Another swift movement brought him nearer me. Evidently he had decided that I was not a hostile object. His trustfulness was going to get him into trouble. Still another slide toward me, and I made a quick grab at him. But he was quicker. He seized a tiny bubble--where he got it, I could not see--and dived like a flash, carrying the bubble with him. It was evidently his air supply, or else for illuminating purposes,--I could not be sure which, but he looked like a diver carrying an electric searchlight. Once he reached the bottom--it was only about six inches distant there at the edge of the pond--he became invisible among the pebbles and bits of wood. I groped about, but could not dislodge him. So I drew back and waited. In a few moments he came to the surface again, a yard or two to the left. I made ready to snatch at him once more, but he was plainly cautious now, for he went below with his bubble before I had any chance of getting him. I decided to look for another Lucky-bug with less suspicion in his character, and I set out to stroll around the pond. A little farther along I found two or three toads,--meditating, apparently, near the edge of the water. I reflected on the unfairness of calling that pond after the gay and handsome frog when it was almost exclusively occupied by that more sedate and useful citizen, the toad. That was the way of the world as it seemed to me on that morning. The frog had a smart coat, his carriage was jaunty, and his movements nimble. Also was he an expert swimmer. When you had said that about him you had said all. Nobody liked the toad's appearance; his progress on land was lumbering, to say the least, and no one thought of going to him for swimming lessons. With him swimming was a duty during certain weeks of the year. With the frog it was an art and a joy forever. But did the frog ever contribute to the happiness of the world as the toad had been doing but a few weeks earlier? I think not. The toad had not only the nightingale's eyes; he had, during those early spring months, the other gift of the nightingale as well. Had not all heard him on the mild evenings when, with his throat swelled out, he trilled love songs that made the whole pond musical? And did any one give him credit? No; they said, "Hear the _frogs_ singing!" Musing thus on the black injustice of things, I circled the pond and came again to the haunt of the original Lucky-bug. There he was, or his twin, skimming about as before. I approached, stooped over, reached out my hand, and grabbed. _I had him!_ He was instantly in the fruit-jar, where he seemed perfectly contented, sailing and diving as if he were on the pond. I walked home triumphant. Did my luck change? Can you ask the question? I do not want to make the case too strong, for my attitude is that of the scientific investigator. So I will mention only two of the events that followed the capture of that Lucky-bug.