“Indeed,” said the potato bug who had told the tale of battle, “I’d have you know we are Colorado beetles, if you please, and our family has a world-wide fame. We are true Americans, too, and not emigrants from Europe, like many other insects, and that reminds me: The other day when I was having a nice chew on some very juicy potato leaves, I heard somebody say to somebody else: ‘Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West.’ He said a lot more, but I heard that plainly, and I wondered if he meant our family, and didn’t know our name, because, you know, we came out of the West.” “I am sure he didn’t mean you,” said Ruth, who was in her old place right in the middle of the meeting. “That line is from a lovely piece of poetry about——” “No one asked your opinion,” answered the potato bug angrily. “It is bad enough to have outsiders force themselves in, without being obliged to hear their silly remarks.” Ruth’s face grew red, and she was about to reply, when Mrs. Sawyer whispered in her ear. “Don’t mind her, she is only a potato bug.” It was well that Mrs. Potato Bug did not hear this. “Before 1859,” she was saying, “our home was in the shade of the Rocky Mountains. There we fed on sandspur, a plant belonging to the potato family, and the East knew us not. It was only after the white settlers came West and planted potatoes that we found out how much nicer a potato leaf is than a sandspur leaf, so of course we ate potato leaves. We came East, travelling from patch to patch, and by 1874 we had conquered the country to the Atlantic Ocean. That shows what a smart family we must be, and I will tell you how we do. We lay our eggs on the potato leaves, and our children find their dinner all ready, and, as they hatch with splendid appetites, they get right to work. Those that hatch in the Fall sleep all Winter in the ground and come out as beetles in the Spring, just in time to lay more eggs. So we keep things going, especially the potatoes.” And Mrs. Potato Bug retired with the air of one quite proud of herself. Her place was taken by a little ladybug, looking quite pretty in her reddish-brown dress, daintily spotted with black. “I have several cousins,” she said, “of different colours, but all spotted and all friends to farmers and fruit growers, for we eat the aphides and scale bugs which do so much harm to plants. We are called bugs, but of course we are beetles. I could tell you a story——” “Never mind the story,” said a great brown blundering fellow, much to Ruth’s regret, for she wanted to hear the story.