Little Busybodies | Page 5

"Here, you big Jim-boy, catch me that butterfly."
There was a wild rush, and the bright wings were soon caught.
"There, you've torn off one of its legs," said the old man.

Jimmie looked troubled. "I didn't mean to, sir."
"Do you know how it hurts to have your leg torn off, boy? Do you
know, children?"
"No," came in a chorus.
The guide took out a piece of paper and drew a picture on it. "There,
every part of that little fellow's body I've drawn has muscles, such fine
muscles no naked eye could ever see them. I'll show them to you under
the microscope in my cabin. Those muscles move the body, and each
muscle is controlled by threads, still more fine, called nerves."
The old man reached out like a flash and pinched Jimmie.
"Ouch!" cried the boy, and there was a shout of laughter from the
children.
"You felt that?"
"I guess I did," said Jim, sulkily.
"Well, that's because you're made something the same way this
butterfly is. When anything hurts us it's because some of our nerves are
hurt, and quick as a flash the news travels to the brain, and we try to get
away from the thing that causes pain--a pinch, perhaps, or, still worse,
the hurt of a poor leg that has been torn off."
"But a butterfly hasn't any brain," objected Jimmie, who was still cross.
"Hasn't it? Well, we'll see. Now, you watch my pencil." He pointed to
the head of the butterfly. "This little fellow has a very tiny brain there.
Also running through the body, from end to end, is a little tube through
which the food passes. It is in the head above this tube where the tiny
brain is, and from which two little threads run down around the tube
and join to form another little knot of nerve cells like that of the brain.
Then, from this second one there runs a series of little knots united by
fine threads the entire length of the body, one in each ring of the body.

Do you understand that?"
"Yes," piped up Betty, "mother told us an insect is made up of rings,
and--and--" she stammered, surprised at her own boldness, "the word
means cut up into parts."
"Good! Why, that's a real bright girl. Well, from each one of these
knots nerves go to the muscles of the body."
"It's just like a lot of beads on a string," said Hope Stanton.
"So it is, child. So, you see, if we handle an insect roughly, squeezing it
too hard, or breaking a leg or a wing, a message is sent to one of these
little beads or knots or nerve cells, and the poor, helpless creature
suffers pain."
"But I didn't mean to hurt that butterfly!"
"No, of course you didn't. The only way to do," said the old man, "is to
catch them in a net. Make it of bobinet with a rounded bottom, sewing
it to a wire ring and fastening it to a handle that is the right weight and
length for your arm."
"But then, after you caught it, how could you keep it, sir?" asked Betty.
"There are two merciful ways," said the old man, "of killing insects, but
neither way is safe for children to try. Put a few drops of chloroform on
a piece of cotton under a tumbler turned upside down. Put the insect
inside. It will soon fall asleep without pain. The other is a cyanide
bottle. I have one down at the cabin. It must be kept tightly corked and
never smelled. The cyanide in the bottle is hard and dry. Several insects
may be put into the bottle at the same time. Once there they die very
quickly. After large insects are killed the wings should be folded over
the back, and they should be placed in a little case like this. See, I'm
folding a piece of paper to form a three-cornered case. Then I bend
down one edge to keep the little case closed."
At this moment out flew Lizzie with a curtain which she was going to

shake.
"Here, here!" shouted the old man, "don't shake that; catch that
caterpillar on it. I want it."
Lizzie made a good-natured grab at the caterpillar, and then there was a
cry of pain. "Oh, begorra, begorra, I'm stung by a wasp, I am! Ow!" But
she still kept tight hold of the caterpillar as she danced about.
"No," said the guide, "you're not stung by any wasp. Bring me that!
There, open your hand. You see, the caterpillar stung you."
"Oh my, what a beauty!" exclaimed the children. "But caterpillars don't
sting."
"Oh yes, they do," continued Ben Gile, with a twinkle in his eye; "ask