"What is the matter?" asked Bud.
"It is time to die, and I want to bury myself; but I'm so weak I'm afraid I shall not get my grave ready in time, and then I shall be eaten up by some bird, or crushed by some giant's foot," answered the beetle, kicking and shovelling away as hard as he could.
"But if you were dead you would not know it," said Bud.
"Stupid child! if I'm killed in that way I cannot live again; but if I bury myself and lie asleep till spring, I come up a grub or a young beetle, I don't know which, but I am sure of some change. So I want a good grave to rest in; for dying is only a sleep before we wake up in another shape."
"I'm glad of that!" cried Bud. "I'll help you dig, and I'll cover you nicely, and hope you will be some pretty insect by and by."
So she threw off her veil, and worked busily with a little wooden shovel till a deep grave was made. The old beetle tumbled in with a gruff "Thank you, child," and died quite comfortably, with the warm sand over him. Bud piled little stones above the place, and left him to his long sleep, happy to be able to help, and full of wonder as to whether she too would have to die before her change came.
The sun was going down now; for the butterfly party and the beetle's funeral had taken a long time, and twilight was coming on.
"I must find a place to sleep," said Bud, rather anxiously; for this was her first night alone, and she began to miss Mother Linnet's warm wings brooding over her.
But she kept up her courage and trudged on till she was so tired she was forced to stop and rest on a bank where a glow-worm had just lighted its little lamp.
"Can I stay here under this big leaf?" she asked, glad to see the friendly light and bathe her tired feet in the dewy grass.