“I will return it to-morrow,” said the bird of night. “During my nocturnal studies the insect may disclose its history, then will I know the secret of your wisdom and beauty.” As soon as the owl reached home, seeking the retirement of his study, he placed the pin on the table. Directly he had done so, the beetle walked about on the leaf. The insect was green, and its whole demeanour spoke of a worthy and candid nature. Passing a polished foot over its eyes, stretching out first one wing then the other, it directed its pointed proboscis to the owl, and with a mingled air of modesty and intelligence proceeded to relate its story in the following words:— “I was born on the banks of the Seine, in a garden named after a temple of the goddess Isis. My parents had been consigned to their last resting-place by weevils, when I woke to the consciousness of existence beneath the shade of a _Mimosa pigra_, the sensitive idler, whose juice was my first aliment. The wife of an excellent gardener {109} had taken me in, but while she was absent at market I expanded my wings and flew away. My companions were simply beasts, so I found my sweetest associates in wild flowers, and poppies became my special favourites. I was already well grown, and amused myself by looking for bushy roses, and chasing the busy bees who stopped for a moment to joke with me. Alas! these joyous days passed like a dream. A craving for the unknown gradually forced itself upon me and rendered my simple habits contemptible. I at length decided to raise the veil of the future, and have my fortune told by a weird capricorn beetle who passed for a soothsayer, and who spent her days in a lonely part of the garden. “She wore a long robe covered with cabalistic signs. Setting out for her cave, the crone received me graciously, and after describing certain mystic circles with her horns, she examined my foot, saying, ‘Thou art one of a noble line. The horns of thy forefathers have been proudly exalted, and as woefully depressed by fate. Whence comest thou to this lonely place? I had deemed thy race long extinct, had I not seen thee. The armour of thy ancestors can alone be found in the collections of entomologists. Happiness may never be thine!’ “ ‘Now then, old woman,’ I said, ‘my ancestors are dead and no manner of good to me. Tell me, once for all, am I likely to play an important part in the world, or am I not? I feel fit for anything.’