"How funny!" exclaimed the butterfly.
"See how dark the sky is getting; he will soon be here," went on the worm, solemnly.
"Oh, pshaw! it's only a shower coming up," said the butterfly, stretching her wings.
"No, it is the monster; don't you feel the ground shake? The storm is coming, but the monster is coming too. Get into this hole under the track; I beg you, I entreat you, get into this hole and be saved."
"Nonsense!" laughed the butterfly.
The rail was trembling, and in the distance a strange wild shriek was heard, a great puff of smoke went rolling up to the sky.
"Quick! quick!" implored the worm. "Do as I do, or you will be killed. There is no time to lose."
But the only answer he got was a laugh.
The monster was getting nearer and nearer, and the worm, with one more vain petition to the butterfly to follow him, squirmed into a crevice under the rail.
On came the monster, its great iron limbs pounding back and forth. A rattle, a shriek, a puff of smoke: he had come and gone. The worm—where was he? Limp and dead in his little hole under the rail. And the butterfly—the poor beautiful butterfly?