e pauses,
and the ball rests, and both beetles now creep about, shovelling up the
dirt here and there with their very queer little flat heads. Ah, perhaps
they are going to start that _hole_ which all the books tell us about.
But no; the place is evidently not quite satisfactory, both of them seem
so to conclude, like two souls with but a single thought. Mrs. T. is up
on the bridge in a jiffy, and Mr. T. takes his place at the helm; and
now what an easy time they will have of it down this little slope; but,
no, again; tumble-bugs don't seem to care for an easy time. A hundred
times on their travels will they pass the very best possible spot for
that burrow, a hundred times will they persist in guiding that little
world of theirs over an obstruction, when a clear path lies an inch to
the right or left of them. And here, when their labors might be so
easily lightened by a downward grade, what do they do? they deliberately
turn the ball about and hustle it along _up hill_, and that too over
dirt that is not half as promising. Up they go! Mrs. T. now seems to
have the best of it, and I sometimes have my suspicions whether she is
not playing a prank on that unsuspecting spouse working so hard at her
back, for he now has not only the ball, but Mrs. T. as well, to shove
along, for the most that she can do is to throw the weight of her body
forward, which in a steep up grade amounts to nothing as a help.

But if she is imposing on Mr. T. in thus guiding the ball up hill, she
soon gets the Roland for her Oliver. Mr. T. is put to great extra labor
by this whimsical decision of hers, and woe to Mrs. T. when that little
chance valley or inequality of surface is reached. Even though she can
see it coming and holds the wheel, she rarely seems to take advantage of
it to save herself or her ship, while Mr. T., going backward in the
rear, of course cannot be expected to know what is coming, nor be blamed
for the consequences. With kick after kick from his powerful hind feet,
united with the push of his mighty pair in front, the ball speeds up the
slope. Now for some reason he gives a backward shove of more than usual
force when it was least necessary. The ball had chanced upon the crest
of a slope, when, kick! over it goes with a pitch and a bound, and Mrs.
T. with it, though this time not on top. Happy is she if the ball simply
rolls upon her and pins her down. Such, indeed, is a frequent episode in
her experience of keeping the ball ar