“Why, I did, of course.”
“Who are you and where are you?”
“Can’t you see, you simpleton!” said Snythergen. “I am the tree and I want you to stop biting my roots.”
The pig did not wait to hear more. So frightened was he that he ran away as fast as he could.
“Come back,” shouted Snythergen, “come back after dark and we can visit without being seen.”
Soon the little finch returned with plans all drawn, and set to work to build in one of the strange tree’s branches. This made Snythergen anxious for he did not fancy having his limbs tangled up in nests. And when the finch flew farther than usual in search of thistle down, Snythergen strolled softly to an open space several hundred feet away behind a hillock.
When the finch returned he could not find the tree. Nearly frantic he flew wildly about in circles; then darted across in diameters. Was he dreaming? He all but lost his reason and contracted a painfully stiff neck. “That tree must be somewhere!” he exclaimed, and turning suddenly he would charge the spot where it had been, as if to take it by surprise. Then he described larger and larger circles until at length he came upon Snythergen’s hiding place.
Joyfully he returned to his work careful this time not to let the tree out of his sight. It was now Snythergen’s turn to be perplexed. How was he to dodge that energetic nest builder! For every time he attempted to take to his roots there were those sharp little eyes regarding him.
“No chance! That is the most suspicious goldfinch I ever saw!” he sighed.