ENEMIES OF THE GRAPEVINE
One morning Jules was sent to the mill to give notice that his uncle’s
wheat was ready to be ground. After he had left the village his road
ran along beside a vineyard that showed signs of neglect, weeds and
thistles springing up unchecked. Nevertheless the vines were pleasing
to the eye in the spring freshness of their tender green shoots, with
their clusters of blossoms still in the bud and their delicate tendrils
reaching out for something to cling to. Here and there leaves of faded
and ragged appearance, with others that were dried up and shriveled,
took away somewhat from the general effect; but they were not very
numerous and Jules failed to notice them at first. Afterward, for the
last half of the way along the vineyard, these withered leaves became
so abundant that the young vine shoots looked as if they had been swept
by a fire.
“Some ravager is at work here,” said the boy to himself, for his eyes
were daily becoming more keenly observant. “Let’s look into this a
little.”
The vines were pitiful to behold, their young shoots showing more and
more toward the growing end, where the grape clusters were forming,
dried and crumpled leaves, some of these being rolled up like cigars.
Under closer scrutiny there was often to be seen an insect with a long
beak, a weevil of a brilliant metallic green color. Without question
this beautiful weevil was the cause of the mischief. Insects and
cigars, especially the former, sparkling creatures in the bright light
of the sun, were soon collected by Jules as specimens to take home.
Just then One-eyed John, the owner of the vineyard, came along.
“What are you doing there?” he demanded.
“Catching a few of these insects that are ruining your vines,” the boy
replied.
“Let me see them.”
“Here they are.”
“And you say they are ruining my vines?”
“I think so. I have just seen some of them making these cigars.”
“Oh, bosh, you silly! Do you think they would take the trouble to make
cigars out of leaves? They don’t smoke. It’s the moon that has burned
my vines, the moon.”
And so, satisfied with his explanation, One-eyed John turned on his
heel and went off, whistling a tune. But he would stop whistling when,
three years later, he had to pull up those vines, exhausted as they
were by the cigar-rollers. Nevertheless he would not take back what he
had said: the moon had caused all the mischief.
Returning from the mill, Jules picked up Louis on the way and brought
him back to share in the benefit of what Uncle Paul might have to say
concerning the specimens Jules had collected.
“The insect found on the vine,” said he, after examining one of the
brilliant creatures, “is a weevil. You all remember that this name is
given to various beetles with a head tapering into a sort of trumpet.
This one is the rhynchites, as entomologists call it, or the vine-grub,
as it is known to vine-growers. It is of a magnificent lustrous green
on the back, and underneath it shines like gold. Some dark-blue ones
are also found, but they are more rare. The male has on each side of
the thorax a little pointed protuberance directed forward. The larva is
a small, white, legless worm that begins life in a roll made by the
mother with a vine leaf. In the month of May she begins operations by
cutting the stem of the leaf three-quarters through to arrest the flow
of sap, so that the leaf may wither and be the easier to roll. Then the
weevil rolls it up and lays three or four eggs in its folds. When in
the process of drying the leaf has assumed the color of tobacco, you
would take it for a cigar hanging from the vine. The young larvæ soon
abandon this first shelter, let themselves fall, and burrow into the
ground, where they finish developing. The vine-grub saps the vigor of
the vine by destroying its leaves, and therefore the cigar-like rolls
should be picked off and burned in May or June. In this way the infant
insects are destroyed in the cradle and much future damage is
prevented.”
“Along with the shiny green weevil that rolls vine leaves into cigars I
found this other insect,” Jules announced, displaying the creature.
“That is not a weevil, as you can see from the shape of its head, which
has no tapering beak. Its wing sheaths are chestnut red, the rest of
the body being black. It is known as the eumolpus or, more commonly,
the vine-fretter, or, in our language, the scrivener because in gnawing
the surface of the vine leaves it traces fine lines that look somewhat
like intricate handwriting. It attacks in the same way the stems of
grape leaves and of grape clusters, the young shoots of the vine, and
the grapes themselves. If the insects are numerous, all these incisions
and lacerations cause the vines to wither away and produce but little
fruit, and that of poor quality.
“The larvæ of the vine-fretter live in the ground, and to destroy them
the soil thus infested is turned over in the winter, as exposure to the
cold kills the grubs. When the insects are fully developed it is
exceedingly difficult to rid the vines of them. At the slightest alarm
the little creature, busy with its destructive writing on the leaves,
draws its legs up under its belly and lets itself drop to the ground,
where it cannot be easily seen because of its dull hue; and it also
keeps perfectly still, playing dead.”
“Does it think it can escape by not moving?” asked Emile.
“Doubtless, because then, even if it should by any chance be
discovered, it would probably be mistaken for a grain of earth.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for it to fly away or run away than to play
dead?”
“Its flight is too heavy and its legs too short. All insects that
cannot take instant flight and are without means of defense do as does
the vine-fretter in time of danger: they remain perfectly motionless.
Nearly always this expedient succeeds with them because their color,
commonly a dull one, causes them to be confounded with the soil.”
“Ah, the sly rogues!”
“Well, then, this ruse of the vine-fretter must be turned to account by
us in our efforts to exterminate the insect. Under the vine we stretch
a cloth, after which a sharp blow is given to the main stem. The
vine-fretters let themselves fall, they play dead, but they can be seen
on the cloth and not one escapes the sad fate awaiting it.”