Leo saw them now: each leg was a series of rigid tubes—a tiny thigh, a shin, a foot—all linked by minuscule hinges. When the beetle paused, one leg flexed at a joint that looked like a polished knot of armor.
Leo’s eyes widened. “Crab shells? Like the ones at the beach?” is a beetle an arthropod
The sun had barely cleared the lip of the garden wall when Leo found it. A jewel, no bigger than his pinky nail, crawled across the cracked mud of the strawberry patch. Its shell was a polished, iridescent green, like a drop of molten metal that had somehow grown legs. Leo saw them now: each leg was a
“First,” Grandfather said, “watch it move. Count the legs.” “Crab shells
“Jointed,” Grandfather said, stressing the word. “The word ‘arthropod’ comes from ancient Greek. Arthron means ‘joint.’ Podos means ‘foot’ or ‘leg.’ An arthropod is a ‘jointed-foot’ creature.”
“Now look at the beetle’s back. That shell—we call it the elytron—isn’t just for show. What does it remind you of?”
His grandfather, a man with hands like cracked leather and eyes that still sparkled with boyish wonder, looked up from his notebook. He saw the beetle on the leaf and saw the question on Leo’s face.