“That is true, Mr. Philosopher,” said the insect; “I had reserved a portion. From the happy moment that separated me from my Mentor I have only once felt pain. A certain day, at a certain hour, I was summoned to put on my military dress and mount guard at a place pointed out to me. I had to obey under pain of death, in common with many other insects of peace, who were compelled to imitate wasps and hornets in order to secure the safety of the country, which was in no real danger. After a day and a night of this warlike parade, I again obtained my liberty. I had caught cold and toothache, but seeing a poppy on my way, I plunged into it and swallowed some opium, which brought on profound sleep. At last I was roused by the voice of a magpie, who had seized me round the waist with his iron beak. He was an old collector, and, more than that, a sorcerer. ‘Here,’ said my captor, ‘I have found a pretty beetle, which I shall place in the middle of a peony leaf, and give to my godchild as a jewel and talisman to protect her against the sway of fashion.’
“I permitted myself to be placed on the leaf and attached to the dove Violet’s neck, where I have determined to remain, as the situation suits me, and I hope to make her lucky.”
“Sir,” said the Owl, “it seems to me that you are studiously concealing the most interesting part of your narrative. A beetle of your wide experience cannot have passed through the world without some love adventures. I strongly suspect you fell in love with your lady-bird hostess. Pray allay my curiosity.”
The little green Beetle hereupon bestowed one searching look upon the Owl, and drawing in his legs and horns, lapsed into silence, simulating death so cleverly that his interrogator became alarmed. The Owl put on his spectacles to examine the insect more closely. He then saw for the first time that it was an emerald mounted on an enamelled leaf. The sun beginning to appear, he became drowsy, and pulling his hood over his eyes, fell into a profound sleep.
Awaking at last, he discovered that the story of the green Beetle was but a dream, and returning the pin to Violet, he recounted the history of the transformed jewel as if it had been his own invention.
A FOX IN A TRAP.
HE following story was found among the papers of a distinguished “Orang-Outan” member of the Academies:—