THE sunniest of days, the clearest and loveliest of blue seas, and I, a little lobster, young, proud, and as lively as a cricket—that is what people say; but I can’t help thinking “as lively as a shrimp” would sound better.
I always wear a lovely suit of armour, like those old warriors you read about. It is strong and firm and well jointed, so that I can move ever so fast—of course not so fast as that silly little fish.
He has armour too, he says, but wears it inside. That seems queer to me; I can’t quite believe it.
But I want to tell you what a queer thing happened to mine not long ago. It grew small and shabby, like your last year’s dress; that is why I have called this story “Old Clothes.”
Listen. I lived a very happy life out at sea for some time, till one day I fell into a strange basket-box thing.
There were several other lobsters and one or two crabs sitting there, looking anxious and disturbed. And I soon found out that they had need to feel so, for there was no exit. That means “way out” in plain words.
Our basket was joined to a strong rope, and that was attached to a cork floating on the top of the water.
Not long after I had fallen into this basket, which I now know was a lobster-trap, a boat rowed out from the shore, stopped just above us, and then we were lifted up, up, right out of the water, and placed in the boat.
The next thing was a good deal of pushing and knocking about, and then some one tossed me carelessly out on the beach, saying roughly, “Too small for any use.”
But some one else thought differently. Another hand touched me, and another voice said, “Just the thing for my aquarium.”