The dull, black bug sees all these bright, agile insects; and, for the
first time in his life, he feels discontented with his own low place in
the mud. A longing creeps through him that is quite different from the
customary longing for mosquitoes and flies. "I will creep up the stem of
this rush," he thinks; "and perhaps, when I reach the surface of the
water, I can dart like the little flat boatmen, or, better than all,
shoot through the air like the blue-winged dragon-fly." But, as he
crawls toilsomely up the slippery stem, the feeling that he has no wings
like the dragon-fly makes him discouraged and almost despairing. At
last, however, with much labor he has reached the surface, has crept out
of the water, and, clinging to the green stem, feels the spring air and
sunshine all about him. Now let him take passage with the boatmen, or
ask some of the little spiders to dance. Why doesn't he begin to enjoy
himself?

Alas! see his sad disappointment. After all this toil, after passing
some splendid chances of good breakfasts on the way up, and spending all
his strength on this one exploit, he finds the fresh air suffocating
him, and a most strange and terrible feeling coming over him, as his
coat-of-mail, which until now was always kept wet, shrinks, and seems
even cracking off while the warm air dries it.

"Oh," thinks the poor bug, "I must die! It was folly in me to crawl up
here. The mud and the water were good enough for my brothers, and good
enough for me too, had I only known it; and now I am too weak, and feel
too strangely, to attempt going down again the way I came up."

See how uneasy he grows, feeling about in doubt and dismay, for a
darkness is coming over his eyes. It is the black helmet, a part of his
coat-of-mail; it has broken off at the top, and is falling down over his