“Nice?” repeated Mrs. Clothes Moth. “I suppose it is nice to kill the silkworm babies and make dresses from their cradles, and nice to do a lot of other things that I could mention. I guess you had better not talk.” Ruth was silent. She felt she had the worst of the argument. “You must not mind,” whispered a large and beautiful moth whose wings were of many delicate shades of ash-gray marked with black. Ruth turned to the speaker. “You are something like the sphinx moth,” she said. “Yes. I am a sphinx,” was the answer. “All of us look somewhat alike, though some are smaller than others, and colours vary. But our wings are always clear cut, our scales close fitting, and our colours quiet; a tailormade air about us, as it were. We are sometimes called hawk moths, because our wings are narrow, long, and strong, and sometimes hummingbird moths, because we fly at twilight, and poise above a flower while extracting its honey, just as hummingbirds do.” “But why are you named the sphinx?” asked Ruth. “You haven’t told me that.” “Well, you see, our larvæ have a queer habit of rearing themselves up in front and remaining in that position, and the wise men thought they looked something like the old Egyptian Sphinx. There’s a sphinx moth caterpillar on that tomato vine.” “He is awful fat and green,” said Ruth. “Can you show me his cocoon?” Even the larva laughed when Ruth asked this question. “Dear, dear! what ignorance!” said the moth. “Just put your hand in that soft earth and take out what is there.” Ruth obeyed, and presently brought up a dark brown case, pointed at each end. “That is our pupa case,” explained the moth, “and in it is wrought our wonderful transformation. We do not weave cocoons, but the little brown case holds the same miracle of life and growth.” “Well, there is just as much life and growth under my old blanket as in any pupa case, or cocoon, that was ever made.” The speaker was a hairy caterpillar, chestnut brown in the middle, and black at each end. “That’s the woolly bear,” explained the sphinx. “Just pick him up, and see what will happen.” “I know,” answered Ruth, but nevertheless she took the little brown fellow in her hand, whereupon he promptly curled up in a tight ball and rolled to the ground. “I will do it every time,” said the caterpillar. “I have been called the hedge hog because of that cute trick.” “It _is_ cute,” agreed Ruth, “but what do you mean by your blanket?” “Oh, as to that, I don’t fool after cocoons, or pupa cases, or the rest of it. I simply take off my hair when I am ready for my long sleep, and make it into a blanket, which covers me snugly.” “But it is a cocoon just the same,” persisted Ruth. “Well, you may call it what you please, I say it is a blanket. When I wake from my sleep under it I am no longer a caterpillar, but a moth.” “Like me,” added a dull yellow moth, spreading her black dotted wings. “I am the Isabella, if you care to know.”