And with a whiz the gauzy-winged fellow darted up into the sunshine, and Ruth, following him across the meadow, could only hug Belinda in a rapture of expectation, and whisper in a low voice:
“Aren’t we in luck, Belinda—just the best kind of luck?”
They had gone only a little way, however, when a mole pushed his strong little snout above the ground.
“Gracious! what a noise,” he said. “If I had had a chance when you were a baby you wouldn’t be here now to disturb quiet-minded people.”
Ruth jumped. She thought the mole meant he would have eaten her. Then she laughed. “Of course it was the cicada he was talking to,” but the cicada didn’t mind.
“I know that very well,” he answered, cheerfully, “but you didn’t get me. That makes all the difference, and now you can’t.”
“Well, nobody wants you now. You would be mighty dry eating, but when you were a grub, oh, my! so fat and juicy, like all the other grubs and slugs and worms. I eat you all. Yet what thanks do I get from man for doing away with so many of his enemies? Complaints, nothing but complaints, and just because I raise a few ridges in the ground. I can’t help that. When I move underground I push the earth before me, and, as it has to go somewhere, it rises up.”
“What do you push with?” asked Ruth, sitting down in front of the mole.
“With my snout and forepaws,” he answered, “what else? The muscle which moves my head is very powerful, and you can see how broad my forepaws are, and, also, that they turn outward. They help to throw back the earth as I make my way forward. I have ever so many sharp little teeth, too, and my fur lies smooth in all directions, so it never rumples and——”
“Do come on,” interrupted the cicada; “that fellow isn’t interesting.”