gure, she somehow took a great liking to the stout little
fellow; he had distinct charm.

"May I ask who you are? I myself am Maya of the nation of bees."

"Do you mean to insult me? You have no reason to."

"But why should I? I don't know you, really I don't." Maya was
quite upset.

"It's easy to _say_ you don't know me.-- Well, I'll jog your
memory. Count." And the little rotundity began to wheel round
slowly.

"You mean I'm to count your dots?"

"Yes, if you please."

"Seven," said Maya.

"Well?-- Well? You still don't know. All right then, I'll tell
you. I'm called exactly according to what you counted. The
scientific name of our family is Septempunctata. _Septem_ is
Latin for seven, _punctata_ is Latin for dots, points, you see.
Our common name is ladybird, my own name is Alois, I am a poet
by profession. You know our common name, of course."

Maya, afraid of hurting Alois' feelings, didn't dare to say no.

"Oh," said he, "I live by the sunshine, by the peace of the day,
and by the love of mankind."

"But don't you eat, too?" asked Maya, quite astonished.

"Of course. Plant-lice. Don't you?"

"No. That would be--that is...."

"Is what? Is what?"

"Not--usual," said Maya shyly.

"Of course, of course!" cried Alois, trying to raise one
shoulder, but not succeeding, on account of the firm set of his
dome. "As a bourgeoise you would, of course, do only what is
usual. We poets would not get very far that way.-- Have you
time?"

"Why, yes," said Maya.

"Then I'll recite you one of my poems. Sit real still and close
your eyes, so that nothing distracts your attention. The poem is
called _Man's Finger_, and is about a personal experience. Are
you listening?"

"Yes, to every word."

"Well, then:

"'Since you did not do me wrong,
That you found me, doesn't matter.
You are rounded, you are long;
Up above you wear a flatter,
Pointed, polished sheath or platter
Which you move as swift as light,
But below you're fastened tight!'"

"Well?" asked Alois after a short pause. There were tears in his
eyes and a quaver in his voice.

"_Man's Finger_ gripped me very hard," replied Maya in some
embarrassment. She really knew much lovelier poems.

"How do you find the form?" Alois questioned with a smile of
fine melancholy. He seemed to be overwhelmed by the effect he
had produced.

"Long and round. You yourself said so in the poem."

"I mean the artistic form, the form of my v