The worthy De Geer, it seems to me, must have been deceived by such meetings as these, in which maternal care played no part whatever. A little colouring, by way of involuntary adornment, completed the picture; and since then the domestic virtues of the Grey Bug have been lauded in all the books. CHAPTER II THE MASKED BUG I met with this insect unexpectedly and in circumstances that hardly seemed to promise an interesting discovery. A certain enquiry into the spoilers of dead meat, an enquiry set forth elsewhere, [57] had brought me to the village butcher’s. What will not one do in the hope of securing an idea! The hunt after this rare quarry led me to the workshop of the slaughterer, an excellent man, for that matter, who did me the honours of his establishment to the best of his ability. I wanted to see not the actual shop, so hateful to look upon, but the shed or what not in which the offal was collected. The butcher took me to the garret, dimly lit by a dormer-window which was left open night and day, in all weathers, to air the place. Continuous ventilation was not unwelcome in that nauseous atmosphere, above all at the hottest time of year, when my visit was paid. The mere recollection of that garret is revolting to my senses. Here, on a stretched cord, some blood-stained sheepskins are drying; in one corner is a heap of stinking tallow, in another are bones, horns and hoofs. These rags and tatters of death answer my purpose capitally. Under the shovelfuls of fat which I turn over, the Dermestes and her grub are swarming by the thousand; Clothes-moths flit indolently to and fro; and Flies with big red eyes keep on buzzing in and out of the hollow bones that still hold a little marrow. I expected this population, the habitual inmates of carrion refuse. But here is one which I did not anticipate: On the whitewashed wall are certain black patches of unsightly insects, gathered in motionless groups. Among them I recognize the Masked Bug, or Masked Reduvius (R. personatus, LIN.), a large Bug of some celebrity. There are nearly a hundred of them, divided into separate flocks. The butcher watches me as I capture my discovery and put it into a box, and is surprised to see me fearlessly handling the repulsive creature. It is more than he would ever venture to do. “It comes and plasters itself against the wall,” he tells me, “and there it stays. If I sweep it off, next day it’s back, as sure as fate. I don’t say it does any harm. It doesn’t spoil my hides, it doesn’t touch my fats. What does it come here for every summer? I don’t know.” “I don’t know either,” I reply, “but I shall try to find out; and, when I know, I can tell you about it, if you’d like me to. It may have something to do with the preservation of your hides. We shall see.”