ndency to lose
its head, sometimes watching the destruction by fire of an unusually
wicked worm city, and frequently with their heads stuck into some
suspicious bush, where they appear to be watching invisible things with
breathless interest.

[Illustration: The Bug Hunters.]

Father and I chanced upon them when thus employed the other morning.
Martin turned about and in the most serious manner began to dilate upon
the peculiarities of worms in general and particular, as well as of the
appropriateness of their study by the book collector, as the score and a
half insects that injure books and their bindings are not worms at all,
having none of the characteristics of the veritable book worm _Sitodrepa
panicea_, to all of which Miss Lavinia listened with devout attention.

"What makes them act so?" I said, half to myself, as we drove on, and
father stopped shaking with laughter. "There isn't the slightest reason
why they should not go to walk together; why do they manoeuvre with all
the transparency of ostriches?"

"It's another manifestation of suppressed youth," said father, wiping his
eyes, "upon the principle that the boy would rather slip out of the
window to go coasting at night than ask leave and walk out publicly, and
that when a young girl begins to grow romantic, she often takes infinite
pains to go round the back way to meet some one who is quite welcome at
the front door. When young folks have not had a chance to do these
things, and the motive for them lies dormant, heaven alone knows how or
when it will break loose."

Others, however, have observed, and the "Bug Hunters" has now come to be
the local nickname of these two most respectable middle-aged people with
ancestors.

Josephus, who has been leading a sporting life for many days, or rather
nights, has at last returned minus his long tail with which he used to
express his displeasure in such magnificent sweeps. Miss Lavinia is in
tears, and wishes to have a reward offered for the apprehension of the
doer of the deed.

Evan says that if she does, and thus acknowledges the cat as hers, she
may be deluged with bills for poultry, as he has been hearing weird tales
on the train, such as are often current among commuters who are not
zoologists, of a great black lynx that has been invading chicken coops
and killing for pleasure, as his victims are usually left on the ground.
Thus has country freedom corrupted the manners of a polite cat, and at
the same