“No, my dear,” answered the first speaker, “we have only two. They look like four, because they are divided into upper and lower halves. So you see we can look up and down at the same time, and, I tell you, insects need to step lively to keep out of our way. Good times? I should say we did have good times. Now to the surface to snatch bubbles of air with the tiny hairs on the tip of our tails, and then down again for a race or a game of tag with our friends. No, not all the water beetles are as frisky as we are. Some are—now what _is_ that?” The whirligig might well ask the question, for a sound like a tiny popgun had broken in upon his remarks, and the whole audience, including Ruth of course, was looking at a greenish blue beetle who had just come in, leaving a fine trail of smoke behind him. It was he who had made the queer noise, and he seemed quite disturbed by the sensation he was creating. “Do excuse me,” he begged. “I really forgot I was among friends.” “I should think so,” answered the elater, looking at him sternly. “A beetle who carries a gun should be careful about using it.” “Well, I try to be careful, but accidents will happen.” “Yes, you might really call it a gun,” he said, in answer to Ruth’s question, “and I have been named the Bombardier beetle because I carry it. When men try to catch me, I shoot it off, though I suppose it really doesn’t hurt them, but it quite blinds my insect enemies until I can get away, anyhow. Oh, no, I do not use balls or shot. It is a fluid, in a sac at the end of my body, and when I spurt it out it turns to gas, and looks like smoke.” “Well, we have had talk enough for to-day,” interrupted the elater, and the Bombardier beetle said no more. “Talk?” repeated Mrs. Sawyer, “I should say so. Very tiresome talk too. Now I’m going out to lay some eggs. I know a lovely tree.” “That’s all she thinks about,” said the elater. “I’m sure we have had a very interesting meeting, and I made the main issue very plain.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X SOME QUEER LITTLE PEOPLE That nothing walks with aimless feet. —_Tennyson._ In a corner of the garden, where the lilacs grew tall and broad, Ruth was waiting for something to happen. She had a feeling, as she told Belinda, that the most interesting things were coming, for the wind had been kissing her cheeks and ruffling her hair, just as though it was saying to her, “Watch now. Watch closely and listen.” Then, too, the garden seemed to be alive. Bees droning over the flowers; wasps collecting their tiny balls of wood pulp or marketing for their families; ants running here, there, and everywhere; not to mention many other winged creatures, some of whom were made after a fashion so queer that Ruth, forgetting how rude it is to make personal remarks, deliberately asked of one: