Chuck

Oh yes, cancer.

So in case it is unique, let's christen it.

Cancer Inglisensis.

I love it.

He names this thing after himself.

Agreed.

Yeah, I could imagine.

Yeah, agreed.

All right, I'll take over.

After lunch, we spent a lazy hour or two strolling about the garden or sitting in the Robert Loggia, and it must have been about four o'clock when Stanley and I started off to bathe down the path that led by the fountain into which I had thrown the pillbox.

The water was shallow and clear, and at the bottom of it, I saw its white remains.

The water had disintegrated the cardboard, and it had become no more than a few strips and shreds of sodden paper.

The center of the fountain was a marble Italian cupid which squirted the water out of a wine skin held under his arm.

That's not where I was expecting him to say it was squirting from.

Nope.

A lot of times it comes right out of a little marble pee-pee.

It's a tinkle.

It's a tinkle, exactly.

and crawling up its leg was the caterpillar.

Strange and scarcely credible as it seemed, it must have survived the falling to bits of its prison and made its way to shore, and there it was, out of arm's reach, weaving and waving this way and that as it evolved its cocoon.