Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE REAL FAIRY FOLK

“‘I FEEL THE WIND,’ CRIED RUTH, WITH BRIGHT EYES. ‘DEAR VOICE, ARE YOU THE WIND?’”

THE
Real Fairy Folk

BY

LOUISE JAMISON

ILLUSTRATED

BY

JAMES M. GLEESON

NEW YORK GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

MCMXII

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

To my Mother and Father this little book is lovingly dedicated

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE REAL FAIRY FOLK

CHAPTER I
IN THE OLD WILLOW TREE

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things both great and small.

—Coleridge.

Ruth climbed to her favourite perch in the old willow tree, and settled Belinda in a crotch beside her.

“Now,” she said, drawing a long breath, “we will be cool and comfy.”

Certainly if there was a cool spot to be found on this hot August morning it was in the shade of this big willow.

“Her very own tree,” as Ruth always called it, for, since she could climb at all, she had loved to sit among its drooping branches and hear the leaves whispering together the wonderful things, which she knew they were telling each other, even though she could not understand them.

Then, too, she could look down into the brook, and watch the doings of the queer little people who made their home there.

These, like all the tiny folk of the outdoor world, were a source of never-failing interest and wonder.

In their company, Ruth was never lonely, even though she had neither brother nor sister, nor indeed any little boy or girl to play with.

Still it would be so much nicer if she could only talk to the bugs and things. There were such lots of questions she wanted to ask them.

How she did wish that the funny old tumble bugs would stop rolling their ball, and tell her all about it. They never did, though. They just kept at that ball as though it was the most important thing in the world.

Then she wanted to know what the bees whispered to the flowers as they buzzed above them, and whether the butterflies spoke to each other as they flew by in the sunshine.

There were the ants, too, always so busy, and in such a hurry. How fast they could run when any one upset their nest; and how funny they looked carrying those queer white bundles.

Mother had called these bundles the ants’ babies, but Ruth thought them very odd babies, and she wondered if they had to be fed and bathed and put to sleep like human babies.

She wanted to know all about them, and about the spiders too, and their wonderful webs.

“Just think what a chance Miss Muffet had,” she said to Belinda, when both were settled to her satisfaction in the willow-tree perch. “Only a very friendly spider would come up and sit down by you, and who knows the interesting things it could tell. The idea of being afraid of a spider anyhow! You might as well be afraid of that funny old toad in the garden, and I don’t believe he could hurt you if he tried. I guess he doesn’t do anything but sleep.”

Ruth had been trying to talk to the toad that very morning. He had looked so solemn and so wise as he sat under the shade of a big stone in the damp corner of the garden, “but,” as she said, “he wasn’t any good at all,” for he only looked at her, then drew a film over his eyes, and went on swallowing very hard.

“He can talk, though, I know,” she said to Belinda. “They can all talk in their way. It sounds like noise to us, because we can’t understand. Do hear them, Belinda? What are they saying?”

But of course Belinda could not answer. She never said more than “mama,” in a very squeaky voice, and you had to squeeze her ever so hard to make her do that.

Ruth sighed softly, then, leaning forward with her elbow propped on her knee, and her chin resting in the palm of her hand, she listened to the flood of sound about her; the hum and buzz that came from garden and orchard, from field and meadow; thousands of tiny voices, rising and falling and rising again, as they told their fascinating life stories, from every leaf and twig and grass blade.

“They are talking just as fast as they can,” Ruth said again, “but I don’t know what they are saying. Oh! if I only did. Why don’t people learn their language instead of German and French and lots of other old things that aren’t any good? It would be ever so much nicer, and they could find out so many wonderful things, couldn’t they, Belinda?”

But, as usual, Belinda only stared at Ruth, and said nothing.

“‘SOMETIMES IT SEEMS AS IF IT MUST BE FAIRYLAND ALL AROUND, ONLY I’M DEAF’”

“Oh, dear,” said Ruth, “if you were only alive, and could tell me things, you’d be ever so much more interesting, but then maybe,” she added, thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t understand you any better than I do them. Maybe doll language is different too. It is all so puzzling. Sometimes it seems as if it must be Fairyland all around, only I’m deaf. I wonder if there’s a word that lets you in so you can know about things, like ‘Open Sesame’ in ‘The Forty Thieves.’ Oh, Belinda, do you think there is?” And Ruth clasped her hands together at the very thought. “But we can’t find it out,” she added, more soberly, “and so it wouldn’t be any use.”

“Watch and listen! Watch and listen!” said a voice so close to her ear that Ruth jumped, and nearly fell to the ground.

She looked about her expectantly, but no one was in sight, either in the tree or under it.

“It is very queer,” she said. “You can’t talk, Belinda, and I don’t see a single person anywhere.”

“It is not so queer as you think,” the voice replied, as close to her ear as before. “You cannot see me, but you can feel me.”

A passing breeze had touched her cheek and was softly ruffling her hair.

“I feel the wind,” cried Ruth, with bright eyes. “Dear voice, are you the Wind? Why have you never talked to me before? If you only knew how I have wanted some one to talk to me, and tell me things! People don’t seem to like to answer questions. They haven’t time or something. But you must know such a lot. The wind goes everywhere.”

“Yes, I am a great traveller, but, child, the marvellous things are not all far off. There is a wonderland right here at home, if one has the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the heart to feel and understand.”

Ruth clapped her hands, and her eyes danced.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she cried eagerly. “I told Belinda it was Fairyland all around us; but, dear Wind,” she added, while a little cloud filled her eyes, “I do see and hear lots of things, but I can’t understand, and I do want to know all the whys and becauses. Won’t you please, please tell me?”

“I may not do that, child,” was the answer, “for each thing speaks in its own language, and will tell its own story to those who seek truly and earnestly. You are a thoughtful child, and for that reason it will be given to you to know those things which you most desire to learn. Only remember, ‘Watch and be patient,’ and never forget the password ‘Brotherhood,’ for even the lowest creature has some rights to be respected.”

The breeze passed on, softly singing through the willow branches, but Ruth sat without moving, her eyes wide with eager wonder.

“I didn’t dream it,” she said at last in an awed little whisper. “It was as real as anything could be that you couldn’t see. I suppose ‘brotherhood’ means not to be unkind or cruel to things. Oh, Belinda, just think of it: hearing what they say, the bees and the butterflies and the dear little crickets and funny old grasshoppers,” and she snatched Belinda to her and hugged her tight. “It will be harder than ever to go into the house now, won’t it?” she finished soberly. Then she sat for a few minutes thinking, very quiet, but very happy.

“Kerchug—kerchug—kerchug,” called a voice from the brook, and Ruth started so suddenly she nearly dropped Belinda, and caught a branch just in time to keep herself from falling.

“Gracious,” she said, “how that scared me. I do believe it was that big green and brown frog. See him down there, Belinda? He is just showing his head and his funny eyes out of the water. Let’s get down close to him, and maybe he’ll come out all the way.”

CHAPTER II
TWO FUNNY GENTLEMEN AND WHAT THEY SAID

Nothing useless is or low.

—Tennyson.

“To be sure I’ll come out,” answered a croaky voice, as Ruth, holding Belinda tightly, drew close to the edge of the brook. “How’s that?” and with a splash a big green and brown frog landed on the stone at her feet.

“Now,” he added, swelling out his white vest with an air of importance, “I am a frog, of course, but my family name is Rana. Please don’t forget it.”

“RUTH, HOLDING BELINDA TIGHTLY, DREW CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE BROOK”

“Family name?” said Ruth, sitting down on the edge of the stone. “I didn’t know frogs had family names.”

“There’s a great deal you don’t know,” said Mr. Rana, in his decided way.

“‘HOW’S THAT?’ AND WITH A SPLASH A BIG GREEN AND BROWN FROG LANDED ON THE STONE AT HER FEET”

“Maybe there is,” agreed Ruth, “but it isn’t very polite to tell me so.” Then, with a sudden thought, she added quickly, “Why, you are really talking.”

“Of course, I’m talking. Do you suppose it’s the first time?”

“‘I AM A FROG, OF COURSE, BUT MY FAMILY NAME IS RANA’”

“He’s dreadfully snappy,” Ruth whispered to Belinda.

“It isn’t my fault that people can’t understand,” finished Mr. Rana, swallowing very fast.

“I wanted to understand,” declared Ruth meekly. “I was sure you could tell me such a lot of interesting things, and that nice fat toad in the garden too. He is so——”

“You’d better talk to the fat toad, then,” said Mr. Rana, looking very cross.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Ruth, “I didn’t mean I’d rather talk to him. I do want you to tell me things. All about yourself, please.”

“Now you are showing your good sense,” said Mr. Rana, as Ruth settled herself with a ready-to-listen air. “Nothing can be more interesting than my story; but excuse me one second. I see Mrs. Mosquito. This morning I ate her husband, and now——”

His sentence was not finished, but Mrs. Mosquito was; and Mr. Rana folded his hands across his fat stomach and looked at Ruth, while a big smile played about his broad mouth.

“THAT NICE FAT TOAD IN THE GARDEN”

“She’s gone,” said Ruth, in a slightly awed tone, “and I know you’ve swallowed her, but I wish you would tell me how you did it. I didn’t see you move.”

“‘i didn’t move, but my tongue DID’”

“I didn’t move, but my tongue did, and it went so quick you couldn’t see it. When you eat, you bring things to your tongue, but when I eat, I send my tongue to my dinner. It’s a simpler way, I think. My tongue is rather wonderful too. It is fastened to my mouth in front, and rolled back; besides, it has a sort of glue on the end that catches whatever there is to catch. The number of pests I eat in a day would astonish you. Slugs, grubs, snails, mosquitoes, and—well, what’s the matter? You don’t like such things, I suppose. Tastes differ, you see. Now, to tell my story. What do you think I looked like when I was first hatched?”

“A tadpole, of course,” answered Ruth. “I’ve seen lots of tadpoles. They are funny, wiggly things.”

“They are lively fellows,” agreed Mr. Rana, swallowing several times, while Ruth silently watched the sides of his neck puff out.

“Please tell me why you swallow so much,” she asked at last. “You are not eating, are you?”

Mr. Rana smiled, and this time the smile went all around his mouth.

“I swallow to breathe,” he answered. “I can’t swallow air while my mouth is open, and so I stop talking and shut it. Every time I swallow, the air sac on the side of my neck fills out. That’s why my voice has such a lovely croak. My poor wife hasn’t any air sac, so her voice is never croaky.”

“But in the water——” began Ruth.

“In the water,” answered Mr. Rana, “I take in air through my skin. It is very porous. My skin I mean. It is really a pleasure to tell you things. Now to get back to the beginning, being a tadpole, or, I should say, an egg. Looking at me now, could you imagine that I was once a tiny egg? It’s a fact, though. My mother laid her eggs near some water rushes, and, as I said, these eggs were but tiny specks, black specks enclosed in a gluey case, which the water made swell, until it looked like a mass of jelly. I came from one of those specks, and I tell you I was a lively fellow when I was first hatched. Some people say tadpoles are all head and tail, but there were other parts to me—places for legs, and I know I had two eyes and a mouth. Of course I made the most of life. A whole pond to circle in seemed a mighty big world to me, and I was soon swimming about with a lot of other tads, slapping tails, and having all kinds of fun. Indeed, we were always lively, especially when we were trying to get away from those who wanted us for dinner. There were lots of them too.”

“Ugh!” said Ruth, screwing up her face.

This displeased Mr. Rana.

“A tadpole is very delicate eating,” he said. “You have never tasted one, so you cannot judge; but let that pass. I was not eaten, as you can see for yourself.”

“I am glad you were not,” said Ruth as Mr. Rana stopped to swallow some air, “because then I shouldn’t have known you.”

“‘I WAS SOON SWIMMING ABOUT WITH A LOT OF OTHER TADS, SLAPPING TAILS, AND HAVING ALL KINDS OF FUN’”

“Well, that’s a fact. Now let me see what comes next. Oh, yes—my legs. Legs, you must know, are very important affairs to a tadpole, because when he gets them he isn’t a tadpole any more; so you may be sure I was happy when I saw mine beginning to grow. At the same time, my tail became shorter and shorter, until at last I had none at all. I was really and truly a frog. After this I was not obliged to stay in the water all the time. I had lungs and could breathe air.”

“A LOUD SPLASH AND MR. RANA’S LONG LEGS DISAPPEARED IN THE BROOK”

“But you do go in sometimes,” said Ruth. “I’ve seen you.”

“Of course I do,” agreed Mr. Rana. “I must keep my skin wet, and that reminds me it’s pretty dry now, so I will have to leave you. Good-by for the present.” And before Ruth could say a word there was a loud splash and Mr. Rana’s long legs disappeared in the brook.

“‘I’M RIGHT OVER HERE IN THE SHADE’”

“Oh, dear, he’s gone!” sighed Ruth.

“Yes, and good riddance,” croaked a voice that was not Mr. Rana’s.

Ruth looked around quickly.

“It’s nice having things talk to you,” she said, “but it keeps you jumping.”

“Use your eyes, and you wouldn’t have to jump,” went on the same voice. “I’m right over here in the shade. My blood’s cold, and I can’t stand the hot sun.”

It was her friend the garden toad. Ruth could see him plainly now. He looked more puffy than ever, as he sat under the bushes, swelling his leathery throat with importance. “If my cousin can talk to you I guess I can too,” he added. “I’m Mr. Bufo, and I’m quite as interesting as he is.”

Ruth was only too willing to agree to this, though, as she whispered to Belinda, she thought frogs and toads had very good opinions of themselves.

“I have a wife,” croaked Mr. Bufo when Ruth had sat herself on the ground close to him, “a worrying wife. Do you know it’s a bad thing to have a worrying wife?”

Ruth didn’t know, but she nodded her head in agreement.

“A bad thing,” repeated Mr. Bufo. “In the Spring, after Mrs. Bufo had laid her eggs, she gave me no peace. Of course, like all toads, she laid them in the water, but, instead of being reasonable about it, she was always asking me how she was to know them from the eggs Mrs. Rana and Mrs. Urodillo had laid. Theirs were in the water too.”

“Please, who is Mrs. Urodillo?” asked Ruth. “I know Mrs. Rana is a frog.”

“Mrs. Urodillo is a water salamander,” answered Mr. Bufo, not over pleased at being interrupted. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. Mrs. Bufo was afraid she wouldn’t know her own eggs. Well, I tried to argue with her.”

“‘Didn’t you lay yours in double strings?’ I asked, ‘and didn’t you with motherly care enclose them in thin but strong tubes?’ Of course she couldn’t deny it. ‘But I won’t know my own tadpoles,’ she kept insisting.”

“No wonder she was worried,” said Ruth. “Any one would want to know their own babies.”

“Mothers in our family never do,” declared Mr. Bufo. “They lay their eggs, and that’s the end of it. Mrs. Bufo knew that as well as I did. She only wanted something to worry about. All tadpoles are pretty much alike to begin with, but they don’t end alike. Toad egg tads always grow into toads; frog egg tads become frogs, and salamander egg tads will be salamanders and nothing else.”

All the while he talked Mr. Bufo had stopped every little while to swallow, not only air, but whatever in the way of insects came within his reach. So of course Ruth saw his tongue.

“Your tongue is just like Mr. Rana’s,” she said, after watching it for a few seconds.

“Our tongues may be alike,” agreed Mr. Bufo, “but there’s a vast difference in our legs. His are too long for any use, and his skin is so horribly smooth it gives me the shivers just to look at it. Of course I know I am not handsome, and that reminds me of some lines that have been written about me. Want to hear them?”

Then without waiting for an answer he swallowed some air and began:

“I’m a clumsy, awkward toad,

And I hop along the road;

’Tis the only way we toads can well meander;

While in yonder marshy bog

Leaps my relative the frog,

Very near my aunt, the water Salamander.

“And if you should ever stray

Near a slimy pool some day,

And along its grassy margin chance to loiter.

Do not pass it idly by,

For it is the spot where I

Was born a lively tadpole in the water.

“I’m a homely, harmless thing;

I catch insects on the wing,

And in this I serve you all; it is my duty.

And now tell me which is best,

To be useless and well dressed,

Or useful, even though I am no beauty?”

Mr. Bufo had scarcely finished, when his mate hopped out from some nearby bushes.

“I’d be ashamed,” she said, in a very puffy voice, “to sit there repeating that lovely poetry, with such shabby clothes as yours are. How many more times must I tell you to change them?”

“It doesn’t matter about his clothes,” said Ruth. “I think it is so lovely to hear him talk.”

“You haven’t heard him as often as I have,” puffed Mrs. Bufo, hopping almost into Ruth’s lap. “Besides, his clothes are a disgrace. They are not only faded and dull, but they are actually beginning to split up the back.”

“Are they?” croaked Mr. Bufo meekly.

Then he drew a film over his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

“Now look here,” said Mrs. Bufo, “you can’t deceive me. That is only your third eyelid. You are not asleep. Now do get off those old clothes.”

“Well, if I must, I must,” croaked Mr. Bufo, hopping away.

“There, I’ve made him do it at last,” puffed Mrs. Bufo, swallowing a passing fly. “It’s a hard job, and I don’t blame him for getting out of it as long as possible. He has to twist and turn, and use first one leg and then another, until he is quite free from his old suit, and then, tired as he is, he must eat it.”

“Eat it?” repeated Ruth, screwing up her face.

“Yes, eat it, and not a tooth to chew with either. I can’t see why we haven’t teeth like those horrid frogs, though, to tell the truth, theirs are no good for chewing. They only have them in their upper jaws, and they point backward, too, like fish teeth. I can’t see that they help much in chewing, but they do help to hold what the frog wishes to swallow, and, after all, we toads and frogs are swallowers rather than chewers.”

As she spoke, several flies went to prove her words.

“Yes,” she added with a big puff, which Ruth took for a sigh, “we have our troubles and worries from early Spring, when we leave our holes, where we sleep all Winter, to the time when frost drives us into our holes again, and no one seems to think about the work we do. The garden couldn’t have a better friend, for the bugs and harmful insects we eat can’t be counted. Well, there’s no use talking this way. I must go to Mr. Bufo. He’ll need some cheering up, I’m sure. One good thing, he won’t have to make his new suit. He’ll find it all ready under his old one.”

“Well, she does think of him, anyhow,” thought Ruth as Mrs. Bufo hopped away. “I hope she will talk to me again some day.”

CHAPTER III
RUTH AND THE WONDERFUL SPINNERS

She throws a web upon the air and soon

’Tis caught and lifted by the willing breezes,

Then, freed from trouble in her light balloon,

Our spinner travels wheresoe’re she pleases.

—Edith M. Thomas.

Ruth was in the garden counting colours among the hollyhocks when a little breeze hurried by.

“Come,” it said, kissing her cheek, “and hurry; things are going to happen.”

“It is my dear Wind,” cried Ruth, her eyes growing big with expectation, and, stopping just long enough to snatch up Belinda, who of course would wish to go, too, she followed where the little breeze led.

This was to a lovely spot on the edge of the wood, and one of the first things she saw was a big round spider’s web on the branches of a tall bush.

“Oh,” she said, going up closer, “who would ever think a spider could make anything like that?”

“Indeed,” said a voice which made her give a little jump, “who else but a spider could spin a web, I’d like to know? You haven’t any brains, I’m thinking.”

“Oh, please excuse me,” said Ruth. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“That’s because you don’t use your eyes properly,” was the answer of the large, handsome black and gold spider hanging head down from the centre of the big web.

Her eight long, slender legs were outstretched and rested by their tips on the bases of the taut radii, and her eight eyes were staring at Ruth.

“I saw you as soon as you came,” she said.

“I suppose you will stay to the meeting. I’m to be chair-spider.”

“Chair-spider?” repeated Ruth, slightly confused by those eight bright eyes. “And please, what meeting?”

“Why, our meeting, of course. Mrs. Cobweb Weaver says men always have a chairman at their meetings, so why shouldn’t spiders have a chair-spider, I’d like to know?”

“I suppose they should,” agreed Ruth.

“Of course we should. Considering you are a human creature, with only two eyes, two legs, and no spinnerets, you really show a great deal of sense. Now sit down on the crotch of that little tree, then you will be near me and can hear all I say. What’s that thing you are carrying?”

“Why, it’s Belinda, my doll,” explained Ruth. “I tell her everything. I think she will like your—your—meeting.”

“Well, I don’t care whether she does or not,” said Madame Spider. “Now our friends are arriving, and as you can see, with even two eyes, they are all shapes and sizes. Long legged, short legged, plump, thin, grave and gay. All colours too—quite enough to satisfy any taste, I should say.”

Ruth looked about her in wide-eyed astonishment.

“I never knew there were so many kinds of spiders,” she said at last, “or that they had such lovely colours. I thought spiders were mostly grayish or brownish.”

“That is because you haven’t used your eyes, as I said before; but you are only like others of your kind. Such ignorance! Because some spiders are dull and colourless, most people imagine that all are so. I suppose they think, if they stop to think at all, that all kinds of webs are spun by the same kind of spider, and that all spiders spin webs.”

“Don’t they?” asked Ruth, with some hesitation, for Mrs. Spider’s indignation made her look quite fierce.

“They do not,” was the decided answer. “All spiders are spinners, but not all are web makers.”

Ruth looked puzzled.

“You see,” explained Mrs. Spider, “it all depends upon the way they catch their prey. Spider habits are as different as their looks. Some like the sun, others prefer the shade. Some live in the forest, and others with the house people. Many make their home in the bark of trees, and under stones.”

“I’ve seen that kind,” interrupted Ruth, eagerly, “and when you lift up the stone they run awfully fast. Sometimes they have a funny little gray bundle, just as the ants carry their babies. Maybe it’s their babies too. Is it?”

“Well, they will be babies if nothing happens. Those gray bundles are cocoons full of eggs. The mother spins the cocoon of silk from her own body.”

“Oh, now, I understand. They are spinners, but they don’t have any web. Isn’t that it?”

“Exactly. They do not need a web. They spring on their prey when the prey isn’t looking. We call them hunters, also runners.”

“Well, they can run,” said Ruth.

“‘THE MOTHER SPINS THE COCOON OF SILK FROM HER OWN BODY’”

“The flower spiders are not web spinners either,” went on Madame Spider, who seemed to like nothing better than to talk. “They live among flowers, and eat the visiting insects. You can see some of them over there. Talk about colours! They are gay enough, just like flowers themselves. Perhaps you can guess why.”

Ruth thought a few minutes.

“Well,” she said, “if they were the same colour as the flower they couldn’t be seen so easily. I saw something walk out of an ear of corn once, and it looked like a kernel of corn on eight legs. It was awful funny. Was that a spider?”

“Very likely. We are wonderful enough for anything. I suppose you have never heard of the trapdoor spider and his silk-lined burrow, with its little hinged door, nor of the spider who lives under the water, in a tiny silken house, which she spins herself, and fills with air carried down, bubble by bubble, from the surface. Don’t look as though you didn’t believe me. It isn’t polite. I am telling you the truth. Very likely you’ll doubt me when I say that we sail in balloons, of our own making, and cross streams of water on bridges, which we can fashion as we need them—that is, we orb weavers do, for, after all, we stand at the head of the spider clan. Did you know I was an orb weaver?”

“I—I—haven’t thought about it,” said Ruth, slowly, for the question had come very suddenly, “but I’d like you to go on telling me things. Do you always hang with your head down? I should think it would make you dizzy.”

“Dizzy? Whoever heard of such a thing? Of course I keep my head down, and my toes on my telegraph lines. Then I can feel the least tremble in any one of them, and I’m pretty quick to run where I know my dinner is waiting. Sometimes I don’t hurry quite so fast. That is when the line trembles in a way which lets me know that something big has been caught. Indeed, there are times when I bite the threads around what might have been my dinner, and let it go; for it is wiser to lose a meal than run the chance of being a meal.” And Mrs. Orb Weaver winked, not with one eye only, but with all eight. “Now it is time to talk to the company,” she added, “as I am chair-spider.”

She said the last words in a loud voice, intended for all to hear; then she looked around to see if any one objected.

“They had better not,” she said to Ruth, and in a louder voice, added: “My friends, we are not appreciated. Men talk about the wonderful bees, the wonderful wasps, the wonderful ants, but few of them say anything about the wonderful spiders. Now we are wonderful, too, and we are honest, and we are industrious. We eat flies and lots of other pests, and we do not hurt orchards, or steal into pantries, or chew up clothes. Indeed, we do man no harm at all. But is he grateful? Tell me that. I’ll tell you he isn’t. Ask Mrs. Cobweb Weaver if there isn’t always some broom sweeping down the nice web she makes. I wonder she doesn’t hate a broom. No, my friends, man is not grateful. Even those who call themselves our friends are ready to pop us into bottles, or boxes, whenever they get a chance. They give us what they call a painless death in the cause of science. Now we would rather live in our own cause. At least I would.”

Mrs. Orb Weaver had become so excited that her whole web was shaking violently.

Ruth was excited, too.

“It’s rather horrid to do that way,” she said, “but maybe people don’t know about you. I didn’t until to-day. The wonderful things I mean, and I want to know lots more. How your web is made and—and—everything. Please tell me.”

“Why, certainly,” answered Mrs. Orb Weaver readily. “To begin with, my web is made of silk.”

“Who didn’t know that?” snapped a running spider.

“I didn’t,” answered Ruth.

“You! And who are you, pray?”

“Be quiet,” commanded Mrs. Orb Weaver. “She is my guest, and anything she wishes to know I shall be happy to tell her. Now, to get on, our webs are made of silk, and the silk comes from our own bodies, through little tubes called spinnerets. It is soft at first, but gets harder when it reaches the air, just like caterpillar silk. We guide each thread with our hind feet, making heavier strands by twisting a number of fine ones together. Of course, we spin the foundation lines first. They are the ones which fix the web to the bush. Then the ray lines, those like the spokes in a wheel. They are all heavy strands, and only after they are finished do we spin the real snare, the lines which run around. They are very fine, and are covered with a sort of glue, for they have to catch and hold the flies and other insects that come on the web. We orb weavers are the only ones who have this glue. No other spiders use it. They trust to the meshes of the web to entangle their prey.”

“But why don’t the sticky parts catch you too?” asked Ruth, who had been listening with eager attention. “I’ve seen you run all over your web and——”

“We never get caught. Of course not,” finished Mrs. Orb Weaver. “And why? That’s a question. The wise men don’t know, and if we do, we are not telling. Now I am getting hungry, so I think I will tell a little story, then we will adjourn. I am sorry there isn’t time for Mrs. Funnel Weaver to speak.”

“But there is,” declared a large brown spider, whose body looked as though it were set on a framework of legs. “I mean to speak too—if only to point out all those webs in the grass.”

“Oh, I’ve often seen webs like that,” said Ruth. “They are lovely with dew on them. But why do you call yourself a funnel weaver?”

“I don’t!” she snapped. “The men, who think they know everything, gave me that name, because at one side of my web is a funnel-shaped tube. It is our way to escape our enemies. We run through it into the grass when something too big for us to manage gets into our web.”

“I generally make my web in houses,” said a small, slender-legged, light-coloured spider.

She spoke in a hurry, as though she was afraid some one might stop her before she finished. “I have cousins who like fields and fences and outbuildings, but our webs are all the same pattern. Not so regular as yours, Mrs. Orb Weaver, but very fine and delicate.”

“Oh, everybody knows you, Mrs. Cobweb Weaver,” said a voice from a nearby twig. “Now if you are speaking of legs——”

“We are not,” answered Mrs. Orb Weaver, “and I should like to know how you came here.”

“On my legs of course. Don’t you think they are long enough? And though I can neither spin nor weave, I am your relation, and I have as much right to be here as you have. I——”

“Why, it’s Daddy Long Legs,” interrupted Ruth, with a friendly smile of recognition. “I like daddies.”

“Well, I am not saying anything about my legs,” remarked a fat little spider, as Daddy tried to bow to Ruth, “though I have eight of them. I usually travel in a balloon, which I make myself. Oh, I tell you, it is fine to go

“Sailing mid the golden air

In skiffs of yielding gossamer.”

“‘WHY, IT’S DADDY LONG LEGS’”

“Poetry,” said a handsome spider, wheeling back and forth on a silken bridge swung between two bushes. “I could have learned some too, but I didn’t know it was allowed. Of course I can build bridges. Who is asking that idiotic question? You?” And eight glaring eyes were fixed upon Ruth. “Maybe you don’t know that spiders were the first bridge builders and when men suspend their great bridges to-day they follow our ideas and ways, without giving us the least credit; but that’s the way with men.”

“Well, we can’t expect to regulate men,” answered Mrs. Orb Weaver, “and, besides, it’s time to tell my story, and then you will know why we get our name, and why we are such wonderful spinners. Now listen, all of you:

“Once upon a time——”

Ruth chuckled contentedly. All nice stories began, “Once upon a time.” “Please go on,” she whispered eagerly.

“Then don’t interrupt me,” said Mrs. Orb Weaver, and she began again:

“Once upon a time, ever so long ago, there lived in a beautiful land called Greece a maiden named Arachne. Arachne was not only fair to look upon, but she could also spin and weave in a fashion so wondrously fine that all who saw her work said that the great Athena herself must have been her teacher. Now this surely was praise enough, but Arachne was vain. ‘Nay,’ she said, ‘no one has taught me, and gladly will I weave with the great goddess herself, and thus prove the skill to be all my own.’ Her words only shocked all who heard them, but Arachne cared not, and again repeated her wish to try her skill with Athena.

“So it happened that as she sat spinning one day an old woman, leaning on a staff, stopped by her loom.

“‘Child,’ she said in a gentle voice, ‘a great gift is yours.’

“Arachne tossed her head, and answered scornfully:

“‘Well do I know it, yet Athena dares not try her skill with mine.’

“‘Dares not?’ repeated the old dame, in tones that should have made Arachne tremble. ‘Dares not, say you? Foolish maiden, be warned in time.’

“But Arachne was too proud to yield, and she still persisted, even though the old dame had dropped her mantle, and stood revealed as the great goddess herself.

“‘Be it so,’ said Athena, sternly, and both began to weave.

“For hours their shuttles flew in and out. Arachne’s work was wonderful, but for her theme she had chosen the weakness and the failure of the gods. Athena pictured forth their greatness. The sky was her loom, and from the rainbow she chose her colours, and when her work was finished and its splendours spanned the heavens, Arachne realized that she had failed.

“Ashamed and miserable, she sought to hang herself in the meshes of her web.

“‘Nay, rash maid,’ spoke Athena; ‘thou shalt not die, but live to be the mother of a great race, the most wonderful spinners on earth.’

“Even as Athena spoke, Arachne grew smaller and smaller, until not a maiden, but a spider, hung from that marvellous web.

“And now, my friends,” finished Mrs. Orb Weaver, “need I tell you that we are the wonderful race of which Athena spoke, and need I add that we have inherited Arachne’s marvellous skill, and are truly the most wonderful spinners on earth? Now I am hungry and the meeting is adjourned.”

“So am I,” added Daddy Long Legs, “not adjourned, but hungry, and, by the way, do you imagine any one believes that old story?”

He winked at Ruth, and then moved away as fast as his long legs would carry him.

CHAPTER IV
MRS. MOSQUITO AND HER KIN

“Thou art welcome to the town, but why come here

To bleed a fellow poet gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

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:

“I—I—really don’t know.”

“I’m a female. That’s why. In all the orders, so far as I know, the singers are males. Naturally I am proud of being an exception. Well, you didn’t know that. Do you know why I don’t care for science?”

“It is just like an examination,” thought Ruth, and again she answered.

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Mrs. Mosquito. “Is there anything you do know? Well, I suppose I must tell you. I don’t care for science, because it interferes too much. Once upon a time men were our friends. We not only had nice juicy meals from them, but we had their rain barrels as nurseries for our children. Of course, what they said about us, when we came too near them, was not always complimentary, but a mosquito, attending strictly to business, doesn’t mind a little thing like that. But now come these fellows who know so much, or think they know so much. We carry malaria, they say, whatever that is, and the rain barrel must go, because it helps to breed mosquitoes. Not only that, these interfering fellows seem to spend their time thinking up ways to finish us. Well, I sting them every chance I get.”

“But alas! the rain barrel is going. I was hatched in one of the few to be found in these sad days. I was a lively baby, I can tell you. Young mosquitoes are called wrigglers and, true to my name, I wriggled for all I was worth. Now, when you know that my mother had laid something like three hundred eggs, and all had hatched into wrigglers as lively as myself, you can imagine the time there was in that old rain barrel.”

“But why,” asked Ruth “are you called wrigglers when you are young, and mosquitoes when you are grown up?”

“Why are you called baby when you are born, girl when you are half grown, and woman when you are quite grown?” replied Mrs. Mosquito, and Ruth said no more.

“Now,” went on Mrs. Mosquito, “I should like to tell you more about wrigglers, how they stand on their heads and breathe with their tails, and how they shed their skins when they become full-grown mosquitoes, but I haven’t time. The others are coming.”

“Others?” repeated Ruth. “What others?”

“The members of the Diptera order of course,” answered Mrs. Mosquito, with an important air. “You see, I found you sleeping under the tree and I knew you wanted to learn about the things that are worth while, and as we are very worth while, I sent a friend to tell all the members of our order to meet in this spot.”

“Exactly what that young mosquito told me,” said Mrs. Hessian Fly, buzzing up excitedly.

She was a dusky-winged creature, scarcely more than an eighth of an inch long.

“What is the Diptera anyhow?”

“Why, you are one,” explained Mrs. Mosquito, with a superior smile. “It is quite a tax to know things for everybody,” she said to Ruth, “but you see I am around men so much I learn a great deal. I once attended a meeting of the men who think themselves wise. I wasn’t invited, you understand, but I went, and I attracted much attention too. Well, this is what I heard: The audience will please listen, it concerns you all:

“‘The members of the order Diptera have two gauzy wings and two thread-like organs with knobs at the end in the place where most other insects have a second pair of wings. Their mouth is framed for sucking, and sometimes for piercing. Only a few make cocoons. Their larvæ are called maggots, and they have no legs. Some are vegetable eaters, some carnivorous, and many are scavengers.’ They said all that about us, and maybe it’s true, but I tell you every man in that meeting felt my sting.”

“I don’t care what they say,” remarked Mrs. Hessian Fly. “To be talked about shows our importance, though I have never doubted mine. My family is a Revolutionary one, as my ancestors came over with the Hessians. Of course you have heard of them?”

“No, I am only interested in the people who live now,” answered Mrs. Mosquito.

“Well, I live now,” said Mrs. Hessian Fly, “and I am interesting enough for any use. I don’t make galls like so many flies, but simply lay my eggs in young blades of wheat, and when my little red babies hatch, they have only to crawl down and fasten themselves to the tender stalk, just below the ground. Don’t they love the sap, though? A field of wheat looks pretty sick after they have worked on it a while. Sometimes the wheat midges help them and then it is good-by to the wheat. Mrs. Wheat Midge, you know, lays her eggs in the opening flower of the grain, and her babies eat the pollen and ovule. You may guess what happens then.”

“I think it is real horrid to do that,” said Ruth.