"But why should I? I don"t know you, really I don"t." Maya was quite upset.
"It"s easy to _say_ you don"t know me.-- Well, I"ll jog your memory. Count." And the little rotundity began to wheel round slowly.
"You mean I"m to count your dots?"
"Yes, if you please."
"Seven," said Maya.
"Well?-- Well? You still don"t know. All right then, I"ll tell you. I"m called exactly according to what you counted. The scientific name of our family is Septempunctata. _Septem_ is Latin for seven, _punctata_ is Latin for dots, points, you see.
Our common name is ladybird, my own name is Alois, I am a poet by profession. You know our common name, of course."
Maya, afraid of hurting Alois" feelings, didn"t dare to say no.
"Oh," said he, "I live by the sunshine, by the peace of the day, and by the love of mankind."
"But don"t you eat, too?" asked Maya, quite astonished.
"Of course. Plant-lice. Don"t you?"
"No. That would be--that is...."
"Is what? Is what?"
"Not--usual," said Maya shyly.
"Of course, of course!" cried Alois, trying to raise one shoulder, but not succeeding, on account of the firm set of his dome. "As a bourgeoise you would, of course, do only what is usual. We poets would not get very far that way.-- Have you time?"
"Why, yes," said Maya.
"Then I"ll recite you one of my poems. Sit real still and close your eyes, so that nothing distracts your attention. The poem is called _Man"s Finger_, and is about a personal experience. Are you listening?"
"Yes, to every word."
"Well, then:
""Since you did not do me wrong, That you found me, doesn"t matter.
You are rounded, you are long; Up above you wear a flatter, Pointed, polished sheath or platter Which you move as swift as light, But below you"re fastened tight!""
"Well?" asked Alois after a short pause. There were tears in his eyes and a quaver in his voice.
"_Man"s Finger_ gripped me very hard," replied Maya in some embarra.s.sment. She really knew much lovelier poems.
"How do you find the form?" Alois questioned with a smile of fine melancholy. He seemed to be overwhelmed by the effect he had produced.
"Long and round. You yourself said so in the poem."
"I mean the artistic form, the form of my verse."
"Oh--oh, yes. Yes, I thought it was very good."
"It is, isn"t it!" cried Alois. "What you mean to say is that _Man"s Finger_ may be ranked among the best poems you know of, and one must go way back in literature before one comes across anything like it. The prime requisite in art is that it should contain something new, which is what most poets forget. And bigness, too. Don"t you agree with me?"
"Certainly," said Maya, "I think...."
"The firm belief you express in my importance as a poet really overwhelms me. I thank you.-- But I must be going now, for solitude is the poet"s pride. Farewell."
"Farewell," echoed Maya, who really didn"t know just what the little fellow had been after.
"Well," she thought, "_he_ knows. Perhaps he"s not full grown yet; he certainly isn"t large." She looked after him, as he hastened up the branch. His wee legs were scarcely visible; he looked as though he were moving on low rollers.
Maya turned her gaze away, back to the golden field of grain over which the b.u.t.terflies were playing. The field and the b.u.t.terflies gave her ever so much more pleasure than the poetry of Alois, ladybird and poet.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER XIII
THE FORTRESS
How happily the day had begun and how miserably it was to end!
Before the horror swept upon her, Maya had formed a very remarkable acquaintance. It was in the afternoon near a big old water-b.u.t.t. She was sitting amid the scented elder blossoms, which lay mirrored in the placid dark surface of the b.u.t.t, and a robin redbreast was warbling overhead, so sweetly and merrily that Maya thought it was a shame, a crying shame that she, a bee, could not make friends with the charming songsters. The trouble was, they were too big and ate you up.
She had hidden herself in the heart of the elder blossoms and was listening and blinking under the pointed darts of the sunlight, when she heard someone beside her sigh. Turning round she saw--well, now it really _was_ the strangest of all the strange creatures she had ever met. It must have had at least a hundred legs along each side of its body--so she thought at first glance. It was about three times her size, and slim, low, and wingless.
"For goodness sake! Mercy on me!" Maya was quite startled. "You must certainly be able to run!"
The stranger gave her a pondering look.
"I doubt it," he said. "I doubt it. There"s room for improvement. I have too many legs. You see, before all my legs can be set in motion, too much time is lost. I didn"t use to realize this, and often wished I had a few more legs. But G.o.d"s will be done.-- Who are you?"
Maya introduced herself. The other one nodded and moved some of his legs.
"I am Thomas of the family of millepeds. We are an old race, and we arouse admiration and astonishment in all parts of the globe.
No other animals can boast anything like our number of legs.
Eight is _their_ limit, so far as I know."
"You are tremendously interesting. And your color is so queer.
Have you got a family?"
"Why, no! Why should I? What good would a family do me? We millepeds crawl out of our eggs; that"s all. If _we_ can"t stand on our own feet, who should?"