“Well, _I_ can’t boast of fine clothes,” said a plainly dressed little moth, who was quietly hiding on a shrub, “but I belong to a very old family, and a very useful one. We were known and appreciated in Asia more than four thousand years ago. I, too, came from a tiny egg. My body was black, covered by stiff hairs, and of course I was hungry. I liked best the leaf of the mulberry tree, and I ate so much I had to change my dress often, as all caterpillars do. They all get too big for their skins, and that is what I did, but, finally, I lost my appetite, and I knew the time had come for me to spin my silken cradle. And now I may boast with good reason, for I am the true silkworm. My cocoon is spun in one thread a _quarter of a mile long_.” “Indeed!” said Mrs. Cecropia. “I should like to know how you measured it.” “I haven’t measured it,” the silkworm answered, “but the wise men have. Not my particular cocoon, you understand, but those of our family, and they are said to average that. They are very pretty too, these cocoons. I suppose you have all seen them? I was nine days making mine, and three days after that I cast off my baby clothes and went to sleep. I was very weak when I awoke and left my cocoon cradle, but I soon grew stronger and could walk, for you must know that the family to which I belong is not in the habit of flying. Its members are homebodies and seldom use their wings. Many of us, I may say the majority, do not live to be moths, for our cocoons are so precious, because of the long silk thread, that the larvæ are killed before they come out.” “Why?” said Ruth. “Because when the larvæ come out they break the thread. And now perhaps you understand how very useful we are, for all the silks, satins, ribbons, and velvets in the world are made by us.” Ruth’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “It is a big boast, isn’t it?” said a very small straw-coloured moth, flitting rapidly about. “It is a true one, though. My children make cocoons too, and I made one myself, but it was quite unlike a silkworm’s, and I have an idea we are not considered useful either. I do not work among the flowers. I belong to the Wool Exchange, at least that is what somebody said about me once. My eggs will not be laid on a plant, or any growing thing. I shall choose carpet, or fine cloth, or something of that sort, and when my babies hatch they will gnaw away the fibres of the cloth, and eat and eat. Then what they don’t eat they will use to cover themselves with, binding the threads together with silk from their own bodies.” “I know you, anyway,” said Ruth. “You ate my Winter dress full of holes. At least it was some moths like you.” “No, my dear, not moths, but their caterpillar babies did the eating.” “Well, it wasn’t nice, whoever did it,” declared Ruth, with some heat.