He fastened tiny twigs here and there on the outside, to deceive the birds. "They will think it is a stick," he said, "and thus I shall be safe." He put a strong silk thread round the wide end as a draw-cord. Now the little house was finished. He could crawl in, pull the cord to shut the door, and safely go to sleep.
Just about this time he began to lose his appetite. "Dear me! this is very remarkable," he thought. "I wonder if that bee was right, after all? I certainly feel queer. I think I'll have a good long sleep."
He hung his house to a branch of a tree, crept into it, tied the front door securely, and went to sleep. And there he slept on and on, day after day, night after night, without ever waking to eat.
While he slept, skin and little legs shrivelled up and fell away from him, and a new skin, hard and thick and scaly, took their place.
"This is a queer state of affairs," he said, waking for a moment. "I feel quite different."
He slept again. Another change came. Six long, thin legs grew, tightly packed away under him; softly feathered wings and feelers slowly came.
He woke again. "I must go out into the world," he said.
Wriggling and pushing, he worked himself half out through the back door of his house. Wriggling and pushing still, he cracked the hard chrysalis skin and sprang on to the top of his house.
He unrolled his feathery wings and waved them fast in the air to dry them. What a fine fellow he was now! How the sun shone, after the long darkness of his house! How beautiful was the day!
"Good-bye, old house," he said. "I shall never need you again, for now I can fly from my enemies." He darted swiftly through the air to lead his new life—a new life indeed, for he never again needed to eat.