side of the road, and not run her down.
But the WoggleBug, squatted in the bottom of the basket and hugging his precious parcel to his bosom, paid no attention to anything but his own thoughts.
He had often ridden in the Gump; but never had he been so high as this, and the distance to the ground made him nervous.
When morning came he saw a strange country far beneath him, and longed to tread the earth again.
Now all wogglebugs are born with wings, and our highly-magnified one had a beautiful, broad pair of floppers concealed beneath ample coattails. But long ago he had learned that his wings were not strong enough to lift his big body from the ground, so he had never tried to fly with them.
Here, however, was an occasion when he might put these wings to good use, for if he spread them in the air and then leaped over the side of the basket they would act in the same way a parachute does, and bear him gently to the ground.
No sooner did this thought occur to him than he put it into practice.
Disentangling his wings from his coattails, he spread them as wide as possible and then jumped from the car of the balloon.
Down, down the WoggleBug sank; but so slowly that there was no danger in the flight. He began to see the earth again, lying beneath him like a sun-kissed panorama of mud and frog-ponds and rocks and brushwood.
There were few trees, yet it was our insect’s fate to drop directly above what trees there were, so that presently he came ker-plunk into a mass of tangled branches—and stuck there, with his legs dangling helplessly between two limbs and his wings caught in the foliage at either side.
Below was a group of Arab children, who at first started to run away. But, seeing that the queer creature which had dropped from the skies was caught fast in the tree, they stopped and began to throw stones and clubs at it. One of the missiles struck the tree-limb at the right of the WoggleBug and jarred him loose. The next instant he fluttered to the ground, where his first act was to fold up his wings and tuck them underneath his coattails again, and his next action was to assure himself that the beloved plaids were still safe.
Then he looked for the Arab children; but they had scuttled away towards a group of tents, and now several men with dark skins and gay clothing came from the tents and ran towards the WoggleBug.
“Good morning,” said our hero, removing his hat with a flourish and bowing politely.
“Meb-la-che-bah!” shouted the biggest Arab, and at once two others wound coils of rope around the WoggleBug and tied the ends in hard knots.
His hat was knocked off and trampled into the mud by the Shiek (who was the big Arab), and the precious parcel was seized and ruthlessly opened.
“Very good!” said the Shiek, eyeing the plaids with pleasure. “My slaves shall make me a new waistcoat of this cloth.”
“No! oh, no!” cried the agonized Insect; “it is taken from a person who has had small-pox and yellow-fever and toothache and mumps—all at the same time. Do not, I bet you, risk your valuable life by wearing that cloth!”
“Bah!” said the Shiek, scornfully; “I have had all those diseases and many more. I am immune. But now,” he continued, “allow me to bid you goodbye. I am sorry to be obliged to kill you, but such is our custom.”
This was bad news for the WoggleBug; but he did not despair.
“Are you not afraid to kill me?” he asked, as if surprised.
“Why should I be afraid?” demanded the Shiek.
“Because it is well-known that to kill a wogglebug brings bad luck to one.”
The Shiek hesitated, for he was very superstitious.
“Are you a wogglebug?” he asked.
“I am,” replied the Insect, proudly. “And I may as well tell you that the last person who killed one of my race had three unlucky days. The first his suspenders broke (the Arab shuddered), the second day he smashed a looking-glass (the Arab moaned), and the third day he was chewed up by a crocodile.”
Now the greatest aversion Arabs have is to be chewed by a crocodile, because these people usually roam over the sands of the desert, where to meet an amphibian is simply horrible; so at the WoggleBug’s speech they set up a howl of fear, and the Shiek shouted:
“Unbind him! Let not a hair of his head be injured!”
At once the knots in the ropes were untied, and the WoggleBug was free. All the Arabs united to show him deference and every respectful attention, and since his own hat had been destroyed they wound about his head a picturesque turban of an exquisite soiled white color, having stripes of red and yellow in it.
Then the WoggleBug was escorted to the tents, where he suddenly remembered his precious plaids, and asked that the cloth he restored to him.
Thereupon the Shiek got up and made a long speech, in which he described his grief at being obliged to refuse the request.
At the end of that time one of the women came op to them with a lovely waistcoat which she had manufactured out of the Wagnerian plaids; and when the Shiek saw it he immediately ordered all the tom-toms and kettle-drums in the camp destroyed, as they were no longer necessary. Then he put on the gorgeous vestment, and turned a deaf ear to the WoggleBug’s agonized wails.
But there were some scraps of cloth left, and to show that he was liberal and good-natured, the Shiek ordered these manufactured into a handsome necktie, which he presented WoggleBug in another long speech.
Our hero, realizing a larger part of his darling was lost to him, decided to be content with the smaller share; so he put on the necktie, and felt really proud of its brilliance and aggressive elegance.
Then, bidding the Arabs farewell, he strode across the desert until he reached the borders of a more fertile and favored country.
Indeed, he found before him a cool and enticing jungle, which at first seemed deserted. But while he stared about him a sound fell upon his ear, and he saw approaching a young lady Chimpanzee. She was evidently a personage of some importance, for her hair was neatly banged just over her eyes, and she wore a clean white pinafore with bows of pink ribbon at the shoulders.
“Good morning, Mr. Beetle,” said she, with merry laughter.
“Do not, I beg of you, call me a beetle,” exclaimed our hero, rather peevishly; “for I am actually a WoggleBug, and Highly-Magnified at that!”
“What’s in a name?” laughed the gay damsel. “Come, let me introduce you to our jungle, where strangers of good breeding are always welcome.”
“As for breeding,” said the WoggleBug, “my father, although of ordinary size, was a famous Bug-Wizard in his day, and claimed descent from the original protoplasm which constituted the nucleus of the present planetary satellite upon which we exist.”
“That’s all right,” returned Miss Chim. “Tell that to our king, and he’ll decorate you with the medal of the Omnipotent Order of Onerous Orthographers, Are you ready to meander?”
The WoggleBug did not like the flippant tone in which maiden spoke;
