Rosy-cheeked from the heat, dressed in immaculate pale yellow dresses, the ladies chat in the jeep. They wave the magazines they brought along to pass the time like makeshift fans, looking at the fashions coming out of Europe. Out of weariness, they let the child slip away. He runs off to join his ancestor, kneeling on the bank of a quiet branch of the endless river. Between the exposed roots of a tree that has collapsed into the water, its base eroded by floods and rain, Grandfather pulls out a trellis hidden by leaves. The child stopped behind a nearby stump and, on tiptoe, his hands flat on the wood, stared intently. The adult pretended to ignore his presence but heard the little devil's short breath, oppressed by attention, and, for fun, exaggerated his gestures to make the scene more understandable to the young, questioning mind.
The lid is removed, revealing a buried bucket. A foul smell wafts around. It comes from the rotten meat placed as bait, whose greenish appearance is repulsive! The urchin leans over and lets out a cry of amazement: the bottom of the bucket is teeming with a thick layer of insects of all kinds. Ground beetles, scarabs, crickets, grasshoppers, and giant ants are scurrying about, jostling each other, and climbing over each other. Even moths are resting on the inside walls of this unexpected shelter. Such a swarm gives the viewer an image of what hell might be like! With quick, precise movements, using a light net or fine nickel-plated tweezers, the major distributes the insects into jars with lids, containing a cotton pad soaked in ether. He discards those he is not interested in, keeping only one of the butterflies. He prevents the most agile ones from escaping. To his surprise, he finds a large caterpillar lost among the moving mass of the others, whose presence can only be explained by distraction or clumsiness. It must have fallen into the bucket during its slow walk. Being vegetarian, it was certainly not attracted by the stench!
During these maneuvers, an insect descends from the sky and lands heavily on the root, fifty centimeters from the budding assistant's nose. The visitor buzzes thunderously, tickling his eardrums. It tucks its diaphanous wings under its shiny elytra and moves only its mandibles. Grandfather exclaimed, “Well, well! Where did that one come from? Look, son, it's a stag beetle.” Stag beetles nibble on woody material, unlike this big, clumsy caterpillar... Has it come to taste a piece of root? The collector pointed a cautious index finger so as not to scare it away. The giant, serrated horns adorning the beetle's face give it the appearance of a medieval warrior. It clings to the worn bark with its clawed legs bristling with stiff hairs. The smell of rotten meat and ether assaults the little observer's sense of smell. This stench and the kite's disturbing appearance cause a tense grimace to appear on his chubby face, his mouth pursed, his nostrils wrinkled, and his eyes half-closed. The shelled insect decides to advance and brushes against the little fingers clinging to the bark. Surprised, the child pulls his hands away, loses his balance, staggers, and falls into the dust. This can only delight his incorrigible grandfather.
The child then looks offended, gets up with dignity, and sneaks back to the car amid jeers and amused comments. He is greeted by another song and the ladies' disgruntled exclamations at his soiled rear end. They dust off his clothes, rub his palms and nose, because in the meantime a muddy index finger has scratched the tip, and settle the sulky boy in the back seat. The women's conversations resume but fade into a distant haze.
A blissful drowsiness sets in. Two milky, reassuring hills reinforce the sleeper's feeling of cozy well-being. A background rustling intensifies and brings an element of unease to the atmosphere. A cloud darkens the hills. The dreamer approaches and is struck dumb with astonishment: myriads of insects now swarm around him in a nauseating stench. The child opens his eyes and screams in horror!
The hills are there in front of him, and so are the insects! To help her husband bring in his catch, his mother is holding a few jars containing dead bugs. It's too much for the child, who bursts into tears: his mother's soft, comforting bosom is invaded by these vile creatures! He hits a jar. “But... what's wrong with you?” Grandmother returns. She understands her grandson's reaction and takes him against her chest, which is much more impressive. She calms the little boy, who is upset by his bad dream, the sad reality, and being awake and still tired. “Hurry up and bury that stinking bucket, we're going home!” she decrees in a peremptory tone. The bucket is put back in its place for future discoveries. These will enable the Major to build impressive entomological collections for a metropolitan museum. Insects now bear his name forever, with Latin endings, a guarantee of posterity.
We're back home. In a better mood and not holding a grudge, the boy climbs onto a chair in the dining room and leans over the table to watch his grandfather's strange maneuvers. Pipe in his mouth, glasses with antelope horn frames, the Major pins the insects in glass drawers, using tweezers to spread the wings of those that have them. He elicits admiring exclamations, for beneath the elytra of grasshoppers and longhorn beetles, the translucent, multicolored wing patterns delight the young spectator.
Nevertheless, this pinning causes a certain unease. Will he, too, end up pinned one day?