“Now I know,” said Ruth, who had been thinking very hard. “You think so much of your balls because they hold your eggs. I’ve often wondered about them.” “Of course that is the reason,” answered Mrs. Tumble Bug; “and when our eggs hatch the babies will have a feast all around them.” “Ugh!” said Ruth, and some flower beetles shook their little heads, and added: “It would be better to starve than eat the stuff in that ball.” “Tastes differ,” said Mrs. Tumble Bug, amiably; “but, speaking of sacred beetles, it was our family the Egyptians worshipped. They could not understand why we were always rolling our ball, so they looked upon us as divine in some way, and made pictures of us in stone and precious gems. They can be seen to-day, I am told, but I do not care about that. I must make another ball,” and, nodding to her mate, they left the meeting together. “Now we’ll adjourn for dinner,” announced the elater, much to the disgust of Mrs. Potato Bug, who was just getting ready to speak. “Dinner is well enough,” she said, “but how is one to enjoy it when one must stop in a little while?” “You needn’t stop,” answered the elater. “Stay with your dinner. We are not so anxious to hear you talk.” “But I mean to talk, and I _will_,” and Mrs. Potato Bug was off to the potato field, intending, as she said, to take a light lunch, and be back when the meeting opened. But potato bugs propose, and farmers dispose, and—— [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX LITTLE MISCHIEF MAKERS It’s a wonder, it’s a wonder That they live to tell the tale. —_Anon._ Mrs. Potato Bug did not return. A sister bug rose to speak when the meeting opened after dinner. There had been a sad tragedy in the potato field, she told them, and even at that very minute the farmer and the farmer’s men, armed with barrels of “pizens,” were waging a warfare in which millions of potato bugs were going down to their death. “Alas! my friends,” she finished with a sigh that seemed to come from the very tips of her six feet, “no words can paint the dreadful scene. She who was here but a short while ago, so chipper and so gay, even she was giving her last gasp as I fled from the field of carnage.” The story moved the audience deeply, and all agreed that something should be done to suppress the farmers. It was even suggested to appoint a committee to consider ways and means, but at this point a very young potato bug asked the question: “If there were no farmers, who would plant potatoes for us?” “No one,” answered Mrs. Sawyer, who was there just as self-important as ever. “Then maybe there would be no potato bugs, and I for one wouldn’t be sorry.”