by Frank Stevens
Of course his real name was not Bob at all – it was Dytiscus Marginalis – but I called him “Bob” the very first time I set eyes upon him. He was a lovely brown gentleman, with an elegant boat-shaped body and oar like legs, not unlike another beetle which we all know as the Water Boatman. But Bob was much larger than the Boatman – but he wasn’t a bit nice – for he swam about in the pond, here and there, up and down, clinging to the stems of the vernal starwort and reposing under the cool green shade of the duckweed, and all th e time he was eating – eating – eating – and what did he eat? Tadpoles – water shrimps – anything in fact that was handy. All the Pond folk dreaded him and made haste to hide away out of his sight, for he was to the pond what the shark is to the sea. Still, when I came to know him, I shut my eyes to his little weakness, and found him an exceedingly amusing person. In the first place he was so light hearted – so gay – so giddy; he was more than light hearted, he was light bodied as well, and if for a moment he forgot to catch hold of the stems of the water plants up he shot to the surface of the pond – like a cork. This was one of the reasons that I called him “Bob”.
One of his greatest treats was an evening fly in the summer. It was a very serious matter to start – but once he had got up steam it was magnificent to see him booming along – full of importance as the Beetle people always are when they fly – such a rustling of wings, and his two wing-cases cocked up on his back, and his large eyes surveying the country over which he flew, and keeping a sharp look out all the while for any pond or piece of water into which he could drop for a rest – or, more likely, for a light meal off a few water shrimps – or perhaps a May fly grub. To begin with Bob would scramble out of the pond into the biggest and broadest leaf he could find – this was a very difficult matter, for his legs were very useless on dry land, or indeed anywhere where there was no water. Then again in his struggles he often turned over on his back, when he was almost as helpless as a turtle in a similar predicament. Usually, in his endeavours to right himself, he merely succeeded in spinning around like a teetotum, and making himself very giddy. At last, more by accident than design he would right himself and rest upon his poor apologies for legs – and then he set to work to get his wings in trim, and after that he would rise majestically, and soar off in the cool summer air. One night he took quite a long fly – I saw him and recognised him in an instant – he was actually coming up the drive to the house, - was he thinking of calling upon me, I wonder – I doubt it – his mind was far too full of himself to be bothered about anything else. Now, joining the house there was a conservatory – where there were grapes and flowers – such as you see in many houses in the country. Buzz, buzz, came Mr. Bob, making for it as hard as he could. He seemed evidently much taken with the conservatory, for he took several turns about it in an undecided way – little knowing that he was being watched all the while. Click went his wing cases as he closed his wings abruptly - and down he came with a thud upon the glass rood below him. I couldn't help smiling, although I was sorry for my poor friend. In his dear, blundering, foolish way he had mistaken the shining glass conservatory for a pond, and had closed his wings suddenly so as to drop with a delicious splash into the water below. I saw his body rolling and tumbling down the roof until it fell plump into the vine bed. Poor Bob, he must have been very bewildered! However, I stooped and picked him up. I ought to have known better, for every well regulated beetle dislikes being handled - but you see I was sorry for him. But, oh, how ungrateful he was, as soon as he felt himself in my fingers he deliberately insulted me in a way that was peculiarly his own, by squirting a lot of very evil smelling juice over my hand. Do you know what a bad egg smells like? Well, that will only give you a faint idea of "Bob's" means of self-protection. I did what you would have done under similar circumstances, and dropped him - which was, of course, exactly what he wanted me to do.
"Oh, Bob," said I "do you call this friendly - after I was trying to rescue you and set you on your journey once more?"
"Buzz," replied he from the grass, as he set up his wing-cases and spread his gauzy wings once more towards his beloved home in the pond. Did he get there? Yes, indeed he did. What became of him? I know, for I saw him eaten up by his greedy wife three weeks later. Poor Bob, I forgave him when I saw him being chased from stem to stem of the starwort. As for his wife, she thoroughly enjoyed her meal - like the heartless cannibal that she was.