Rusty Wren hurried home, carrying Mrs. Ladybug despite her frantic efforts to escape.  She wriggled all her six legs at the same time.

“She’ll be pleased with this one,” Rusty murmured, as he watched Mrs. Ladybug’s struggles.  “Mrs. Wren will certainly thank me when I give her this morsel.”

And she did.

“How lovely!” Mrs. Wren exclaimed when Rusty gave her his captive.

And he was so glad that he hastened away to try to find another just like that one.  But he hadn’t gone far before he said, “Ugh!  I hope I haven’t made a mistake.  I don’t like the taste of that beetle.”  And he dropped down upon the ground and carefully wiped his bill upon the grass.

He couldn’t help feeling somewhat worried.

“I don’t believe the children will notice anything wrong,” he muttered.  “So far, they’ve never refused anything that was offered them.  But if Mrs. Wren tried to eat that beetle herself, I fear there’ll be trouble.”

And there was.  Rusty knew it a few minutes later, when little Mr. Chippy’s son, Chippy, Jr., came flitting up and peeped in his childish voice, “Please, sir, Mrs. Wren wants you at once.”

There was nothing to do except to go home.  And Rusty went.

He found Mrs. Wren much upset.

“Are you trying to poison us?” she demanded.

“No, indeed ­my love!” Rusty Wren replied meekly.

“Well, you made a terrible mistake, then,” she declared.

Meanwhile Rusty Wren was looking all around.  Yet he couldn’t see the pretty beetle (meaning Mrs. Ladybug) anywhere.  “Somebody must have swallowed it, anyhow,” he thought.

“You must be more careful,” his wife told him severely.  “That was a horrid-tasting beetle that you brought home.  It’s lucky I discovered that it was a queer one.  The children ­poor dears! ­are so hungry that any one of them would have bolted it had I offered it to him.”

“Then you ate it yourself,” Rusty Wren faltered.

“Oh, no, I didn’t,” said his wife.  “I dropped it upon the ground.  And no doubt I’d have thrown it away, anyhow, no matter how it tasted.”

“Why?” he asked her.  “I thought it was a pretty beetle.”

“It was pretty enough ­I dare say,” Mrs. Wren replied.  “But it had a very hard shell.  It wouldn’t have been safe to feed it to the children.  Nor should I have cared to eat it myself.”

“I thought it was a pretty beetle,” Rusty said again.  “It was such a gay color ­bright red, you know.  It seemed to me it would please the children, and you, too.”

Mrs. Wren still seemed to be somewhat out of patience.

“When you gather food for the youngsters, never mind about the color of it!” she exclaimed.  “If you want to bring them playthings, that’s another matter.  But don’t fetch home any more pretty red beetles for them to eat.”

“Very well ­my love!” said Rusty Wren.  And then he slipped away to hunt for food, because the children were still clamoring for more.

Mrs. Wren talked a good deal, afterward, about her terrible experience.  Yet she never stopped to think about the pretty beetle ­about little Mrs. Ladybug.  For Mrs. Ladybug had had a dreadful fright.  Luckily she wasn’t hurt.  But it was a long time before she was her usual busy, able self again.  And later, when she told her friends about her adventure, she said that she couldn’t understand how Rusty came to make such a mistake.

“I supposed,” Mrs. Ladybug declared, “that every bird in Pleasant Valley knew I wasn’t good to eat.”