and making us a tiresome metaphor. We are much like you human
creatures--only we don't compare ourselves continually with
others. We just scorch ourselves as we please. My cousin,
Noctilia Glow-worm, who is out late o' nights on the grass-bank
in poor company--the Katydids, who board for the season with the
widow Poplar--a two-sided, deceitful woman--she does not care
where I go, and never shrieks out, 'A burnt moth dreads the lamp
chimney.' If she sees me wingless, she coughs, and throws out
a green light, but says nothing. Don't mind me; there's more
coming."

It can't be moths making such a noise on the second shelf. It is
Tom, who calls out to us, from his room, to come, and help him
catch a bat.

"Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wings."

"Always mouthing something," somebody mutters. But we rush into
Tom's room, and behold him in the middle of the floor, flopping
north and south, east and west, with a towel. No bat is to be
seen. I hear a pretty singing, however, and declare it to be
from a young swallow fallen down the chimney; but as there is
no fire-place in the room, my opinion goes for nothing. Tom
maintains that it is a bat; that it flew in by the window; and
that it is behind the bureau. He is right, for the bat whirrs
up to the ceiling and from that height accosts us in a squeaking
voice:

"I am weak-eyed, am I? and my wings are leathery? Catch me,