A Very Odd Neighbor

It was the month of June. The man had been at work in his garden. He did not care to work, however, for the weather was warm and delightful.

He sat down to rest, or perhaps it was because he was getting lazy. He was hardly seated when something on the ground near his feet attracted his attention.

Have you ever seen a pair of tumble-bugs? If so, you have seen one of nature’s funny spectacles. They are odd things, these strange little beetles, and two of them had now attracted the man’s attention. We have inferred that the man was getting lazy.

It looked that way now more than ever, for he just sat there and watched those funny beetles. They had a ball, and one of them was riding on top of the ball, and the other was standing pretty nearly on his head; at any rate, he stood on his front feet, his hind feet kicking up in the air against the ball to make it roll; and when he kicked, the one on top of the ball leaned away over to help make it roll along.

If you had been near the man, you would have heard him talking to the bugs. “Well, you are a nice set, aren’t you?” said the man. “Out here in my garden, kicking a ball of dirt around by way of exercise. “Do you know from what heights you have fallen in the eyes of men?— I suppose not, and probably you don’t care, so long as you can kick that precious ball of dirt around.

Nevertheless, you have fallen from a pretty high estate, I can tell you. These days you are mighty insignificant in the eyes of men. Once you were a sacred bug and something of a god; your name then, I believe, was scarabæus, or something like that.”

The man said this to the bugs, because tumble-bugs were once thought a great deal of in Egypt, some hundreds of years ago. Why yes, a little image of the tumble-bug was owned by each king of Egypt, and was called his seal. All the government papers and kings’ orders and laws had to be stamped with the image of this bug or they were not considered any good. Our government puts a seal on all its government papers; but it never has the picture of a tumble-bug on any of its seals, that is sure.

I believe some of our government seals do have the picture of an eagle on them, and pictures of farmers or soldiers, and even of a house; but none of them I know of have on them the picture of a bug. But the Egyptians not only had this image of the tumble-bug for their government seal and stamp; they also carved images of the bug on the solid rocks, or painted pictures of him on the papyrus, or Egyptian paper.

And in these days men dig down into the earth in that far-away land, and in those old crumbling buildings they find in almost any and every sort of place, pictures and images of the beetle. In many of those old dungeons they find the form of the bug carved in the rocks, standing there even yet in bold relief. In other places they find the picture of the bug painted in the most beautiful colors, that appear to-day as clear and fresh apparently as when first painted— three thousand years ago.

Again, on the mummy cases and the sarcophagi, or Egyptian coffins, on beautiful and precious stones buried with them, and inside the wrappings of the mummies themselves, they find pictures and other representations of the tumble-bug. Of course they did not call him tumble-bug then; they called him the sacred scarabæus.

The Egyptians seem like a very strange people to us. They thought a great many common things were holy or sacred. They thought the river Nile was sacred, and worshipped it as the representative of a god. They thought the ox was sacred, and kept some of them in their temples.

And among the other things they venerated, were the funny tumble-bugs; and the tumble-bugs, it seems, were the most sacred things of all. Strange, was it not? It seems almost as odd as the tumble-bug himself. But that is not all of the story concerning Egypt and the tumble-bugs.

The people of Egypt wore the image of the beetle in their rings and necklaces. They counted the number of the tumble-bug’s toes and found there were thirty; they thought these thirty toes of the tumble-bug represented the days of their months, which were also thirty. When the tumble-bug rolled its ball, they said that represented the motion of the sun on the earth.

They also thought the bug represented life. And they worshipped the tumble-bug as long as it lived, and embalmed it, so as to keep it, when it died.

They were surely a queer people to think that way about bugs. But the bug is queer, too; and so it was queer bugs and queer people all together.

But we must not forget the man, sitting out there in the garden, watching the strange little tumble-bugs. He sat there and watched those bugs for a long time. He must have been a trifle queer, too; don’t you think so? “There you are,” said the man, “up against a bump.

Kick a little harder, old man; kick a little harder. That’s right. Now over it goes.” But Mr.

Tumble-bug kicked too hard just then; for as soon as the ball went over the bump, away it rolled down a little incline. Mrs. Tumble-bug went rolling with it. She never let go her hold on the ball, though; no, indeed, not for a minute.

Why should she? She was on top of the ball half of the time anyway. When the ball stopped, she quickly climbed into place again, and serenely waited for Mr.

Tumble-bug. She would not have to wait for him very long, for he was coming on the run as fast as all his legs could carry him. He did not even stop for breath. He simply got right down into line again, and with his solid kicking and her leaning her weight far over on the other side, the ball was immediately rolling again.

“Why don’t you dig your hole and bury the ball right there?” asked the man. “It’s as good a place as you will find in this garden. You will find the dirt fine and soft, for I have been digging it all up with the fork myself, and you can make quick work of it.” Of course the bugs did not pay any attention to the man.

They neither understood nor cared what he said. The ground might be all right, but they had not as yet had enough exercise, and did not propose to stop.

Mr. Bug kept right on with his vigorous kicking, and Mrs. Bug leaned over and helped roll the ball with all her weight. “Oh-ho!

And what will you do now?” asked the man. The ball had rolled up against an obstacle which neither Mr. Tumble-bug’s kick nor Mrs. Tumble-bug’s pull could overcome.

Kick, push, or pull, the ball would not budge. “Take a rest and try again,” suggested the man. But the bugs did not rest.

They were lively and excited, and seemed to talk to each other. Mrs. Tumble-bug seemed to understand what her husband wanted, for she quickly got down, and joined him. Down under that stubborn ball they both put their shovel-like heads, gave it a push and a pry, and over it went, rolling into the short grass.

Quickly they had the ball again, Mrs. Bug on the front seat, Mr. Bug pushing behind, and so the ball was kept rolling. “Well, you beat anything I ever saw,” said the man at last.

“I don’t think this is a case of brains at all, but just a sure case of kick-till-you-get-tired.” It seemed as if the man might be about right. When the bugs had a fine chance to roll the ball down hill and have an easy time, they chose to roll it up hill and have a hard time.

And when they came to places that seemed perfectly suitable for burying the ball, they did not attempt to bury the ball at all, but kept it straight on, rolling it as lively as ever. And so the man began to think that Mr. Tumble-bug was going to kick until he got tired. But perhaps Mr. and Mrs.

Tumble-bug knew more about their own business than the man did. Perhaps they have a way of knowing where the ground is all right and where it is not. And perhaps the man thinks he knows better than the bugs, but really does not.

Perhaps the bugs did not bury the ball in the soft ground where the man had been digging, because something told them that it had been dug up and might be dug up again, and their precious ball along with it. Who knows? I do not. Anyway, the bugs did not pay the least bit of attention to what the man said, but kicked and pulled that ball of theirs to suit themselves.

Inside of that ball was an egg, all wrapped up safe and snug. And in that ball was enough food to keep the baby bug for some time after he hatched out.

And that ball was made in such a way that it would be warm for a long time and keep the egg warm until it hatched. Men think they invented incubators, but tumble-bugs used incubators a long time, thousands of years, before men did.

And gardeners think they are wise, because they can make hot-beds that keep plants warm in the early spring when the weather is quite cold; but tumble-bugs have used their little hot-bed of an egg-ball for ages and ages, and I think men simply saw how the tumble-bug did, and then went and tried the same thing to keep plants warm. Well, the bugs are pretty careful where they bury that ball of theirs, for they do not want any harm to come to the egg inside, neither to the baby bug when it hatches out.

“And so you have had enough of it, have you?” said the man. “It’s about time, I think.” Yes, Mrs. Tumble-bug had at last found a place that just suited her, although nobody but herself knew why it was any better than lots of other places they had passed.

The ball had stopped rolling. Down under it the two bugs were rummaging around, poking at the ground, and examining it carefully. Everything seemed to be satisfactory, and so Mrs. Tumble-bug went to work to bury the ball.

So far, Mr. Bug had been doing all the hard work, and Mrs. Bug had been having a fine time riding on top of the ball. But after this, she did the work and Mr.

Bug enjoyed himself, doing as he pleased. Down under the ball she dug and ploughed, with the ball sometimes balanced upon her back. Then down she went out of sight in loose dirt, but was soon up again.

Then once more she went down out of sight, this time going in upside down, pulling the ball in after her. With her hind legs and front legs she pushed the dirt up and out, and slowly bug and ball sank out of sight into the earth. “Well, there you go,” said the man. “Good-by, and good luck to you.

May your egg hatch in first-class shape. After a while I suppose your son or daughter, whichever it is, will get out onto the ground, and some fine day have a ball of his own to kick or ride.

I hope so at any rate; I wish you well. And here’s good-by again and good luck— provided you don’t get hoed up. “Well, there’s wife calling me to dinner. Here I’ve lost an hour from my garden, watching tumble-bugs.

And just look at the weeds.” So saying, the man picked up his hoe and walked toward the house.