I think the beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on
in a graver tone:

"Now, you needn't pretend to be so particular as all that, as if you
were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is, you ought to be
very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody but a toad to do
it, how would you like that?"

There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added:

"Now you may go. Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the
air."

And then began one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and
restless banging about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has
decided on flying, but hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go.
At last, in one of its awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my
face, and by the time I had recovered from the shock, the little fairy
was gone.

I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was
no trace of her--and my "eerie" feeling was quite gone off, and the
crickets were chirping again merrily, so I knew she was really gone.

And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets. They
always leave off chirping when a fairy goes by, because a fairy's a
kind of queen over them, I suppose; at all events, it's a much grander
thing than a cricket; so whenever you're walking out, and the crickets
suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that either they see a