“Well, birds are pests, there is no doubt about it, and if it hadn’t been for them we insects would have possessed the earth long ago, but you forget, we always choose a place that is nearly the colour of ourselves, and we look so much like our surroundings that it would take a sharp eye to find us. We are not brightly coloured, as a rule, like the butterflies, or if we wear gay colours at all it is usually on our hind wings, which we hide under the fore wings. Now the general remarks being made, the audience may view the exhibits and hear their individual histories.” Ruth was up in a second. “I must talk to that funny measuring worm,” she said to herself. “Why, where is he?” she added, standing before the bush on which she had seen him a while before. “Right here,” answered what Ruth thought was a twig, and which proved to be none other than Mr. Looper himself, who raised his head and began to walk on his hind legs in his own eccentric fashion. Indeed, not only he, but a number of other Mr. Loopers, all showing themselves in different positions. [Illustration: “‘SMART CHILDREN, AREN’T THEY?’ ASKED SOME MOTHS”] “Smart children, aren’t they?” asked some moths, variously coloured in black and brown and yellow, hovering above the tree where the loopers were feeding. “They are ours—that is, not exactly ours, but ours will be like them when they are hatched. These fellows will soon make little cradles of leaves and go into the ground to go to sleep, and when they come out they will be like us. Wonderful, isn’t it?” “Yes,” agreed Ruth, “but I’d like to know about their legs.” “I can explain that,” said Mr. Looper quickly. “I have no legs in the middle of my body, and as that part of me isn’t supported, I can’t walk like other caterpillars, for I _am_ a caterpillar, even if they _do_ call me a worm.” “The legs, or the want of them, is a fault of his ancestors no doubt,” interrupted a voice. “Probably they walked in his idiotic fashion for fun, or to be different, even when they did have the right number of legs, and so lost the use of them, and the legs, too, finally. That often happens. I could tell you of cases——” “Why, you look something like Miss Papilio,” said Ruth, turning to the last speaker, and interrupting her reminiscences. “I am a Miss Papilio,” was the answer, “but not the one you heard a while ago. She was a tiger swallowtail, while I am a black swallowtail, different, but quite as handsome in my way. We swallowtails all believe in dressing well. We are butterflies, not moths, but though I am so beautiful, I serve some very humble plants. I carry the precious pollen for them. My children, I’m afraid, will not be so helpful, but what can one do? I happen to like honey, but they prefer the leaves of parsley, carrot, celery, and such things. They have large appetites, too.” “Everything seems to have an appetite,” said Ruth.