He sought once more the shelter of a tall pine-tree of the spruce species. Here he could be safe and here he could sleep.
But after a hearty meal he took the precaution to lash himself to the stem, high, high up.
His descent from the last tree had been accomplished with safety certainly, but it was of rather a peculiar nature, and Benee had no desire to risk his neck again.
The wind softly sighed in the branches.
A bird of the thrush species alighted about a yard above him, and burst into shrill sweet melody to welcome the rising sun.
With half-closed eyes Benee could see from under the branches a deep-orange horizon, fading into pure sea-green zenithwards, then to deepest purple and blue where rested the crimson clouds.
And now there was a glare of brighter and more silvery light, and the red streaks were turned into wreaths of snow.
The sun was up, and Benee slept. But he carried that sweet bird's song into dreamland.
————
About three days after this Benee was rejoiced to find himself in a new land, but it was a land he knew well--too well.