And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.”
—Bryant.
“That horrid mosquito,” said Ruth, waking with a start, and slapping her cheek.
“Aha! you didn’t get me that time,” answered a thin, high-pitched voice!
Ruth sat up. She had been asleep under the apple tree, but she was quite awake now.
“Where are you?” she asked, “and are you really talking?”
“I seem to be,” answered the mosquito, “though you tried to finish me just now. I bear no ill-will, though. I am quite used to being an outlaw. What is more, I don’t intend to be any better. I shall go on biting people as much as I please. I must have my meals as well as the rest of the world. People seem to forget that fact.”
“But just biting people——” began Ruth.
“It isn’t just biting,” put in the mosquito. “It really isn’t biting at all. I have a sharp little instrument to pierce the skin of the fellow I choose for my dinner, and the best kind of sucking pump to pump up his blood. That’s the way I get my meals. It is different with my mate. He is a harmless sort of fellow. He can’t even sing, and he likes such baby food as the nectar of flowers. Now tell me why I am different from other insect musicians.”
She fixed her big eyes on Ruth, who moved uneasily, and answered with not a little hesitation: