“Mary,” he called, a little querulously, “come out.”
It is difficult to understand how the beetle could call without making any noise. It should be remembered, however, that sound is to beetles very much what silence is to us. A certain kind of silence, on the other hand, answers to what we call conversation, and can be varied so as to express all that we can do by changing the tone of the voice. The small female of depressed appearance, who hurried from the shelter of a stone in answer to this summons, quite understood that she had been called querulously. The two unkempt birds should undoubtedly have waited.
“Thomas,” said the beetle who had been addressed as Mary, “I think you called me?”
“Have you stopped crying?”
“Yes, dear; I won’t cry any more, if you don’t like it.”
“You know I don’t like it. Have you got any new ideas?”
“Well, Thomas, nothing that could be absolutely called new, perhaps; but I remember a little story that my poor dear mother used to——”
“Stop!” said Thomas, “you’re a stale, heavy-minded female, and you can get back under the stone. I was going to let you see me die. I shan’t now!”
“Do let me stop!” pleaded Mary.
“No, I won’t!—stay, what’s that pestilential insect creeping towards us?”