“The Dyticus marginalis, or Great Water-Beetle,” I have heard him say, in the handsomest manner, “is equally at home in the air, or in the water.  Like all insects in the perfect state, it has six legs, of which the hindmost pair are of great strength, and fringed so as to serve as paddles.  It has very powerful wings, and, with Shakespeare’s witches, it flies by night.  It has two simple, and two sets of compound eyes.  When it goes below water, it carries a stock of air with it, on the diving-bell principle; and when this is exhausted, comes to the surface, tail uppermost, for a fresh supply.  It is the most voracious of the carnivorous water-beetles.”

The last sentence is rather an unkind reflection on my good appetite, but otherwise the Doctor spoke handsomely of me, and without envy.

And yet I am sure it could have been no matter of wonder if my compound eyes, for instance, had been a very sore subject with a man who knew of them, and whose one simple pair were so nearly worn out.

More than once, when I have seen the old gentleman put a green shade on to his reading-lamp, and glasses before his eyes, I have felt inclined to hum,—­“Ah, my dear Doctor, if you could only take a cool turn in the pond!  You would want no glasses or green shades, where the light comes tenderly subdued through water and water-weeds.”

Indeed, after living, as I can, in all three—­water, dry land, and air,—­I certainly prefer to be under water.  Any one whose appetite is as keen, and whose hind-legs are as powerful as mine, will understand the delights of hunting, and being hunted, in a pond; where the light comes down in fitful rays and reflections through the water, and gleams among the hanging roots of the frog-bit, and the fading leaves of the water-starwort, through the maze of which, in and out, hither and thither, you pursue, and are pursued, in cool and skilful chase, by a mixed company of your neighbours, who dart, and shoot, and dive, and come and go, and any one of whom at any moment may either eat you or be eaten by you.

And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely and completely as in the mud?  A state of existence, without mud at the bottom, must be a life without repose.

I was in the mud one day, head downwards, when human voices came to me through the water.  It was summer, and the pond was low at the time.

“Oh, Francis!  Francis!  The Water-Soldier[D] is in flower.”

“Hooray!  Dig him up for the aquarium!  Grandfather says it’s very rare—­doesn’t he?”

“He says it’s not at all common; and there’s only one, Francis.  It would be a pity if we didn’t get it up by the roots, and it died.”

“Nonsense, Molly.  I’ll get it up.  But let’s get the beasts first.  You get the pickle-jar ready, whilst I fix the stick on to the colander.”

“Does cook know you’ve taken it, Francis?”

“By this time she does, I should think.  Look here, Molly—­I wish you would try and get this stick right.  It wants driving through the handles.  I’m just going to have a look at the Water-Soldier.”