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SOMETHING ABOUT BEETLES
(APRIL)

I EXPECT that most of you have seen some of the wonderful foreign beetles, whose wing-covers gleam and sparkle with colour as though they were studded with jewels; and some of you, perhaps, may have envied the small Black Folks down south, who have the chance of finding such beautiful things. But if you have a microscope, or even a magnifying glass, or if you know some one who will lend you either, you need not envy the small Black Folks at all, for here, in our own dear country, there are hosts and hosts of beetles as beautiful as any in the world. But there is always a something, isn't there? and the something in this case is that they are so very, very small. There is another something, and that is that nearly all of them have such very, very long names. The reason for this is that the young people were not the first to find them. If they had done so they would certainly have given them names which grownups could understand, just as the young people of long ago christened Tom-Tit and Jenny Wren, and Daddy Long-legs and Flitter Mouse. All these names have lived since they were first made, and they will live, I think, long after some much more learned names for the same things have been altogether forgotten.

Now I must tell you how to find these beautiful little beetles, and I think that you will be able to find them very soon after you have read these lines, for the spring-time will have come, and the May will have flowered, and there is nothing that the little beetles like better than May-buds. All you have to do is to find a May-tree (it doesn't matter if it is white or pink, and it needn't even be a May-tree so long as there is plenty of blossom on it) and hit one of the branches with a stick, and hold a butterfly-net, or an old umbrella, or a piece of newspaper, or even your hat (an old hat is best) underneath, and catch what falls from the branches. You will find all sorts of things, but among them there are sure to be some tiny long-snouted beetles which are called Rhynchophora. That is a dreadful name, isn't it? but I think that the English word "weevils" is just as ugly. Though they are very small indeed, you will see at once that they have very wonderful colours. Probably you will catch an emerald-green one, and a sky-blue one, and perhaps a little square-shaped scarlet one, which is not very uncommon, and there may come a red-letter day when you catch one of the most beautiful little beetles in the world, who is green and crimson and gold. I have done this twice myself.

The Stag-Beetle

There are so many different beetles in our country that no one has ever collected all of them. Most are very small indeed, like the weevils, but a few are quite big, and I am showing you pictures of some of the largest.

Perhaps I ought to tell you how to know a beetle when you see one. This sounds easy enough, but it is not quite as easy as it sounds. All beetles have six legs (beetles' bodies are divided into three parts, and the legs grow out of the middle part); nearly all of them have strong, horny covers for their wings, and all of them have their skeletons outside. This sounds a very topsy-turvy arrangement, but it is quite true. We have our bones inside, and our flesh outside, but beetles have their bones outside and their flesh inside. Sometimes you may see beetles crushed flat in the road, but often they are trodden on or run over without being killed; and the reason for this is that their hard, outside skeletons prevent their soft insides from being altogether squashed up. Once I ran over a Stag-beetle on my bicycle—it was nearly dark at the time, and I was over him before I could get out of his way. Now a big Stag-beetle weighs about an eighth of an ounce, and I am rather a heavy person—indeed, with my bicycle thrown in I should think that I must weigh over two hundredweight, which is about thirty thousand times as much as the Stag-beetle. You can imagine how surprised I was to find that the Stag-beetle was not hurt. I ought to tell you, though, that the road was soft, and that my bicycle-tyres were not blown up hard, so perhaps the Stag-beetle did not get all my weight on his back—but, anyhow, it was a wonderful escape for him, wasn't it?

The Stag-Beetle

This is the one that I ran over on my bicycle

The two largest beetles in this country are the Stag-beetle and the Great Black Water Beetle. I am not sure which should really be called the larger of the two, for it seems hardly fair to count the Stag-beetle's antlers, and if we leave these out, I fancy that the Great Black Water Beetle has the bigger body. It is curious that these two large beetles should be such quiet, easy-going things, and that they should never dream of eating beetles smaller than themselves.

The Female Stag-Beetle, whose antlers are quite short, and two Stag-Beetle Grubs

The Great Water Beetle

Who looks as if he was silver-plated underneath

But so it is, for both of them, the Stag-beetle on land and the Great Water Beetle in the ditch, eat scarcely anything at all, and, when they do eat, are quite content to suck the juices out of plants. One reason for these big beetles eating so little is, I think, the very long time which they have for feeding while they are caterpillars—beetle caterpillars, by the way, are always called "grubs" or "larvæ," and beetle chrysalises are called "pupæ." The grubs of the Stag-beetle live on decaying wood (you may sometimes find them at the bottom of an old gate post which has decayed under the ground), and take three or four years to become "full-fed." The grub of the Great Water Beetle spends all his time (three or four years, too, I expect) in the water, and I think he feeds on decaying plants, but I am not sure of this. Some people say that the Stag-beetle uses his great antlers to crush twigs and leaves so as to get the juice. This may be so, but I have never seen him do it.

The Musk Beetle

Who has a very nice smell

Another big and beautiful insect is the Musk Beetle. As you see in the picture, he has very long horns and a narrow body. He is a beautiful bronze green all over, and must be a wonderful sight when he is flying in the sunshine. I have never seen him fly myself, but people who have say that his legs and horns stream out behind him, so that he must look like a little green Heron. Perhaps the most wonderful thing about him, however, is his scent. I expect most of you know those little round pink sweets which are called "cachous." He smells just like the taste of those, and that is why he is called Musk Beetle.

Another big beetle I have to show you is the Cockchafer. You must look at his picture carefully, because it shows you how a beetle lifts up his hard wing-covers when he is going to fly. Some beetles, the Burying Beetle for one, turn these wing-covers almost upside down when they are flying, so that the hollowed side is uppermost. I expect that this helps to keep them up when they are flying, and perhaps it helps them to start as well.

The Cockchafer Raising its Wing-covers just before taking Flight

Of course you have all heard of the wonderful flying machines which are now being made. To fly at all, you must be able to do three things: lift yourself up, keep yourself up, and move about. If you can do these three things just as quickly and just as slowly as you want to, you will be able to fly perfectly. The hardest puzzle of all is how to make a machine which will keep itself up (and the right way up too) without moving about very quickly. This is what many birds can do so beautifully, and I expect that in time (all great inventions take a long time to make perfect, and they are never the work of one man alone, but rather of one man helped by the work of many men who lived before him) machines will be made in which men will be able to fly as perfectly as birds. At present they only fly as perfectly as beetles, but that they should be able to do this is a very wonderful thing. The great difference, in flying, between a beetle and a bird like a gull, is that the beetle has to keep going full speed all the time, or else he will tumble down to the ground, while a bird like a gull can poise balanced in the air, with just a flap or turn of his wings now and then to keep himself the right way up.

The Churchyard Beetle

When this Beetle is cross, he puts his head down, and rears up backwards as if he were going to kick

BUNNY RABBIT
(LADY DAY)

AUTHOR'S NOTE

THERE are "go-to-bury" rabbits and "stub" rabbits. The "go-to-bury" rabbits have the longest ears, but the "stub" rabbits, as any stoat will tell you, are the best for dinner.

Moreover, there are rabbits and bunny rabbits—but all were bunny rabbits once.

BUNNY Rabbit missed the bluebells, though these rang in his birth.

Up rose the kingly foxgloves, tier upon tier of them pink-purple, but Bunny Rabbit missed these too.

A golden world—the ragwort blazing on the slope, below the mellowing corn-field, and, mantling primrose hills, the dawn.

Now Bunny Rabbit was ready.

The burrow winds in four sharp turns, and, at each one, he stubbed his nose. This through a mad desire to keep near Mother; for Mother's tail bobbed in quick jerks, shaving each corner to a hair, and he and all his brothers raced to catch it. They reached the entrance packed as one, but Bunny Rabbit, squirming clear, shot past the uplifted paw, butted his waiting Father, flung off him like a smoke-puff, and landed on his back six feet below.

That is why he has a separate history.

It was indeed sharp change of circumstance. The nursery had been pitch-black, though one short gleam of light had reached it daily. That was when Mother Rabbit snatched her food, and sealed the entrance up for fear of Father. At other times she screened her babies' eyes. So now the sunshine blinded Bunny Rabbit, and pointed grass-stems pricked a skin which nothing harder than breast-fur had touched.

AND LANDED ON HIS BACK SIX FEET BELOW

He took some minutes to collect his wits, then twisted upright, and, with frightened eyes, sought guidance.

But for the woolscrap all would have been well.

Mother Rabbit was close at hand, feeding his brothers with small sprigs of green. Father Rabbit was close too. The sight of his lost wife had softened him. He purred approval. He licked the children's noses.

Assuredly the lost would have been found, but for the woolscrap. The woolscrap fluttered, wind-borne, down the slope, and Bunny Rabbit nature-taught, went after it.

It led him far.

It caught on brambles and then flicked away. It plunged in little valleys. It mounted little hills. It bobbed and jerked and twisted, and Bunny Rabbit, panting hard, pursued.

At last he caught it, checked upon a grass-stem, and—it wasn't Mother after all!

Bunny Rabbit sat down bewildered. He was hot with running; his ears were prickly, his coat was rumpled. He combed his ears out, one by one, brushed down his face, and nibbled all the fur that he could reach. Then he felt better.

He combed his ears out, one by one

The morning breeze gained appetite and sent the woolscrap once more on its travels. Bunny Rabbit took no heed of it—he watched and heard the awakening of the wood. Bird notes, that in the burrow had been restful, now screamed and whistled in his ear. Out from the shelter-side of leaves, out from the heart of flowers, out from the grass-stems and from earth itself, came whirring, humming, buzzing insects. In this new myriad-peopled world there seemed small room for loneliness. A red mouse bobbed up from his hole, stared at him curiously, then whisked about and vanished. Bright eyes bejewelled the grass-tufts. Here a flick-footed lizard, here a slow-trailing blindworm, here a squat toad. The day-moths woke and flitted leaf to leaf. The bee-fly clambered up the thyme, poised hovering, vanished slantwise, and vanishing, reappeared.

This was full entertainment, and Bunny Rabbit stared round-eyed. He stared till hunger gripped him. His brothers, a bare hundred yards away, already had acquired the art of nibbling. He had no teacher, and no wits by which to teach himself. So, though food lay on every side, he starved. He felt a craving he had never known; a tightening of his fluffy body; an ache for Mother. Mother would set things straight for him, but where to find her was beyond his reasoning.

He wandered aimlessly this way and that; he nosed the bushes aimlessly; he stepped on Berus the Adder, because to him an adder, neatly coiled, was merely speckled ground.

Berus the Adder, though infuriate, forebore to strike. Venom is far too precious to be squandered, and baby rabbits are too large to swallow. He swayed his ugly head, and slowly, very slowly, he stretched forward. This was enough for Bunny Rabbit, who spun about and left the wind behind.

HE WATCHED AND HEARD THE AWAKENING OF THE WOOD

Before he had been lured by Hope, now Terror thrust her goad at him. He leapt two thorn-stumps blindly, and, stumbling, plunged head-deep into the ant-hill.

The ant-hill covers two square yards of ground, and every inch of it is peopled. Though soft, it is no place to fall on. Its citizens resent intrusion—nay, more, resent it actively.

When Bunny Rabbit reached the grass he felt the pricking of a thousand needles. The pain and smart of them half maddened him. He rolled upon his back; he scraped his neck on stones; he writhed; he bit himself.

The pain eased as his torturers dropped off him. Once more he tried to run, but in ten yards his strength was gone. His fore-paws flopped and stumbled, his hind paws dragged, his nose was bruised, his coat was hot and steamy. So he flung down bewildered, scraped an imaginary bed (a poor half-hearted scraping), slid out his feet, and lay full length, eyes closed.

Berus the Adder

Nothing now seemed to matter much. The hornet moth came whirring past his ears, he never heard it; the drone fly danced upon his nose, he never felt it; the Man lay almost at his side, he never saw him. Poor tired-out baby! Nature had ordered sleep and so he slept.

*****

The Man woke slowly. Nature had been his comfort, too, though sleep had not refreshed him. He rose half-dreaming, with a smile. "All right, little girl," he said; then his face tightened. "It's the same place," he muttered, "just where we lost the locket. First bluebell, then foxglove, then ragwort; blue, purple, and gold. It was the gold she loved."

The woodland rang with voices, but Bunny Rabbit slept until man spoke. Then he leapt up and found himself a prisoner.

"You sha'n't be hurt, Bunny," said the Man.

Bunny Rabbit ceased his wriggling, and lay quite limp, his eyes upturned, his nose a-quiver.

"Why lying in the open?" said the Man "foolish, foolish Bunny. What's to be done with you? Stoats and foxes and hawks, Bunny. You can't be left, that's certain. You can't be taken to your Mother, for I don't know your Mother. You can't be taken to your hole, for I don't know your hole. Hungry, Bunny? You look as though you'd travelled. Try some grass."

Bunny Rabbit knew nothing of grass and kept his teeth tight-clenched.

"You must eat something," said the Man.

He loosed one hand to reach a groundsel-top, and Bunny Rabbit, squirming clear, slipped deep into his pocket.

"Well, it's your own choice, Bunny. Now you come home with me."

It was dark and warm and soft inside the pocket. The Man took swinging downhill strides, and, at each stride, the folds changed shape. Now they were loose and twisty, and Bunny Rabbit stretched full length to fill them. Now they were tightened to a ball, and Bunny Rabbit tightened as the centre.

The Man paused as he reached the corn, and stepped two paces up again. He stooped, and Bunny Rabbit was inverted. He rose, and Bunny Rabbit found his feet. But now he was more cramped than ever. He lay deep in the farthest corner. Over, and on all sides of him, was packed a stifling mass of green.

Then Bunny Rabbit used his teeth, axe-fashion at first, but soon to better purpose. The lesson that he should have long since learnt was now enforced by circumstance.

He bit and tasted.

*****

"Bunny Rabbit," said the Man, "your ears are abnormal."

Bunny Rabbit lay crouched upon the hearthrug, blinking. At first he had found covert in the curtains, but these had been looped up. Then he had squeezed behind the bookcase and been, with difficulty, extracted. Then he had set himself to dig. The carpet had repaid him with some fluff. The doormat and the wicker chair seemed promising, but he made little headway, and so had lain down tired.

Lay full Length, Eyes closed

"Very abnormal ears, Bunny," the Man went on. "This smacks of the domestic. Then why so frightened?"

But Bunny Rabbit was more tired than frightened.

"More food, Bunny?" A bunch of green had lain upon the floor but every scrap had vanished.

"You've had enough for one day, Bunny. It's bedtime, up you come."

So Bunny Rabbit slept that night on blankets, he and the moonshine. The Man tossed restlessly and Bunny Rabbit watched his moving lips. Twilight crept in soft-footed, and Bunny Rabbit took three little jumps and wormed inside the bed-clothes.

*****

"Slept well, Bunny?" said the Man; "it's more than I have. I've made my mind up, Bunny. I'm going. I can't bear the house. I can't bear the rooms. They're empty, empty, empty."

The Man stepped slowly down the stairs and Bunny Rabbit stumbled after him. He reached the hall and paused, then caught up Bunny Rabbit, and once more ascended. He entered every upstairs room and gazed as though to clinch them on his memory. He entered every downstairs room, and in one room, the loneliest of all, he sat and cried his heart out.

*****

"We're homeless, Bunny Rabbit," said the Man. "But you're the better off, for your home's somewhere here."

They had got half-way up the slope. The Man stood tall among the ragwort, and Bunny Rabbit, with wide, frightened eyes, clung to his shoulder.

The Man stooped down, and Bunny Rabbit slid to earth.

"Now you must find your home or make one," said the Man, and Bunny Rabbit straightway tried to make one. He plunged his forepaws in the ground and scratched. The dust flew out behind and, in the midst, shot something hard and glittering.

It was a small gold locket.

The Man bent down and picked it up. He opened it and with dimmed eyes he kissed it.

"You've done me a good turn," he said—"of course it's pure coincidence," and Bunny Rabbit watched him out of sight.

Bunny Rabbit watched Him out of Sight

A BUTTERFLY PAINT-BOX
(MAY)

I WONDER how many of my young readers know why these dainty flying creatures are called "Butterflies"?

We all know what butter is, and we know, too, that there are quite a number of English words which begin with "butter." It is not a pretty beginning, is it? But there it is. Let us think of a few—butter-fly, butter-cup, butter-wort, butter-fingers, butter-scotch—why, one can think of half a dozen straight away.

Now this shows us clearly that "butter" is a very old word, and that the people of long ago (who were much less clever than we are, perhaps) must have used it quite naturally when they wanted to describe anything which was squashy, or pasty, or greasy, or slippery, or yellow.

The Brimstone Butterfly

After whom all "Butterflies" are probably called

Look at the picture at the top of the next page. I wish I could have given it to you in its proper colours. It looks much nicer like that. Look at it carefully. No other English butterfly has the same pretty curves to its wings, and some of you, I dare say, will know what it is by its shape. But I must tell those who do not know. It is a Brimstone Butterfly, and its colour is bright, bright yellow with an orange spot in the middle of each wing (you can only see one wing in the picture, the other three are hidden behind it; one way to tell a butterfly from a moth is to remember that butterflies' wings close standing up, but nearly all moths' wings close down flat).

It is almost certain that this insect was the first insect to be called "Butter"-fly because of its butter colour. When people began to see that there were other pretty flying things of much the same shape, though of quite different colours, they called them all Butterflies after this first one.

The Red Admiral

A Butterfly of many beautiful colours

So we speak, nowadays, without ever thinking of how funny it really is, of blue butterflies and white butterflies and black butterflies and purple butterflies, and red and yellow and green butterflies—all the colours of the rainbow, in fact.

The Purple Emperor

The most gorgeous Butterfly in England, though not by any means the most beautiful

We would hardly talk of black butter or purple butter, would we?

Some of you will perhaps wonder why the Brimstone Butterfly was the first to be noticed when there are so many others which are just as common.

I think I can tell you.

The Clifden Blue

The Brimstone is almost always the first butterfly to be seen in the spring. Most butterflies die towards the autumn, and leave eggs behind, which hatch out in the following year, but the Brimstone, and a few others, sleep through the cold winter months and come out in the first warm days of spring and then lay their eggs. The Brimstone comes out first of all, often quite early in February, and so he is the first butterfly that is likely to be noticed in the year.

Perhaps his coming out at a time when cows began to give more milk, and butter began to be more plentiful, had something to do with his being called "butterfly," but I think that his colour had more to do with it.

The Swallow-Tail Butterfly

Almost a paint-box in itself. It will give you blue, red, black and yellow. It is only found in the Cambridgeshire Fens

What lovely colours butterflies are! Have you ever fancied a butterfly paint-box? Let us think of a few common colours, and see how we could fill it. Suppose we wanted a blue? Why we should have a whole family of butterflies "The Blues" to choose from, and we should be just as well off for blacks and browns. For red we could take the beautiful scarlet ribbon of the Red Admiral. "Why is he called Admiral?" you ask. Well, Admiral is the same as Admirable, and his old name was Red Admirable. For purple we should have the Purple Emperor and the Purple Hair-streak—there is no purple quite so glorious as the purple that these have on their wings. For orange, the Orange-tip and the Clouded Yellow. For yellow, the Brimstone and several others. For white, of course, the Whites. Green might bother us a little, but there is one English butterfly, the Green Hair-streak, whose wings are a beautiful green underneath. As he is our only green butterfly I give you his picture. He is the upper butterfly in the first picture and, as you see, quite a little one.

The Black Pepper Moth

Probably quite the blackest Moth we have. They vary very much in colouring though

We must not forget gold and silver. When I was young, I expected to find gold and silver in a really nice paint-box, and I do not suppose young people have changed much since then. Silver we should have no trouble about. There is a big family of butterflies called the Fritillaries, who have wonderful patches and ribbons of silver on their wings. I do not think you will find gold, except perhaps a little gold powder, on any English butterfly, but you will find it on several chrysalises. Indeed, Chrysalis means "the little golden one," and the name was given to these queer spiky things because gold patches were so often seen on them.

The Silver Washed Fritillary

The silver is in broad bands on the under wings

I have seen little pictures made with the scales of butterflies' wings, with blue skies and green trees and everything. So you see a butterfly paint-box is not altogether a make-believe, though it is not an easy paint-box for young people to paint with.