"Tell me," said Boy Will, in wonder, "don't you remember the little hole in the garden, and when I put in a spear of grass how the fellow grabbed it with his jaws? I drew him out and there was Sir Mole Cricket that does so much mischief in the garden."
"Oh yes; and now here are two; but they are dead."
"No, only asleep for the winter. The warm room will revive them but they may die after all. They will have awakened out of season."
"I wish I could put them back," said Boy Will.
"We will study them a little and then we will see," returned his father as he took up his penknife and pointed to the folded legs.
"Those big flat fore-legs are what do all the mischief. They are like strong little hands and have claws on them and they are used for digging. The main business of Sir Cricket is to burrow and he works away with these hands of his until he will have made a number of underground passages. And in his work he will cut off hundreds of new, tender roots that belong to plants and shrubs. And that's the mischief of him."
"What do they eat?"
"Why, little bugs; but they are fierce, hungry creatures, and when they meet a mole cricket that is weak and defenseless they pounce on him and eat him. They are no respecter of relatives."
"They don't deserve to live!" cried Boy Will, with a stamp.