»Alas, he still lies in his thistle-down bed, all a-shake and a-shiver. Nothing will cure him, I fear.«
Just then Cockchafer bustled in, and in either hand she carried an acorn cup. »This is terrible,« she chattered. »Poor Flicker so sick, and the other fireflies all sitting outside on the honeysuckle vine, mourning. The forest is black as pitch! But no need to worry longer, for I have brought just the thing. See? A cup of camomile tea, and a cup of peppermint tea. Give them both to him, Dr. Maybug.«
Dr. Maybug asked the kindly noisy lady to be a little more quiet and come to the bedside. Together they forced a few drops of the horrid bitter teas between the clenched lips, but the yellow liquid just dribbled away. Little Flicker lay there, thin, weak, silent. Cockchafer could not stand it. She burst
