Mrs. Potato Bug did not return. A sister bug rose to speak when the meeting opened after dinner. There had been a sad tragedy in the potato field, she told them, and even at that very minute the farmer and the farmer’s men, armed with barrels of “pizens,” were waging a warfare in which millions of potato bugs were going down to their death. “Alas! my friends,” she finished with a sigh that seemed to come from the very tips of her six feet, “no words can paint the dreadful scene. She who was here but a short while ago, so chipper and so gay, even she was giving her last gasp as I fled from the field of carnage.”

The story moved the audience deeply, and all agreed that something should be done to suppress the farmers. It was even suggested to appoint a committee to consider ways and means, but at this point a very young potato bug asked the question:

“If there were no farmers, who would plant potatoes for us?”

“No one,” answered Mrs. Sawyer, who was there just as self-important as ever. “Then maybe there would be no potato bugs, and I for one wouldn’t be sorry.”

“Indeed,” said the potato bug who had told the tale of battle, “I’d have you know we are Colorado beetles, if you please, and our family has a world-wide fame. We are true Americans, too, and not emigrants from Europe, like many other insects, and that reminds me: The other day when I was having a nice chew on some very juicy potato leaves, I heard somebody say to somebody else: ‘Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West.’ He said a lot more, but I heard that plainly, and I wondered if he meant our family, and didn’t know our name, because, you know, we came out of the West.”

“I am sure he didn’t mean you,” said Ruth, who was in her old place right in the middle of the meeting. “That line is from a lovely piece of poetry about——”

“No one asked your opinion,” answered the potato bug angrily. “It is bad enough to have outsiders force themselves in, without being obliged to hear their silly remarks.”

Ruth’s face grew red, and she was about to reply, when Mrs. Sawyer whispered in her ear.

“Don’t mind her, she is only a potato bug.”

It was well that Mrs. Potato Bug did not hear this. “Before 1859,” she was saying, “our home was in the shade of the Rocky Mountains. There we fed on sandspur, a plant belonging to the potato family, and the East knew us not. It was only after the white settlers came West and planted potatoes that we found out how much nicer a potato leaf is than a sandspur leaf, so of course we ate potato leaves. We came East, travelling from patch to patch, and by 1874 we had conquered the country to the Atlantic Ocean. That shows what a smart family we must be, and I will tell you how we do. We lay our eggs on the potato leaves, and our children find their dinner all ready, and, as they hatch with splendid appetites, they get right to work. Those that hatch in the Fall sleep all Winter in the ground and come out as beetles in the Spring, just in time to lay more eggs. So we keep things going, especially the potatoes.” And Mrs. Potato Bug retired with the air of one quite proud of herself.

Her place was taken by a little ladybug, looking quite pretty in her reddish-brown dress, daintily spotted with black.

“I have several cousins,” she said, “of different colours, but all spotted and all friends to farmers and fruit growers, for we eat the aphides and scale bugs which do so much harm to plants. We are called bugs, but of course we are beetles. I could tell you a story——”

“Never mind the story,” said a great brown blundering fellow, much to Ruth’s regret, for she wanted to hear the story.

“Excuse my awkwardness,” said the newcomer. “It bothers me to fly by day. I like to go around the evening lamps. I can buzz loud enough for a fellow three inches long, though I am really not one. I am called a June bug, and I’m really a May beetle. What do you think of that? I have been told that the farmers do not like us, nor our children either. They are such nice, fat, white grubs too. They do love to suck the roots of plants though, and, as we grown fellows are just as fond of the leaves, between us we make the poor old plants pretty sick.”

“I wish something had made you sick before you came here to disturb quiet folks with your buzzing,” said a large blue beetle, dropping some oil from her joints in her excitement.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she added when Ruth spoke to her about it. “It only proves that I have a right to be called an oil beetle. In these days it is so important to know who is who.”

Ruth was watching the oozing oil curiously.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” was the answer. “It is perfectly natural. I can’t move about fast, I am too fat, and I haven’t any wings to speak of. So when anything disturbs me I can only play ’possum and drop oil. I wasn’t always like this, though,” she went on, with a heavy sigh. “Would you believe it? I was born under a stone in a field of buttercups. I was tiny, but my body had thirteen joints and three pairs of as active little legs as you ever saw. Each had a claw on it too. What do you think of that? I used my legs right away to climb a nearby flower stalk. Something inside of me seemed to tell me just what to do, and when a bee came flying by, though she looked like a giant, I wasn’t a bit afraid, but I popped on her back, and clutched so tight with my six little claw-like legs she couldn’t have gotten me off if she had tried. But maybe she didn’t know I was there. Anyway, I had some lovely free rides, for she flew from flower to flower, and then she went home.”

“Oh,” interrupted Ruth, “did you go right into the hive?”

“Yes, but I didn’t notice much about it at first. I felt very tired, and I can only remember dropping from her back and going to sleep. When I awoke a funny thing had happened.”

“What?” asked Ruth, full of curiosity.

“My legs were gone, and only a half dozen short feelers were left me instead. But I didn’t mind. I was in one of the tiny rooms of the hive, and there was a nice fat bee baby for me to eat. I didn’t lose any time either; I was hungry. Besides the baby there were bee bread and honey. Who could ask for more? Indeed, I ate so much I went to sleep again, and, would you believe me? in that sleep I lost even my short feelers, and, worst of all, my mouth.”

“Gracious!” said Ruth.

“I suppose after that I slept again, for what’s the use of staying awake if you can’t eat? But that nap finished me. I waked up looking as I do now. It was a sad change. Maybe that is why I feel so blue and am called the indigo beetle.”

“I don’t see why you changed so many times,” said Ruth.

“Neither do I. No other insect does, but I suppose it has to be. I shall soon lay my eggs, and that no doubt will be the end of me. We seem to begin and end with eggs.”

She sighed heavily, and went on: “I have a cousin who is used to make blisters on people. Think of it! She is called Spanish fly, and she is no more a fly than you are.”

“Does she bite them to make the blister?” asked Ruth.

“Dear me, no! The poor thing is dried and made into powder and then spread with ointment on a cloth. That makes the blister. I suppose it takes ever so many of my poor cousins for just one blister. I tell you, life is sad.”

“Do stop that sort of thing, I can’t stand it!” said a plain, slender little beetle, with no pretensions to beauty of any sort. “I came here as a special favour, and then I am forced to hear such talk as that. I am never at my best in the day, and you should know it. Some of you complain of being called bug, and others object to the name fly. Now I am as much a beetle as any of you, and I’ve been called both bug and fly.”

“A lightning bug?” cried Ruth.

“Yes, and also firefly, and if it was dark I’d prove it. Of course my light can’t be seen in the day, and generally I’m not to be seen either, for we fireflies hide away on the leaves of plants until it begins to grow dark. Then we come out, and have gay times flying over the meadows. Some of our family who live in warm climates are so large and bright they are used to read by. Not only that, ladies wear them as they would jewels, and in Japan——”

But the firefly could say no more, for just at this moment some whirligig beetles came flying in and every one turned to look at them.

“I should like to know what those fellows are doing here,” said a bumble-bee beetle, making such a loud humming that Mrs. Sawyer declared she thought a real bumble bee was in their midst. “People who live in the water shouldn’t belong to our family, anyhow. I can’t imagine any one liking the water.”

“That’s because you are not a water beetle,” answered one of the whirligigs.

“Why, the water is the most sociable place in the world. Something lively happening all the time. Constant changes too. Those who are with us one moment are gone the next, but that is life on land as well as in the water for us insects. Dinner is always our first thought. Of course we water fellows are fitted for our life. We are put together more tightly than you land beetles, and we are boat-shaped besides. We use our hind legs for paddles, and we have wings with which we can leave the water if we wish. We whirligigs are sociable fellows, always a lot of us together, and such fun as we have dancing and whirling about in the water! We don’t often dive unless something is after us.”

“You must have very good times,” said Ruth, watching the shiny, bluish black little beetles with eager attention. Then she asked quite suddenly:

“Have you four eyes?”

“No, my dear,” answered the first speaker, “we have only two. They look like four, because they are divided into upper and lower halves. So you see we can look up and down at the same time, and, I tell you, insects need to step lively to keep out of our way. Good times? I should say we did have good times. Now to the surface to snatch bubbles of air with the tiny hairs on the tip of our tails, and then down again for a race or a game of tag with our friends. No, not all the water beetles are as frisky as we are. Some are—now what is that?”

The whirligig might well ask the question, for a sound like a tiny popgun had broken in upon his remarks, and the whole audience, including Ruth of course, was looking at a greenish blue beetle who had just come in, leaving a fine trail of smoke behind him. It was he who had made the queer noise, and he seemed quite disturbed by the sensation he was creating.

“Do excuse me,” he begged. “I really forgot I was among friends.”

“I should think so,” answered the elater, looking at him sternly. “A beetle who carries a gun should be careful about using it.”

“Well, I try to be careful, but accidents will happen.”

“Yes, you might really call it a gun,” he said, in answer to Ruth’s question, “and I have been named the Bombardier beetle because I carry it. When men try to catch me, I shoot it off, though I suppose it really doesn’t hurt them, but it quite blinds my insect enemies until I can get away, anyhow. Oh, no, I do not use balls or shot. It is a fluid, in a sac at the end of my body, and when I spurt it out it turns to gas, and looks like smoke.”

“Well, we have had talk enough for to-day,” interrupted the elater, and the Bombardier beetle said no more.

“Talk?” repeated Mrs. Sawyer, “I should say so. Very tiresome talk too. Now I’m going out to lay some eggs. I know a lovely tree.”

“That’s all she thinks about,” said the elater. “I’m sure we have had a very interesting meeting, and I made the main issue very plain.”