“Because you don’t know how to handle it.  A magnifying-glass has got to be handled in just the right way, and you couldn’t learn if you tried a thousand years.  That’s a mighty fine magnifying-glass, and I don’t intend to have it ruined.”

“Why, just lookin’ through it can’t spoil it, can it?” she inquired, surprised.

“You lay it down,” said Herbert darkly.  “Lookin’ through it the wrong way isn’t going to do it any good.”

“Why, how could just lookin’ through it——­”

“Lookin’ through it the wrong way isn’t goin’ to help it any, I tell you!” he insisted.  “You’re old enough to know that, and I’m not goin’ to have my magnifying-glass spoiled and all my insecks wasted just because of a mere whin of yours!”

“A what?”

“A mere whin, I said!”

“What’s a whin?”

“Never you mind,” said Herbert ominously.  “You’ll proba’ly find out some day when you aren’t expectin’ to!”

Undeniably, Florence was somewhat impressed:  she replaced the magnifying-glass upon the table and picked up the notebook.

“You lay that down, too,” said Herbert instantly.

“Oh, maybe it’s somep’n you’re ’shamed to——­”

“Go on and read it, then,” he said, suddenly changing his mind, for he was confident that she would find matter here that might cause her to appreciate at least a little of her own inferiority.

“’Nots’,” Florence began. “’Nots’——­”

“Notes!” he corrected her fiercely.

“’Notes’,” she read. “‘Notes on our inseck friends.  The spidder——­’”

“Spider!”

“’The spider spends his time mostly in cobwebs which he digilently spins between posts and catches flies to eat them.  They are different coloured and sizes and have legs in pairs.  Spiders also spin their webs in corners or in weeds or on a fence and sometimes in the grass.  They are more able to get about quicker than catapillars or fishing worms, but cannot fly such as pinching bugs, lightning bugs, and birds because having no wings, nor jump as far as the grass hoper——­’”

“Grasshopper!” Herbert shouted.

“I’m readin’ it the way it’s spelled,” Florence explained.  “Anyway, it don’t make much sense.”

Herbert was at least enough of an author to be furious.  “Lay it down!” he said bitterly.  “And go on back home to your dolls.”

“Dolls certainly would be cleaner than vile bugs,” Florence retorted, tossing the book upon the table.  “But in regards to that, I haven’t had any,” she went on, airily—­“not for years and years and years and——­”

He interrupted her, his voice again plaintive.  “See here, Florence, how do you expect me to get my work done, with you everlastin’ly talkin’ and goin’ on around here like this?  Can’t you see I’ve got somep’n pretty important on my hands?”

Florence became thoughtful.  “I never did see as many bugs before, all together this way,” she said.  “What you goin’ to do with ’em, Herbert?”