They had gone only a little way, however, when a mole pushed his strong little snout above the ground. “Gracious! what a noise,” he said. “If I had had a chance when you were a baby you wouldn’t be here now to disturb quiet-minded people.” Ruth jumped. She thought the mole meant he would have eaten her. Then she laughed. “Of course it was the cicada he was talking to,” but the cicada didn’t mind. “I know that very well,” he answered, cheerfully, “but you didn’t get me. That makes all the difference, and now you can’t.” “Well, nobody wants you now. You would be mighty dry eating, but when you were a grub, oh, my! so fat and juicy, like all the other grubs and slugs and worms. I eat you all. Yet what thanks do I get from man for doing away with so many of his enemies? Complaints, nothing but complaints, and just because I raise a few ridges in the ground. I can’t help that. When I move underground I push the earth before me, and, as it has to go somewhere, it rises up.” “What do you push with?” asked Ruth, sitting down in front of the mole. “With my snout and forepaws,” he answered, “what else? The muscle which moves my head is very powerful, and you can see how broad my forepaws are, and, also, that they turn outward. They help to throw back the earth as I make my way forward. I have ever so many sharp little teeth, too, and my fur lies smooth in all directions, so it never rumples and——” “Do come on,” interrupted the cicada; “that fellow isn’t interesting.” “That’s so,” said a thin little voice, as an earthworm cautiously lifted his head from the ground. “Has he gone?” he asked anxiously. “He’d eat me sooner than wink if he saw me. It is warm and damp this morning, that is why I am so near the surface. I don’t like dry or cold weather. My house——” “Have you a house?” Ruth had turned upon him in a second, full of questions as usual. “Certainly I have a house. It is a row of halls, lined with glue from my own body. The walls are so firm they can’t fall in. Underground is really a delightful place to live, snug and soft, cool in Summer, warm in Winter. Lots to see, too. All the creeping, twining roots and stems reaching out for food, storing it away, or sending it up as sap to the leaves. The seeds waking up in the Spring, and hosts of meadow and wood people wrapped in egg and cocoon, who spend their baby days there. Quite a little world, I assure you. Of course I can’t see any of these things. I have no eyes.” “Oh!” said Ruth, “how dreadful!” “No, it is just as well. If I had eyes I might get earth in them. I go through the ground so much.” “But isn’t that awful hard work?” asked Ruth, shutting her eyes to realize what having no eyes might mean.