CHAPTER XXI.
Tiny’s last ramble through the copse near Beaver Creek was one that he never forgot. He was beginning to realize how much more pleasing are the works of Nature when one really takes an interest in them. He had learned to study even the snail in his shell house and the Venus’ fly-trap that catches insects.
“Aren’t the skies blue, and the trees and grasses green, and the music of the birds sweet, and the busy hum of the insects inspiring?” he asked himself again and again.
Once he stopped to admire the graceful foliage of the alder tree.
“That tree has some secrets hidden away that I mean to find out,” said he, as he scurried up its smooth trunk. He gazed through the branches. At last he espied a nest. It was built of coarse sticks.
“What an odd place for a jay bird’s home!” he exclaimed. “I never could understand why the jay does not build a comfortable nest like that of the robin. Perhaps he fears he might spoil his little ones by making them too comfortable.”
Next he saw a queer object that held his attention for a long time. A caterpillar was hanging from a leaf. Tiny thought that it was about to fall, but the little worm held fast with all its might. It was attaching a fine thread to the point of a leaf, but it worked harder than the man who fells a tree.
“Do not molest that caterpillar,” said a voice from a limb overhead.