Up, up from the foot of the lake climbed an old man; up, up, up the steep street he came, his white hair shaking and shining in the brisk June breeze, his long, white beard caught every once in a while by the wind and tossed sideways. "Mother," called Jimmie, "Ben Gile is coming!" Out came Mrs. Reece to greet the old man. Then, one by one, the children spoke with Ben Gile. "You're having a good time before you can say Jack Robinson, aren't you?" "Yes, sir," came in a chorus of voices. Then, "Tell us a story; tell us a story!" [Illustration: _A._ A few facets of the compound eye of an insect. _B._ Brain and nerve cord of an insect.] "Not to-day," said the old man. "Why, you want a story before you've had time to turn around." Betty stuck her head out from behind her mother. "Mother said you would tell us about crickets and moths, and everything." "Well, well, well," murmured the old man, "did she? But I can't tell a story to-day. I'll tell you, though, something, so that when you come to collect the little creatures you'll know what to do. All sit down." They all sat down cross-legged on the ground, the old man in the middle. "Here, you big Jim-boy, catch me that butterfly." There was a wild rush, and the bright wings were soon caught. "There, you've torn off one of its legs," said the old man. Jimmie looked troubled. "I didn't mean to, sir." "Do you know how it hurts to have your leg torn off, boy? Do you know, children?" "No," came in a chorus. The guide took out a piece of paper and drew a picture on it. "There, every part of that little fellow's body I've drawn has muscles, such fine muscles no naked eye could ever see them. I'll show them to you under the microscope in my cabin. Those muscles move the body, and each muscle is controlled by threads, still more fine, called nerves." The old man reached out like a flash and pinched Jimmie. "Ouch!" cried the boy, and there was a shout of laughter from the children. "You felt that?" "I guess I did," said Jim, sulkily. "Well, that's because you're made something the same way this butterfly is. When anything hurts us it's because some of our nerves are hurt, and quick as a flash the news travels to the brain, and we try to get away from the thing that causes pain--a pinch, perhaps, or, still worse, the hurt of a poor leg that has been torn off." "But a butterfly hasn't any brain," objected Jimmie, who was still cross.