old
weapons, and a flute. And by the great wide fireplace, in front of which
the guide was cooking biscuits and cookies in a reflector oven, lay
several kittens, the old black dog, Thor, and a dappled fawn which Thor
was licking.

"Those crickets sound like pop-guns," said the old man, slipping more
cookies into the oven and setting a pan of biscuits on a shelf by the
hearth.

"Oh, please," said little Hope, "we've got bushels of them!"

"Now we'll let those cookies bake while we 'tend to the fiddlers. Are
four pans of cookies enough for five children?"

"Yes, yes."

"Now, Hope, let me have your bushel box. H'm," he murmured, peeping in,
"all dressed for the party. What color?"

"Brown, sir."

"Black, too," said Betty; "and on a few," she added, "there's a stripe
or a weeny spot of color."

"Oho!" exclaimed the old man, "what have we here?" He took a pale little
creature from Hope's basket.

"Why, it's white and green tinted," called Jimmie. "That isn't a
cricket."

"Isn't it? Well, it's a first cousin which lives in the trees and loves
its tree home so much, like the sensible little fellow it is, that it
sings 'Tr-e-e-e, tr-e-e-e,' as fast as it can trill all summer long. But
it is very harmful to the tree, because when egg-laying time comes it
cuts a long slit in the trees in which to lay its eggs. Just a minute!"
The old man shifted the position of the baker, and out came such a good
odor of cookies that all the children sniffed with delight. "Here,
Jack," he said, to a brown little fellow in ragged clothes and bare
feet, "you have a singer in your box."

"I didn't catch but one," said the lad.

"Briers aren't good for bare legs, are they? Never mind, your crickets
won't eat one another."

"Eat one another?" cried the children.

"Yes, crickets are cannibals, like some other insects, and they
frequently eat a near relation or a friend, as the people in the Fiji
Islands used to do. This is a nice brown little chap, Jack. Do you know
how he makes his music?"

[Illustration:
_A._ File on wing of cricket.
_B._ Scraper on wing of cricket.
_C._ Mrs. Cricket.]

"Why, I suppose," said the boy, "he opens his mouth the way Mr. Tucker
does in the church choir, and--"

There was a shout of laughter from Jimmie, who was sure he knew a great
deal.

"Well," said the guide to Jim, "then how does it make its music, since
you know?"

"Not with its mouth."

"Then how?"

"I don't know, sir," stammered Ji