“Well,” said the cicada, “I guess we might as well be off too. There seems to be no one in sight to interest us.”
“What about cousin Belostoma?” asked a sort of muffled voice, as a great pair of bulging eyes showed themselves above the water, and out came the giant water bug as big as life.
“I’ve just had my dinner,” he said. “It really is funny to see how everything hides when Belostoma shows his face. My wife is the only one who doesn’t seem to be afraid of me and she—well, she’s a terror and no mistake.”
“Why, what’s the matter now?” asked the cicada.
“And what has happened to your back?” added Ruth, with eager curiosity.
“My wife’s happened, that’s what,” answered Belostoma in a doleful tone. “She laid her eggs a while ago and glued every blessed one to my back. It is nothing to laugh at either. There’s no joke in being a walking incubator. Well, I must be going now. It is dinner time.”
“I thought you just had your dinner,” said Ruth.
“Yes, but it’s time again. It is always time. How silly you are.”
“I must go too,” said the cicada, “but it isn’t dinner that calls me. I feel sure my mate is longing for some music and I’m off to give her a bit. See you later.”
And, spreading his wings, the cicada flew away, beating his drums as he went.