SQUASHES.—­They appeared above-ground, large-lobed and vigorous.  Large and vigorous appeared the bugs, all gleaming in green and gold, like the wolf on the fold, and stopped up all the stomata and ate up all the parenchyma, till my squash-leaves looked as if they had grown for the sole purpose of illustrating net-veined organizations.  In consternation I sought again my neighbor the Englishman.  He assured me he had ’em on his, too,—­lots of ’em.  This reconciled me to mine.  Bugs are not inherently desirable, but a universal bug does not indicate special want of skill in any one.  So I was comforted.  But the Englishman said they must be killed.  He had killed his.  Then I said I would kill mine, too.  How should it be done?  Oh! put a shingle near the vine at night and they would crawl upon it to keep dry, and go out early in the morning and kill ’em.  But how to kill them?  Why, take ’em right between your thumb and finger and crush ’em!

As soon as I could recover breath, I informed him confidentially, that, if the world were one great squash, I wouldn’t undertake to save it in that way.  He smiled a little, but I think he was not overmuch pleased.  I asked him why I couldn’t take a bucket of water and dip the shingle in it and drown them.  He said, well, I could try it.  I did try it,—­first wrapping my hand in a cloth to prevent contact with any stray bug.  To my amazement, the moment they touched the water they all spread unseen wings and flew away, safe and sound.  I should not have been much more surprised to see Halicarnassus soaring over the ridge-pole.  I had not the slightest idea that they could fly.  Of course I gave up the design of drowning them.  I called a council of war.  One said I must put a newspaper over them and fasten it down at the edges; then they couldn’t get in.  I timidly suggested that the squashes couldn’t get out.  Yes, they could, he said,—­they’d grow right through the paper.  Another said I must surround them with round boxes with the bottoms broken out; for, though they could fly, they couldn’t steer, and when they flew up, they just dropped down anywhere, and as there was on the whole a good deal more land on the outside of the boxes than on the inside, the chances were in favor of their dropping on the outside.  Another said that ashes must be sprinkled on them.  A fourth said lime was an infallible remedy.  I began with the paper, which I secured with no little difficulty; for the wind—­the same wind, strange to say—­kept blowing the dirt at me and the paper away from me; but I consoled myself by remembering the numberless rows of squash-pies that should crown my labors, and May took heart from Thanksgiving.  The next day I peeped under the paper and the bugs were a solid phalanx.  I reported at head-quarters, and they asked me if I killed the bugs before I put the paper down.  I said no, I supposed it would stifle them,—­in fact, I didn’t think anything about it, but if I thought anything, that was what I thought.  I wasn’t