Upon
      reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and getting no
      reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked
      the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It
      was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
      overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and awaited
      patiently the arrival of my hosts. Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
      marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else
      shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
      bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted
      down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which
      he believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished
      to have my opinion on the morrow. “And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze,
      and wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil. “Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s
      so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would
      pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming
      home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I
      lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
      until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down
      for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”

      “What?—sunrise?”

      “Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the
      size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
      extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the
      other. The _antennæ_ are—”

      “Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,”
      here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery
      bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby
      a bug in my life.”

      “Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more
      earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any
      reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned
      to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
      never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales
      emit—but of this you cannot judge till tomorrow. In the mean time
      I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated
      himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no
      paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none. “Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew
      from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty
      foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he
      did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a
      scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large
      Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my
      shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much
      attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I
      looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
      little puzzled at what my friend had depicted. “Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this
      _is_ a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess: new to me: never saw
      anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
      death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else
      that has come under _my_ observation.”

      “A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something
      of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black
      spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a
      mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.”

      “Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I
      must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea
      of its personal appearance.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw
      tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and
      flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”

      “But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a
      very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very
      _excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
      specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest
      _scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a
      very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
      will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that
      kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But
      where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?”

      “The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting
      unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the
      _antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original
      insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”

      “Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;”
      and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
      to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn
      affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the
      drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_
      visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the
      ordinary cuts of a death’s-head. He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple
      it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at
      the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant
      his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For
      some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely
      where he sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table,
      and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest
      corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of
      the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing,
      however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it
      prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by
      any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet,
      placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a
      writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his
      demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite
      disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As
      the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in
      reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him.