has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right
to come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, I
assure you. Look there.'

"I looked, and said, 'It seems to be a potato.'

"'So it is,' said the beetle. 'It belonged to an Irish child in one of
your great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don't know, and I
don't think he knew himself. He lived in the corner of a dirty,
overcrowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. It
was the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it for
eyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during the
day, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it
out and played with it. He was often hungry, but he never ate that
potato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into
the ashes. Then it came down here.'

"'What a sad story!' I exclaimed.

"The beetle seemed in no way affected.

"'It is a curious thing,' he rambled on, 'that potato takes quite a
good place among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here is
entirely a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any
plaything has been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly
old things hold the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful
works of art have often been smashed or lost by the spoilt children of
rich people in two or three days. If you care for sad stories, there is
another queer thing belonging to a child who died.'

"It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of
needlework upon it.

"'It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,' the beetle
continued; 'she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots of
her toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to make
caterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certain
stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy
caterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool
of every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all
colours. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into
butterflies. However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she
went on, hoping that they would do so, and making new ones. One day she
was heard talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all
the caterpillars had become butterflies of many colours, and that the
room was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.'