RUTH HEARS ABOUT SOME WATER BABIES
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk, from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
—_Tennyson._
Ruth lay in the grass, under the old willow tree, watching a dainty
little creature with a pale green body and four gauzy wings flashing
with all the tints of the rainbow.
“What a beautiful dragon fly,” she said, half under her breath. “I never
saw one so lovely before. I wonder if it is a dragon fly. Do you think
it is, Belinda?”
“I am not a dragon fly,” came in answer from the dainty creature
herself. “I’m a lacewing. Why don’t you use your eyes? It’s about time
you learned something.”
“I do want to learn,” said Ruth meekly. “I am trying all the time. I
wish you would tell me things. I thought you were prettier than most
dragon flies.”
Mrs. Lacewing looked pleased. “Now you show your taste,” she said, “and
I am quite willing to help you. Just wait a little while, and see what
happens. Then if you don’t like it, well——” And without waiting to say
more, or to let Ruth thank her, she was off.
“I think she means to come back,” said Ruth, expecting, she scarcely
knew what, “and it will be nice, I am sure. Oh, Belinda, isn’t it just
like living in Fairyland, since we can hear what they talk about? There!
what did I tell you! It is Fairyland.”
Ruth added this with a rapturous little squeeze, for just then she saw
the lacewing flying toward her, and with her many other beautiful winged
creatures.
“The order Neuroptera, or the nerve wings,” said the lacewing, flitting
close to Ruth, “that is some of them.” Then she introduced Ruth as a
friend, adding in a self-satisfied tone: “She thinks I’m beautiful, and
I quite agree with her, don’t you?”
Apparently the audience did. Of course she _was_ beautiful, and,
besides, she carried a scent bag which was not at all pleasant, and they
knew they were likely to have the full benefit of it if they
contradicted or displeased her.
“Now we’ll begin,” she went on, with the air of one who had settled all
difficulties, but the next second she stopped, and, looking at a group
of caddice flies, she asked sternly:
“Why are you here? and bless my wings, if there aren’t dragon flies, and
stone flies, and, who would believe it, May flies. Now you know that not
one of you belongs to our order.”
“Well, we belonged to it once,” answered a caddice fly, speaking for
all.
“But I don’t understand,” began Ruth.
“Then don’t say anything,” put in a dragon fly, darting before her.
“Keep quiet and listen, and you’ll learn things. Besides, it is very
rude to interrupt people.”
Ruth felt snubbed, and tried to turn her back on the dragon fly, but, as
he seemed to be everywhere at once, she found it impossible.
The caddice fly was still speaking. “We can’t always remember,” she
said, “and I should like to know what right the wise men have to take us
out of one order and put us in a sub-order.”
“Right is the last thing they think about,” spoke up a stone fly, “but I
really care very little whether I’m called Neuroptera, as I was once, or
Plecoptera, as I am now. Life is just as uncertain and full of
accidents. Why, my friends, it is the greatest wonder I lived to grow
up.” She sighed and began to fan her long, fat body with her broad fore
wings.
“You know I was once a water baby.”
“Water baby?” repeated Ruth. “Wouldn’t your wings——”
“No they wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Stone Fly, “because I hadn’t any wings
then. I was homely, flat, six-legged, and just the colour of the stone
under which I spent most of my young life, hiding. I had to hide, or the
boys would have found me and used me for bait. Think of it! Bait!”
And Mrs. Stone Fly, quite overcome, could say no more.
“We came to make a few remarks,” said one of a swarm of May flies that
had been hovering about, “but we must go now. Life is too short for
talking.”
“Poor things,” said Mrs. Lacewing, “life with them is indeed short. No
wonder they are called Ephemerida. Think of living only for a day!”
“But they lived a long time as Nymphs,” said the dragon fly, who was
still darting about, now here, now there, like a flash of living flame.
“I know, because they were water babies like me. They could eat too,
then, and the number of times they changed their skins was a caution.
Why, my friends, they even change them after they leave the water and
have their wings. No other insect does that.”
“Now, my story, in the beginning, is something like theirs. I, too, was
born in the bottom of the pond and, no doubt, I played with some of you,
or I may have tried to make a meal of you. Well, if I did I failed, and
I shouldn’t be blamed for the sins of my youth. All of us eat when we
can get the chance, and there’s no use in being sorry for the dinner. I
suppose you would like to hear how I managed to get into the pond?” He
looked at Ruth, who nodded her head, though she was still laughing at
the idea of being sorry for a dinner.
“You see,” explained Mrs. Lacewing, “the dinner might be your nearest
relation.”
“Just so,” agreed the dragon fly. “Now my mother, for of course I had a
mother, though like most pond people I never knew her——”
“Do get to the point,” said an ant lion impatiently; “we are all growing
old.”
“Well, the point is my mother,” answered the dragon fly, undisturbed,
“but first I should say that I no longer belong to the order Neuroptera,
but to the sub-order Ordonata. It means something about a tooth, but if
I have any teeth, I don’t know it. Now to get back to the point: my
mother flew down to the water one day, and when she left it there was a
cluster of small yellow eggs floating on the surface. I came from one of
those eggs, and I didn’t look like a dragon fly, I can tell you. I had
six tiny spider-like legs, but not a sign of wings, and when I breathed
it was not as I do now, like all perfect insects, through openings on
each side of my body. I had gills, and a tube at the end of my body
brought fresh water to them. This tube was a funny affair. It really
helped me along, for when I spurted water through it I was pushed
forward. Then I had a wonderful mouth, with a long under lip, that I
could dart out and catch anything within reach, while I did not need to
move my body at all.”
“Just like frogs and toads!” cried Ruth.
“Not at all,” answered the dragon fly. “They only send out their
tongues. I send out my whole under lip. If you could only keep quiet you
would not show your ignorance so plainly.”
Once more Ruth was snubbed, and the dragon fly continued:
“In time I became a pupa.”
Ruth looked the question she dared not ask.
“I’ll explain,” said the dragon fly, amiably. “Larva—that’s what I was
at first—means mask, or something that hides you. You will find out in
time, if you do not know now, that the larva of an insect is really a
mask which hides its true form. The plural of the word is larvæ. Now
pupa, plural pupæ, means baby. It is usually the state of sleep in which
the larva lies after spinning its cocoon or cradle, but in my case it
didn’t suit at all. Dragon flies, far from sleeping in the pupa state,
seem to grow more active, and their appetites are larger. Indeed, I will
say right here, everything that came my way, and was not too big, went
into my mouth. In fact, I finally reached my limit and burst.”
“Gracious!” cried Ruth in a shocked tone. “How _did_ you get yourself
together again?”
“Well, you see, the whole of me didn’t burst. I simply grew too big for
my skin, or my pupa case, as the wise men call it, and it cracked right
open. I was climbing on a water plant when this happened, for all at
once I had felt a longing to leave the water and get to the open air. My
first effort was to get rid of the useless old shell which still clung
to me, but I had quite a tussle before I could do so, and afterward I
was very weak and tired. But the result was worth all my labour, for I
found myself with these four wings, and the rest of my beautiful body,
and I needed only to dry myself before sailing away on the wind, the
swiftest thing on wings, and the most renowned mosquito killer on
record. Of course, my legs aren’t arranged for walking. Why should they
be? All six of them go forward, as if they were reaching for something,
and so they are, reaching for something to eat. Woe betide any insect I
start after. I catch him every time. I ought to, for I have thousands of
eyes, and I can fly forward, backward, or any old way. I never stop to
eat my dinner either. I hold it, and eat it as I go. Now if I had time,
I would tell you how the children of Japan make a holiday, and go out to
catch us for pets, and how they sing pretty songs to us and——”
“It is about time you stopped,” interrupted Mrs. Ant Lion. “You have
tried our patience long enough, and I mean to speak this very minute.
I’ve been told I am much like the dragon flies,” she added to the
company, “but my babies are not at all like theirs. They do not belong
to the water, and I am glad of it. I’m tired of water babies. I’ve heard
so much of them to-day. My mother had the good sense to lay her eggs in
sand, and I shall do the same. I was hungry from the minute I was
hatched, and I would have run after something to eat right away, only I
found I couldn’t. My legs were fixed in such a way I had to walk
backward.”
“Backward?” echoed Ruth.
“Yes, backward. So there was nothing to do but to dig a trap for my
dinner, and I set about it pretty quick. No one showed me how, either. I
simply used my shovel-shaped head, and before long I had made quite a
pit, broad and rounded at the top, and sloping to a point like a funnel
at the bottom. You have seen them, of course?”
“I think I have,” answered Ruth.
“They are not hard to find if you keep your eyes open,” went on the ant
lion.
“Well, as I said, I made one of these pits, and in the funnel end I lay
in wait for ants. Soon one came along, slipped over the edge, as I
expected, and tumbled right into my open mouth. Nor was she the only
one. Some were strong enough to turn, even while they were slipping, and
start to crawl up again, but I just heaped some sand on my head and
threw it at them, and down they would come. My aim was always good, so
were the ants, though I only sucked their juice. Of course I did not
leave their skins around to frighten away other ants. I piled them on my
head, and gave them a toss, which sent them some distance away. After a
time I stopped eating, and made a cocoon. Then I went to sleep!—for many
days—during which I changed wonderfully, as any one must know who has
seen ant lion babies and now sees me. This is all of my story, and I
suppose we will hear about another tiresome water baby.”
[Illustration: “‘I MADE ONE OF THESE PITS AND IN THE FUNNEL END I LAY IN
WAIT FOR ANTS’”]
“You shall hear about a water baby,” replied Mrs. Caddice Fly, waving
her antennæ by way of salute, “but tiresome will do for your own homely
children. I will begin by saying that, with the accidents of life, it is
a wonder that any of us are here. When we caddice flies were hatched we
were soft, white, six-footed babies. We were called worms, though we
were not worms. Think of it! Soft bodied, with not very strong legs,
white, and living at the bottom of the pond. Could anything be worse? No
wonder we seemed to do nothing at first but try to get away from things
that wanted to eat us. I tell you, pond life is most exciting. After a
while the front part of our bodies and our heads began to turn brown,
and, as the rest of us was white, and seemed likely to stay so, we all
decided to make a case or house to cover our white part. So we set to
work and of bits of sticks, tiny stones, and broken shells, glued
together with silk from our own bodies, we made these cases. True, many
of us went down the throat of Belostoma, the giant water bug, before we
had finished, but those of us who didn’t crawled into our little houses,
locking ourselves in by two strong hooks which grew at the end of our
bodies. We could move about, but of course we carried our houses with us
and——”
“How ridiculous!” said Mrs. Ant Lion. “Why didn’t you stay still?”
“Because we didn’t wish to,” answered the caddice fly. “We had to eat,
and we had to get away from those who wished to eat us. At last we went
to sleep, after first spinning a veil of silk over our front and back
doors. I can’t answer for the others, but when I awoke I tore open my
silken door, threw aside my pupa skin, and found I had wings. Since then
I have had a new life, but even that has its enemies, and one never
knows what will happen.”
With which doleful saying Mrs. Caddice Fly sailed away to the pond to
lay some eggs among the water plants.
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Lacewing, “we seem to need something cheerful after
that. I am glad I never lived in the water, if it makes one so blue. Now
I shall tell you what my babies _will do_, not what I _have done_. Of
course it is the same thing, but it is looking forward rather than to
the past. After this meeting is over I shall lay some eggs, on just what
plant I haven’t yet decided, but it will be in the midst of a herd of
aphides. Be sure of that. Aphides are plant lice,” she explained, seeing
the question in Ruth’s eyes. “You will learn more of them later. Now as
to the way I shall lay my eggs: First, from the tip of my body I shall
drop a thick gummy fluid, and draw it out into a long, stiff, upright
thread, and upon the end of this thread I shall fasten an egg. I shall
lay a number of eggs in this way, each on its own pole, so to speak.
Some people may think my way odd, but it is very wise. A lacewing knows
her children. They are not beautiful. Such short-legged, spindle-shaped
things couldn’t be pretty, but they are sturdy, and they have an endless
appetite.”
“I should think they would feel lonely on those ridiculous poles,” said
Mrs. Ant Lion.
“Not at all. They are not there long enough to feel lonely. They are in
too great a hurry for dinner. They are hungry, with a big H. Now just
suppose I should lay my eggs as the rest of you do, ever so many
together, what do you think would happen? I will tell you in a few
words. The dear child who came out first would eat all his unhatched
brothers and sisters. He doesn’t, only because he can’t reach them.”
“It’s a wonder he doesn’t eat his pole,” said Ruth, her face showing
what she thought of such babies.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Mrs. Lacewing, “but, strange to say, he doesn’t
seem to care for it. Indeed, he leaves it as quickly as he can, and goes
hunting. Of course he needn’t hunt far, for he is in the midst of
aphides. Every mother looks out for that, and really it is quite a
pleasure to see him suck the juice from aphid after aphid, holding each
one high in the air in his own funny way. So you can see why lacewing
babies are friends to the farmer and the fruit grower, for aphides kill
plants and trees, and young lacewings kill aphides. They can eat and eat
and eat, and never grow tired of aphides. Indeed, they really deserve
their name—aphislion. When they do stop eating it is to fall into their
long sleep, but first they weave a cocoon as beautiful as a seed pearl,
in which they change into a most lovely creature—one like me. Now our
meeting is adjourned, and I hope a certain person has learned a few
things.”
“Oh, ever and ever so many, thank you,” answered Ruth gratefully.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]