Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble.
You should look."
The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and Sylvie
went on again.
"But I know you didn't! You never do! You always walk with your chin
up--you're so dreadfully conceited. Well, let's see how many legs are
broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! And what's the good
of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the
air when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you know. Now don't
begin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say. Go to the frog
that lives behind that buttercup--give him my compliments--Sylvie's
compliments--can you say compliments'?"
The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.
"Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give you some of that salve I
left with him yesterday. And you'd better get him to rub it in for you.
He's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."
I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on
in a graver tone. "Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as all
that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is,
you ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody
but a toad to do it, how would you like that?"
There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added "Now you may go.
Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air." And then began
one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless banging
about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but
hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go.
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