418 A MONOGRAPH ON CRICKETS. 



couplets of a " Cricket Song." Dolly listened with grave at- 

 tention, and when the rhymes were ended, " I can't say," said 

 she, " that I ever heard a cricket sing as plain as that ; but 

 there's no knowing, they're such wonderful creturs in their 

 doings, lapping the milk as nateral as old Tom there, and eat- 

 ing bread and butter as hearty as a Christian. Then to see how 

 they run amongst the red-hot ashes with never a foot burnt or 

 a whisker singed, just like, if I may say so, the three holy 

 children in the book of Dan'el; and what's most unaccountable 

 of all, and what makes me think above all that they must be of 

 the natur of sperits or fairies, they comes and goes all of a sud- 

 den, nobody can tell when or how." " Why, Dolly," said I, 

 " they can burrow, you know, and creep through crannies; 

 besides, they have large wings to carry them wherever they 

 please." " Well, dear, if they have, they're not like a rale 

 insect's, a fly's or a bee's, standing out plain and straight to be 

 seen by everybody; besides I've never seen one a-flyingof the 

 hundreds as used to come to this fire-place. But let'em come 

 and go however they may, one thing is certain, good luck 

 comes with 'em, and, whenever they go, turns tail at the same 

 time. Crickets is certainly wonderful creturs, if not sperits, 

 more like 'em than anything else that comes about us." 



Lucy looked round fearfully, and got closer to her nurse's 

 elbow, as the latter brought thus to an emphatic termination 

 her monographs on the families Achetidce and Blattidce. 

 They were followed, also, by a sound, compound of groan, 

 cough, and whistle, from the liny lips of Mr. Caligraph, 

 succeeded by the sententious apothegm " Superstition is the 

 daughter of Ignorance," uttered with a look of unmistakeable 

 application to Mrs. Dove, who, dove as she was, seemed slightly 

 ruffled. " I know," said she, " though I'm my father's own 

 daughter, that I'm not so wise as some folks, but I think, Mr. 

 Caligrub, you might be a little more perlite, now at Christmas 

 time, and in the company of little Miss here, and Master." 

 " Why," returned the butler, alias librarian, alias writing- 



