It made such a splash in the water that no one could quite see what happened. But the roach was gone, and presently the reed-warblers exclaimed:

"Look!... Look!... There's the gull flying with the roach ... and the cray-fish is hanging on to his hind-toe!"

The water-lily and the spear-wort shouted the news and the rushes whispered it on and soon there was not a midge-grub in the pond but knew all about the extraordinary thing that had happened.

"So she had her way," said the reed-warblers.

And they discussed for quite an hour where she would be likely to arrive, but no one could work that out and none of those in the pond ever got to know.

Only the woman who lived by the pond knew. For, when the gull came above the chimney of her little cottage, he gave such a kick with his leg that the cray-fish dropped off. She went right down the woman's chimney; and there stood a pot of boiling water, which she fell into.

"Oh dear!" said the cray-fish. "That was a silly business."

It was so silly that she turned as red as fire all over her body and died then and there. But, when the woman took her pot and was going to make herself a drop of coffee, she stared in amazement at that fine big cray-fish:

"Well, I never!" she said. "Best thanks to whoever sent you."

Then she ate her.

That same evening, the May-fly broke through her coc.o.o.n.

She flew up, on tiny little thin, transparent wings and with three long threads hanging from her abdomen to help her keep her balance.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"I say, isn't this lovely?" she cried. "How delicious life is! It's worth while living for ever so many days as a poor grub, if only one is permitted to gaze upon this splendour for an hour."

"Oh, so you're there, are you?" said Mrs. Reed-Warbler. "You look very nice."

"Thank you," said the May-fly. "Now I must just go round the pond and lay my eggs. Then I'll come back and sit down in the reeds and die; and then you can eat me. And a thousand thanks to you for sparing my life that time and for warning me when I was in danger. If you hadn't done that, I should never have beheld this glorious sight."

"If only you don't over-eat yourself on the way and forget your promise!" said Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

"There's no danger of that," replied the May-fly. "I have eaten all I need. I haven't even a mouth! I shall just enjoy an hour or two of this delightful life and then lay my eggs. That's my lot; and I don't complain."

"Life is not so delightful as you think," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler. "If I were a true friend to you, I would save you from seeing all your illusions shattered."

"How can you say that life is not delightful?" said the May-fly. "Look ... and look ... and look...."

"I will be a true friend to you," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler. "You shall be spared disappointment. I will eat you straight away."

Then she caught her and ate her.

"Good-evening, madam," said the eel. "Are you sitting and contemplating the poetry of Nature? I just saw you destroying a bit of it ... for the May-fly.... That's poetry, if you like! Well, did she taste nice?"

"You're a horrid, vulgar fellow," said Mrs. Reed-Warbler.

"You talk like one who is chock-full of poetry," retorted the eel. "I rejoice to see you making such smart progress as a murderess. You were shockingly squeamish at first!"

CHAPTER XI

The Worst Day of All

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The summer was drawing to an end.

The beeches were quite yellow with the heat; and the pond was overgrown with plants almost right up to the middle. All the tadpoles had turned into frogs; all the young animals were growing and wanted more food. The water-lily and the spear-wort had stopped quarrelling, for they had nothing more to quarrel about. Both of them had lost their white blossoms and their heads were full of seeds.

The reed-warblers' children were now so big that they had begun to leave the nest and flutter about in the weeds. But they were not quite sure of themselves and still dangled after their parents. They never went so far away but that they could easily return to the nest; and they lay in it every evening and fought for room and bit and kicked one another, while their half-starved parents sat beside them and hushed them.

"Oh, mummy ... do get me that fly!" said one.

"I can't catch these horrid midges," said the second.

"Boo-hoo!... Boo-hoo!... The dragon-fly flew away from me!" said the third.

"I daren't take hold of the daddy-long-legs," said the fourth.

But the fifth said nothing, for he was a poor little beggar, who always hung his beak.

"We'll never make a proper reed-warbler of him," said the father.

And, when they were being drilled in flying and hopping and scrambling in the reeds, or examined in singing, the fifth was always behind the rest.

"We shall never be able to drag him with us to Italy," said the reed-warbler.

And little Mrs. Reed-Warbler sighed.

In the water below, the duck splashed about with her grown-up ducklings.

"The end is near," she said. "I am sure of it. I have a horrid presentiment all over my body."

"What harm can happen to you?" asked Mrs. Reed-Warbler. "You don't travel, so you're not exposed to as many dangers as the rest of us."

"One can never tell," said the duck. "I feel it in my back."

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Then she paddled on and quacked to her children with her anxious old voice and wore a distressful look in her eyes.

One day something happened that set the whole pond in commotion.

The pike was suddenly hauled up out of the water.