“We’d better tell him, brother,” said Malkin, “about the Elf with the apple-seed coat, who brushed all the powder off the butterfly’s wings.”
“Suppose you tell him, brother,” said Nibby. But Sappy didn’t wait to be told; he had evidently heard all he needed to hear. He gave a slow wink with one eye, ruffled his feathers, and flew away among the trees without a word.
“He’ll be back,” said the Painter, and in a little while old Sappy came back, and he was carrying in his beak the Apple-Seed Elf.
“Let me go!” cried the Elf, kicking and squirming, and owl dropped him to the ground and stood over him.
“What do you want?” piped the Elf, evidently frightened almost to death.
“Say the words!” growled the owl, in a deep hoarse voice. “Say the words that’ll change the butterfly back again, and say ’em before I count ten, or else I’ll eat you. One, two, three, four,——”
The Apple-Seed Elf started to scamper off through the grass, but the owl put his foot on him, quick as a wink.
“Five, six, seven,——”
“Let me go!” cried the Elf, struggling to get loose.
“Eight, nine,——”