A SEQUEL TO "THE HENS OF HENCASTLE."
And what became of Flaps after they all left Hencastle? Well, he led his company on and on, but they could find no suitable place to settle in; and when the fowls recovered from their fright, they began to think that they had abandoned the castle too hastily, and to lay the blame on Flaps.
Mark himself said that he might have overestimated the number of the invaders. There might not have been twenty-three, but really Flaps was in such a hurry for the news, and one must say something when it was one's duty to make a report.
The three wise cocks objected to speak of themselves or their services, but they had had some experience on behalf of the community in times of danger, and in their opinion there had been a panic, and the hasty action taken by Flaps was injudicious and regrettable.
The oldest hen of Hencastle shook her feathers to show how much Flaps was in the wrong, and then puffed them out to show how much she was in the right; and after clearing her throat almost as if she were going to crow, she observed very shrilly that she "didn't care who contradicted her when she said that the common sense of the Mother of a Family was enough to tell her that an old dog, who had lost an eye and an ear and a leg, was no fit protector for the feminine and the young and the inexperienced."
The chief cock was not so free of his opinions as the chief hen, but he grumbled and scolded about everything, by which one may make matters amply unpleasant without committing oneself or incurring responsibility.
Another of the hens made a point of having no opinion. She said that was her way, she trusted everybody alike and bore her share of suffering, which was seldom small, without a murmur. But her good wishes were always at any one's service, and she would say that she sincerely hoped that a sad injustice had not been done to the red-haired gentleman with the singularly agreeable manners, who would have been gatekeeper of Hencastle at this moment if it had not been for Flaps.
Poor Flaps! Well might he say, "One ear is enough to listen to you with, you pack of ungrateful fools!"
He was beginning to find out that, as a rule, the Helpless have a nice way with them of flinging all their cares upon the Helpful, and reserving their own energies to pick holes in what is done on their behalf; and that they are apt to flourish, in good health and poor spirits, long after such friends as Flaps have been worn out, bit by bit, in their service.
"First an eye, then an ear, then a leg," the old dog growled to himself; "and there's not a fowl with a feather out of him. But I've done my duty, and that's enough."
Matters went from bad to worse. The hens had no corn, and Flaps got no eggs, and the prospect of either home or food seemed very remote. One evening it was very rainy, the fowls roosted in a walnut-tree for shelter, and Flaps fell asleep at the foot of it.
"Could anything be more aggravating than that creature's indifference?" said Hen No. 2. "Here we sit, wet to the skin, and there he lies asleep! Dear me! I remember one of my neck feathers got awry once, at dear old Hencastle (the pencilling has been a good deal admired in my time, though I say it that shouldn't), and the Red-haired Gentleman noticed it in a moment. I remember he put his face as close to mine as I am to you, but in the most gentlemanly manner, and murmured so softly,
"'Excuse me—there's just one of those lovely little feathers the least bit in the world—'
"I believe it was actually between his lips, when we were interrupted, and I had to put it tidy myself. But we might all be plucked as bare as poor young Scratchfoot before Flaps would think of smoothing us down. Just hear how he snores! Ah! it's a trying world, but I never complain."
"I do, though," said the chief hen. "I'm not one to put up with neglect. Hi, there! are you asleep?" And scratching a bit of the rough bark off the walnut-tree, she let it drop on to Flaps' nose.
"I'm awake," said Flaps; "what's the matter?"
"I never knew any one snore when he was awake before," said the hen; and all the young cockerels chuckled.
"Well, I believe I was napping," said Flaps. "Damp weather always makes me sleepy, and I was dreaming of the old farmyard."
"Poor old farm!" sighed Hen No. 2. "We had board and lodging there, at any rate."
"And now we've neither," said Hen No. 1. "Mr. Flaps, do you know that we're wet to the skin, and dying of starvation, whilst you put your nose into your great-coat pocket and go to sleep?"
"You're right," said Flaps. "Something must be done this evening. But I see no use in taking the whole community about in the rain. We will send out another expedition."
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" screamed the three wise ones; "that means that we're to face the storm whilst you have another nap, eh?"
"It seems an odd thing," said the chief cock, scratching his comb with his claw, "that Flaps never thinks of going himself on these expeditions."
"You're right," said Flaps. "It is an odd thing, for times out of mind I've heard our old friend, the farmer, say, 'If you want a thing done—Go; if not—Send.' This time I shall go. Cuddle close to each other, and keep up your spirits. I'll find us a good home yet."
The fowls were much affected by Flaps' magnanimity, and with one voice they cried: "Thank you, dear Flaps. Whatever you decide upon will do for us."
And Mark added, "I will continue to act as watchman." And he went up to the top of the tree as Flaps trotted off down the muddy road.
All that evening and far into the night it rained and rained, and the fowls cuddled close to each other to keep warm, and Flaps did not return. In the small hours of the morning the rain ceased, and the rain-clouds drifted away, and the night-sky faded and faded till it was dawn.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said Mark, and all the fowls woke up.
"What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?" said they. "Is Flaps coming?"
"Not a thing can I see
From the top of the tree,
But a long, winding lane
That is sloppy with rain;"
replied Mark. And the fowls huddled together again, and put their heads back under their wings.
Paler and paler grew the grey sky, and at last it was broken with golden bars, and at the first red streak that caught fire behind them, Mark crowed louder than before, and all the hens of Hencastle roused up for good.
"What do you see and hear from the tree-top, dear Mark?" they inquired. "Is Flaps coming?"
"Not a sound do I hear,
And I very much fear
That Flaps, out of spite,
Has deserted us quite;"
replied Mark. And the fowls said nothing, for they were by no means at ease in their consciences.
Their delight was proportionably great when, a few minutes later, the sentinel sang out from his post,
"Here comes Flaps, like the mail!
And he's waving his tail."
"Well, dear, dear Flaps!" they all cackled as he came trotting up, "where is our new home, and what is it like?"
"Will there be plenty to eat?" asked the cocks with one crow.
"Plenty," replied Flaps.
"Shall we be safe from mice, owls, wild beasts, and wild men?" cried the hens.
"You will," answered Flaps.
"Is it far, dear Flaps?"
"It is very near," said Flaps; "but I may as well tell you the truth at once—it's a farmyard."
"Oh!—" said all the fowls.
"We may be roasted, or have our heads chopped off," whimpered the young cockerels.
"Well, Scratchfoot was roasted at Hencastle," said Flaps; "and he wasn't our only loss. One can't have everything in this world; and I assure you, if you could see the poultry-yard—so dry under foot, nicely wired in from marauders; the most charming nests, with fresh hay in them; drinking-troughs; and then at regular intervals, such abundance of corn, mashed potatoes, and bones, that my own mouth watered at—are served out—"
"That sounds good," said the young cockerels.
"Ahem! ahem!" said the chief cock. "Did you see anything very remarkable—were the specimens of my race much superior in strength and good looks?——"
"My dear cock!" said Flaps; "there's not a tail or a comb or a hackle to touch you. You'll be cock of the walk in no time."
"Ahem! ahem!" said the chief cock modestly. "I have always had a sort of fatality that way. Pray, my dears, don't look so foolish and deplorable, but get the young people together, and let us make a start. Mr. Flaps is a person of strong common sense, a quality for which I myself have always been remarkable, and I thoroughly endorse and support his excellent advice, of which I am the best judge. I have very much regretted of late to observe a tendency in this family (I say a tendency, for I hope it goes no further) to undervalue Mr. Flaps, and even (I hardly like to allude to such reprehensible and disgusting absurdity) to recall the memory of a vulgar red-haired impostor, who gained a brief entrance into our family circle. I am not consulted as I should be in these fluctuations of opinion, but there are occasions when it is necessary that the head of a family should exercise his discretion and his authority, and, so to speak, put down his claw. I put down my claw. We are going to Mr. Flaps' farmyard. Cock-a-doodle-doo Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
Now, when the head of a family says "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" there is nothing more to be said. So to the farmyard the whole lot of them went, and were there before the sun got one golden hair of his head over the roof of the big barn.
And only Mark, as they all crowded into their new home, turned his head round over his back to say: "And you, Flaps; what shall you do?"
"Oh, I shall be all right," said Flaps. "Good-bye and good luck to you."
It cannot be said that Flaps was positively in high spirits when he had settled his protégés in their new home in the farmyard, and was left alone; but there are some good folk who contrive to make duty do the work of pleasure in this life, and then a piece of business fairly finished is as good as a treat.
It is not bread and bones, however, and Flaps was very hungry—so hungry that he could not resist the temptation to make his way towards the farmhouse, on the chance of picking up some scraps outside. And that was how it came about, that when the farmer's little daughter Daisy, with a face like the rosy side of a white-heart cherry set deep in a lilac print hood, came back from going with the dairy lass to fetch up the cows, she found Flaps snuffing at the back door, and she put her arms round his neck (they reached right round with a little squeezing) and said:
"Oh, I never knew you'd be here so early! You nice thing!"
And Flaps' nose went right into the print hood, and he put out his tongue and licked Daisy's face from the point of her chin up her right cheek to her forehead, and then from her forehead down her left cheek back to her chin, and he found that she was a very nice thing too.
But the dairymaid screamed, "Good gracious! where did that nasty strange dog come from? Leave him alone, Miss Daisy, or he'll bite your nose off."
"He won't!" said Daisy indignantly. "He's the dog Daddy promised me;" and the farmer coming out at that minute, she ran up to him crying, "Daddy! Isn't this my dog?"
"Bless the child, no!" said the farmer; "it's a nice little pup I'm going to give thee. Where did that dirty old brute come from?"
"He would wash," said little Daisy, holding very fast to Flaps' coat.
"Fine washing too!" said the dairymaid, "And his hair's all lugs."
"I could comb them," said Daisy.
"He's no but got one eye," said the swineherd. "Haw! haw! haw!"
"He sees me with the other," said Daisy. "He's looking up at me now."
"And one of his ears gone!" cried the dairy lass. "He! he! he!"
"Perhaps I could make him a cap," said Daisy, "as I did when my doll lost her wig. It had pink ribbons and looked very nice."
"Why, he's lame of a leg," guffawed the two farming-men. "See, missy, he hirples on three."
"I can't run very fast," said Daisy, "and when I'm old enough to, perhaps his leg will be well."
"Why, you don't want this old thing for a play-fellow, child?" said the farmer.
"I do! I do!" wept Daisy.
"But why, in the name of whims and whamsies?"
"Because I love him," said Daisy.
When it comes to this with the heart, argument is wasted on the head; but the farmer-went on: "Why he's neither useful nor ornamental. He's been a good dog in his day, I dare say; but now—"
At this moment Flaps threw his head up in the air and sniffed, and his one eye glared, and he set his teeth and growled.
He smelt the gipsy, and the gipsy's black pipe, and every hair stood on end with rage.
"The dog's mad!" cried the swineherd, seizing a pitchfork.
"You're a fool," said the farmer (who wasn't). "There's some one behind that haystack, and the old watch-dog's back is up. See! there he runs; and as I'm a sinner, it's that black rascal who was loitering round, the day my ricks were fired, and you lads let him slip. Off after him, for I fancy I see smoke." And the farmer flew to his haystacks.
Hungry and tired as he was, Flaps would have pursued his old enemy, but Daisy would not let him go. She took him by the ear and led him indoors to breakfast instead. She had a large basin of bread-and-milk, and she divided this into two portions, and gave one to Flaps and kept the other for herself. And as she says she loves Flaps, I leave you to guess who got most bread-and-milk.
That was how the gipsy came to live for a time in the county gaol, where he made mouse-traps rather nicely for the good of the rate-payers.
And that was how Flaps, who had cared so well for others, was well cared for himself, and lived happily to the end of his days.
"Why, it's in print!" said Father Cock; "and I said as plain as any cock could crow, that it was a secret. Now, who let it out?"
"Don't talk to me about secrets," said the fair foreigner; "I never trouble my head about such things."
"Some people are very fond of drawing attention to their heads," said the common hen; "and if other people didn't think more of a great unnatural-looking chignon than of all the domestic virtues put together, they might have their confidences respected."
"I's* all very well," said Father Cock, "but you're all alike. There's not a hen can know a secret without going and telling it."
"Well, come!" said a little Bantam hen, who had newly arrived; "whichever hen told it, the cock must have told it first."
"What's that ridiculous nonsense your talking?" cried the cock; and he ran at her and pecked her well with his beak.
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried the Bantam.
Dab, dab, dab, pecked the cock.
"Now! has anybody else got anything to say on the subject?"
But nobody had. So he flew up on to the wall, and cried "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
A WEEK SPENT IN A GLASS POND
BY THE GREAT WATER-BEETLE.
Very few beetles have ever seen a Glass Pond. I once spent a week in one, and though I think, with good management, and in society suitably selected, it may be a comfortable home enough, I advise my water-neighbours to be content with the pond in the wood.
The story of my brief sojourn in the Glass Pond is a story with a moral, and it concerns two large classes of my fellow-creatures: those who live in ponds and—those who don't. If I do not tell it, no one else will. Those connected with it who belong to the second class (namely, Francis, Molly, and the learned Doctor, their grandfather) will not, I am sure. And as to the rest of us, there is none left but—
However, that is the end of my tale, not the beginning.
The beginning, as far as I am concerned, was in the Pond. It is very difficult to describe a pond to people who cannot live under water, just as I found it next door to impossible to make a minnow I knew believe in dry land. He said, at last, that perhaps there might be some little space beyond the pond in hot weather, when the water was low; and that was the utmost that he would allow. But of all cold-blooded unconvinceable creatures, the most obstinate are fish.
Men are very different. They do not refuse to believe what lies beyond their personal experience. I respected the learned Doctor, and was really sorry for the disadvantages under which he laboured. That a creature of his intelligence should have only two eyes, and those not even compound ones—that he should not be able to see under water or in the dark—that he should not only have nothing like six legs, but be quite without wings, so that he could not even fly out of his own window for a turn in the air on a summer's evening—these drawbacks made me quite sorry for him; for he had none of the minnow's complacent ignorance. He knew my advantages as well as I knew them myself, and bore me no ill-will for them.
"The Dyticus marginalis, or Great Water-Beetle," I have heard him say, in the handsomest manner, "is equally at home in the air, or in the water. Like all insects in the perfect state, it has six legs, of which the hindmost pair are of great strength, and fringed so as to serve as paddles. It has very powerful wings, and, with Shakespeare's witches, it flies by night. It has two simple, and two sets of compound eyes. When it goes below water, it carries a stock of air with it, on the diving-bell principle; and when this is exhausted, comes to the surface, tail uppermost, for a fresh supply. It is the most voracious of the carnivorous water-beetles."
The last sentence is rather an unkind reflection on my good appetite, but otherwise the Doctor spoke handsomely of me, and without envy.
And yet I am sure it could have been no matter of wonder if my compound eyes, for instance, had been a very sore subject with a man who knew of them, and whose one simple pair were so nearly worn out.
More than once, when I have seen the old gentleman put a green shade on to his reading-lamp, and glasses before his eyes, I have felt inclined to hum,—"Ah, my dear Doctor, if you could only take a cool turn in the pond! You would want no glasses or green shades, where the light comes tenderly subdued through water and water-weeds."
Indeed, after living, as I can, in all three—water, dry land, and air,—I certainly prefer to be under water. Any one whose appetite is as keen, and whose hind-legs are as powerful as mine, will understand the delights of hunting, and being hunted, in a pond; where the light comes down in fitful rays and reflections through the water, and gleams among the hanging roots of the frog-bit, and the fading leaves of the water-starwort, through the maze of which, in and out, hither and thither, you pursue, and are pursued, in cool and skilful chase, by a mixed company of your neighbours, who dart, and shoot, and dive, and come and go, and any one of whom at any moment may either eat you or be eaten by you.
And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely and completely as in the mud? A state of existence, without mud at the bottom, must be a life without repose.
I was in the mud one day, head downwards, when human voices came to me through the water. It was summer, and the pond was low at the time.
"Oh, Francis! Francis! The Water-Soldier[D] is in flower."
"Hooray! Dig him up for the aquarium! Grandfather says it's very rare—doesn't he?"
"He says it's not at all common; and there's only one, Francis. It would be a pity if we didn't get it up by the roots, and it died."
"Nonsense, Molly. I'll get it up. But let's get the beasts first. You get the pickle-jar ready, whilst I fix the stick on to the colander."
"Does cook know you've taken it, Francis?"
"By this time she does, I should think. Look here, Molly—I wish you would try and get this stick right. It wants driving through the handles. I'm just going to have a look at the Water-Soldier."
"You always give me the work to do," Molly complained; and as she spoke, I climbed up an old stake that was firmly planted in the mud, and seated myself on the top, which stood out of the water, and looked at her.
She was a neat-looking little soul, with rosy cheeks, and a resolute expression of countenance. She looked redder and firmer than usual as she drove the broomstick through the handles of the colander, whilst the boy was at the other side of the pond with the Water-Soldier, whose maiden-blossom shone white among its sword-leaves.
It shone in the sunshine which came gaily through a gap in the trees, and warmed my coat through to my wings, and made the pond look lovely. That greedy Ranatra, who eats so much, and never looks a bit the more solid for his meals, crept up a reed and sunned his wings; the water-gnats skimmed and skated about, measuring the surface of the water with their long legs; the "boatmen" shot up and down till one was quite giddy, showing the white on their bodies, like swallows wheeling for their autumn-flight. Even the water-scorpion moved slowly over a sunny place from the roots of an arrow-head lily to a dark corner under the duck-weed.
"Molly!" shouted the boy; "I wish you'd come and give a pull at the Water-Soldier. I've nearly got him up; but the leaves cut my hands, and you've got gloves. If the colander is ready, I'll begin to fish. There's a beetle on that stick. I wish I were near enough, I could snatch him up like anything."
"I wouldn't advise you to," said Molly. "Grandfather says that water-beetles have got daggers in their tails. Besides, some of the beetles are very greedy and eat the fish."
"The Big Black one doesn't," said Francis. "He said so. Hydröus piceus is the name, and I dare say that's the one. It's the biggest of all the water-beetles and very harmless."
"He may be a good one," said Molly, looking thoughtfully and unmistakably at me, "but then he may be one of the bad ones; and if he is, he'll eat everything before him."
But by this time Francis was dipping the colander in and out on the opposite side, and she was left to struggle with the Water-Soldier.
"He's up at last," she announced, and the Soldier was landed on the bank.
"Come round," said the boy; "I've filled three jars."
"I hope you've been careful, Francis. You know Grandfather says that to stock a fresh-water aquarium is like the puzzle of the Fox and the Geese and the bag of seed. It's no use our having things that eat each other."
"They must eat something," said the boy; "they're used to it at home; and I wish you wouldn't be always cramming Grandfather down my throat. I want to do my aquarium my own way; and I gave most towards buying the bell-glass, so it's more mine than yours."
"Well, do as you like; only let us have plenty of water-boatmen," said Molly.
"I've got half-a-dozen at least; and the last sweep I went very low, quite in the mud, and I've got some most horrid things. There's one of them like a flat-iron, with pincers at the point."
"That's a water-scorpion. Oh, Francis! he eats dreadfully."
"I don't believe he can, he's so flat. Molly, is that nasty-looking thing a dragon-fly larva?"
"I believe it is; for there is the mask. You know his face is so ugly nothing would come near him if he didn't wear a mask. Then he lifts it up and snaps suddenly; he really does eat everything!"
"Well, I can't help it. I must have him. I want to see him hatch; and I shall plant a bullrush for him to climb up."
"I found a caddis-worm, with a beautifully built house, in the roots of the Water-Soldier, and I'm going to look along the edge for some shells. We must have shell-fish, you know, to keep the aquarium clean. Oh!"
"What is it, Molly? What have you found?"
"Oh, such a lovely spider! A water-spider—a scarlet spider. He's very small, but such a colour! Francis dear, may I keep him all to myself? I don't think I can let him go in with the others. If the dragon-fly larva ate him, I should never forgive myself, and you know you don't know for certain that the beetle is Hydröus piceus. I shall give him an aquarium of his very own in a green finger-glass, with nothing but a little very nice duckweed, and one small snail to keep it clean, like a general servant. May I, Francis?"
"By all means. I don't want your scarlet spider. I can get lots more." He went on dipping with the colander, and she began to dig up water-plants and lay them in a heap. I sat and watched them, but the Ranatra got nervous and tried to go below. As usual, the dry bristles in his tail would not pierce the water without a struggle, and after floundering in the most ludicrous fashion for a few minutes, he fell straight into the colander, and was put into one of the pickle-jars.
"I've got enough now," said the boy, "and I want to go home and see about my net. I must have some fish. Can you carry the plants, Molly?"
"I'll manage," said Molly. "Now I'm ready."
"Wait a minute, though—I'd forgotten the beetle."
When I heard this I dropped into the water; but somehow or other I turned over very clumsily, and, like the Ranatra, I fell through into the colander, and was transferred to a pickle-jar.
Anything more disagreeable than being shaken up in a glass bottle, with beetles, and boatmen, and larvæ of all sorts and sizes, including a dragon-fly in the second stage of his career, I can hardly imagine. When they took us out and put us into the glass pond, matters were certainly better, though there is a vast difference between a glass pond and a pond in a wood.
The first day it was by no means a bad imitation of a real pond, except for the want of a bed of mud. Molly had covered the bottom of the glass with gravel which she had steadily washed till water would run clear from it, in spite of the impatient exclamations of Francis, that it "would do now," and quite regardless of the inconvenience to which I was subjected by being kept in the pickle-jar. In this gravel she had embedded the roots of some Water Crowfoot and other pond-plants. The stones in the middle were nicely arranged, and well covered with moss and water-weeds. When water had been poured in up to the brim of the bell-glass, and we had been emptied out of the jars, the dragon-fly larva got into a good hole among the stones and ate most of the May-fly grubs, water-shrimps, and so forth, as they came into sight. I did not do badly myself, and only the bigger and stronger members of our society and a few skins were there next day, when Francis brought a jar full of minnows, a small carp, and a bull's-head, and turned them out in our midst.
"How they dart and swim round and round!" he exclaimed.
"Splendid," said Molly. "I am so sorry I am going away just now. You will try and keep the water fresh, won't you?"
"Of course I will. And let me have the scarlet spider whilst you are away. I couldn't find another."
"Well, if you must; but do take care, Francis. And here are the two bits of gutta-percha tubing to make into syphons. You must put them into hot water for a minute before you bend them, you know."
"I'll do it to-morrow, Molly; I have nothing else to do, you know, because Edward Brown won't be back for three or four days. So we can do nothing about the cricket club."
It was on the third day, when both the pieces of gutta-percha tubing were in a wash-hand basin of hot water, and the dragon-fly larva and I were finishing a minnow, with the help of the water-scorpion, that Master Edward Brown arrived unexpectedly, and so pressed his friend Francis to come out and consult "just for two minutes," and so delayed him when he got him, that the tubing melted into a shapeless lump, and the carp died unnoticed by any one but myself.
On the fourth day the glass pond was moved into the conservatory, "to be out of the way." The fish were excellent eating, and though the snails were at their wits' end as the refuse rotted, and the water became more stagnant, and the weeds grew, till all the shell-fish in the pond could not have kept the place clean,—I did not mind it myself. As the water got low, I found a nice bit of rockwork above water, where I could sit by day, and at night the lights from the drawing-room gave an indescribable stimulus to my wings, and I sailed in, and flew round and round till I was tired, and (forgetting that no pond, not even a bed of mud, was below me!) drew in my wings, and dropped sharply down on to the floor. To do the family justice, they learned to know the sound of my fall, and even the old Doctor himself would go down on hands and knees to hunt for me under the sofa, for fear I should be trodden on.
On the fifth day I swallowed the scarlet spider. I hated myself for doing it, when I thought of Molly; but the spider was very foolish to meet me. He should have kept behind. And if I hadn't eaten him, the dragon-fly larva would. What he had eaten, I do not think he could have told himself. There was very little left now for any one; even the water-scorpion had disappeared.
On the sixth day the glass pond had only two tenants worth speaking of—the dragon-fly larva and myself. We had both over-eaten ourselves, and for some hours we moved slowly about through the thickening puddle, nodding civilly when we passed each other among the feathery sprays of the Water Crowfoot. Then I began to get hungry. I knew it by feeling an impulse to look out for the dragon-fly larva, and I knew he knew it because he began to avoid me.
On the seventh day Molly ran into the conservatory, followed by her brother, and uttered a cry of dismay.
"Oh, what a state it's in! Where are the syphons?"
"Why, they melted the day Edward Brown came back. We've been having such a lot of cricket, Molly!"
"There isn't a fish left, and it smells horribly."
"I'm very sorry, Molly. Let's throw it out. I don't want Grandfather to see it. Let me come."
"No, no, Francis! There may be some left. Yes, there's the beetle. I shall put it all in a pail and take it back to the pond. Oh dear! oh dear! I can't see anything of the scarlet spider. My beautiful scarlet spider! I was so fond of him. Oh, I am so sorry! And no one has watered the Soldier, and he's dead too."
"Don't cry, Molly! Please don't cry! I dare say the spider is there, only it's so small."
For some time Molly poked carefully here and there, but the spider was not to be found, and the contents of the aquarium were carried back to the wood.
I was very glad to see the pond again. The water-gnats were taking dimensions as usual, a blue-black beetle sat humming on the stake, and dragon-flies flitted hungrily about, like splinters of a broken rainbow; but the Water-Soldier's place was empty, and it was never refilled. He was the only specimen.
Molly was probably in the right when, after a last vain search for the scarlet spider, as Francis slowly emptied the pail, she said with a sigh,
"What makes me so very sorry is, that I don't think we ought to have 'collected' things unless we had really attended to them, and knew how to keep them alive."