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And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely and completely as in the mud? A state of existence, without mud at the bottom, must be a life without repose.

I was in the mud one day, head downwards, when human voices came to me through the water. It was summer, and the pond was low at the time.

“Oh, Francis! Francis! The Water-Soldier[D] is in flower.”

“Hooray! Dig him up for the aquarium! Grandfather says it’s very rare–doesn’t he?”

“He says it’s not at all common; and there’s only one, Francis. It would be a pity if we didn’t get it up by the roots, and it died.”

“Nonsense, Molly. I’ll get it up. But let’s get the beasts first. You get the pickle-jar ready, whilst I fix the stick on to the colander.”

“Does cook know you’ve taken it, Francis?”

“By this time she does, I should think. Look here, Molly–I wish you would try and get this stick right. It wants driving through the handles. I’m just going to have a look at the Water-Soldier.”

“You always give me the work to do,” Molly complained; and as she spoke, I climbed up an old stake that was firmly planted in the mud, and seated myself on the top, which stood out of the water, and looked at her.

She was a neat-looking little soul, with rosy cheeks, and a resolute expression of countenance. She looked redder and firmer than usual as she drove the broomstick through the handles of the colander, whilst the boy was at the other side of the pond with the Water-Soldier, whose maiden-blossom shone white among its sword-leaves.

It shone in the sunshine which came gaily through a gap in the trees, and warmed my coat through to my wings, and made the pond look lovely. That greedy Ranatra, who eats so much, and never looks a bit the more solid for his meals, crept up a reed and sunned his wings; the water-gnats skimmed and skated about, measuring the surface of the water with their long legs; the “boatmen” shot up and down till one was quite giddy, showing the white on their bodies, like swallows wheeling for their autumn-flight. Even the water-scorpion moved slowly over a sunny place from the roots of an arrow-head lily to a dark corner under the duck-weed.

“Molly!” shouted the boy; “I wish you’d come and give a pull at the Water-Soldier. I’ve nearly got him up; but the leaves cut my hands, and you’ve got gloves. If the colander is ready, I’ll begin to fish. There’s a beetle on that stick. I wish I were near enough, I could snatch him up like anything.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Molly. “Grandfather says that water-beetles have got daggers in their tails. Besides, some of the beetles are very greedy and eat the fish.”

“The Big Black one doesn’t,” said Francis. “He said so. Hydroeus piceus is the name, and I dare say that’s the one. It’s the biggest of all the water-beetles and very harmless.”

“He may be a good one,” said Molly, looking thoughtfully and unmistakably at me, “but then he may be one of the bad ones; and if he is, he’ll eat everything before him.”

But by this time Francis was dipping the colander in and out on the opposite side, and she was left to struggle with the Water-Soldier.

“He’s up at last,” she announced, and the Soldier was landed on the bank.

“Come round,” said the boy; “I’ve filled three jars.”

“I hope you’ve been careful, Francis. You know Grandfather says that to stock a fresh-water aquarium is like the puzzle of the Fox and the Geese and the bag of seed. It’s no use our having things that eat each other.”

“They must eat something,” said the boy; “they’re used to it at home; and I wish you wouldn’t be always cramming Grandfather down my throat. I want to do my aquarium my own way; and I gave most towards buying the bell-glass, so it’s more mine than yours.”