey cakes that Mother Ambroisine hands round when you are good. You don’t think then of the stings that made you cry so?” Emile blushed: his uncle had just revived unpleasant memories. From pure heedlessness he tried one day to see what the bees were doing. They say he even thrust a stick through the little door of the hive. The bees became incensed at this indiscretion. Three or four stung the poor boy on the cheeks and hands. He cried out most piteously, and thought himself done for. His uncle had much difficulty in consoling him. Compresses of cold water finally soothed his smarting pains. [Illustration: Solitary wasp and nest] “The bee is venomous,” repeated Uncle Paul; “Emile could tell you that.”