The processions vary greatly in length.

Respiration plays no part here; the solution of the enigma must lie elsewhere.

The procession toils grimly along, undulating over the dusty ground, where it leaves a furrow.

No, the search for truth on the back of the Processionary is not all sunshine.

The first meals are made at the expense of the native leaf; the later ones at the expense of the leaves all around.

The word thatch is suggested to my mind by a summary inspection of what I see, but it is not an exact expression in this case.

No, my little Psyches, you do not eat your mother.

No less remarkable is the caterpillar, in colour an undecided yellow.

Dazzled with delight at the sight of so much wealth, my little ragamuffin promises to search with a will, already seeing visions of a fortune to be his.

The man who has never seen a Dog hunting for truffles does not know one of the finest achievements of the sense of smell.