- end_line
- 10607
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:55:03.883Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10589
- text
- I still watched it, and with still increasing self-possession. Sparkling
and wriggling, it still continued its throes. In another moment it was
just on the point of escaping its prison. A thought struck me. Running
for a tumbler, I clapped it over the insect just in time to secure it.
After watching it a while longer under the tumbler, I left all as it
was, and, tolerably composed, retired.
Now, for the soul of me, I could not, at that time, comprehend the
phenomenon. A live bug come out of a dead table? A fire-fly bug come out
of a piece of ancient lumber, for one knows not how many years stored
away in an old garret? Was ever such a thing heard of, or even dreamed
of? How got the bug there? Never mind. I bethought me of Democritus, and
resolved to keep cool. At all events, the mystery of the ticking was
explained. It was simply the sound of the gnawing and filing, and
tapping of the bug, in eating its way out. It was satisfactory to think,
that there was an end forever to the ticking. I resolved not to let the
occasion pass without reaping some credit from it.
- title
- Chunk 7