"Pretty well, thanks," replied the May-fly grub. "There was a roach, who wanted to eat me; and two caddis-grubs, who tugged¹ at me; and a whirligig, who bit me in one of my legs. Otherwise, I've had a capital time."

 

Aren't you almost ready?"

 

"To-day or to-morrow, I think."

 

"Take care you don't meet with an accident first," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler, kindly².

 

Goody Cray-Fish crept round restlessly:

 

"Food's scarce," she said. "Oh, if I were only a smart bird and could fly away! But, it's true, you're angry with me, ma'am, and I hardly dare speak to you."

 

"I was very angry with you," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler. "But, since then, I have experienced such horrors that I've almost forgotten it. I have made the acquaintance of a spider who ate her own mother."

 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said the cray-fish. "That's enough to upset any mother."

 

"So it is. She also ate her husband."

 

"I don't say that's right," said the cray-fish. "But at any rate it's more excusable, for men are neither more nor less than monsters. Oh, of course, I make an exception of your own husband, ma'am."

 

"Is it true, Goody Cray-Fish?" said Mrs. Reed-Warbler—"tell me, did you really eat your children?"

 

"I had the misfortune to eat seven of them," replied the cray-fish, with a woebegone face. "But it was out of sheer love. They were so nice. And, as I was patting them with my claws, I happened to touch them too hard. So I had to eat them myself, rather than let them go to strangers."

 

"It's terrible to listen to," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

 

"Yes, it's sad," said the cray-fish. "But their troubles are over now, poor little dears, while their hundred and ninety-three brothers and sisters have to go on struggling through this wicked world! Goodness alone knows how many of them are still alive and how they are doing!"

 

"Yes, it's a wicked world," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

 

"Would you mind telling me, ma'am?" asked the cray-fish, "don't you think a body might get away from the pond?"

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