Snythergen took off his suit and lay upon the ground. In a minute he was fast asleep. Early the next morning he arose and put on his tree suit but not the xylophone skirt. It was a hot day and it would be cooler without that. And he believed that after their hard day the woodpeckers would sleep till noon. He was right. Not one came to disturb him in the morning. But without[30] them there were plenty of curious eyes staring. For the birds and animals could not understand the change that had come over the strange tree. The goldfinch did not sleep as late as the woodpeckers, for he did not believe in lying abed in the morning even if he had been up late the night before. When he saw that the tree no longer wore its skirt of xylophone keys he studied Snythergen curiously, hopping from twig to twig and pondering. He discovered that this tree was much warmer than the others—for the heavy tree suit made Snythergen very hot. The little bird wondered if the strange tree would not be a good place in which to build a winter home. This would save him going south every year. In place of a one-room nest, why not build a mansion? He flew away excitedly to draw up the plans.
“At last I can enjoy a little peace,” murmured Snythergen and dozed off for a standing nap. When he awoke, it was with a start. “Stop biting my toes,” he cried. Glancing down he saw—a pig! “He must be hungry,” thought he. “Well, I’ve eaten enough pig in my day. It would only be fair to let one of his kind have a bite of me. But I am thankful his teeth are not sharp. The bites feel like little pinches.[31] I hope he is enjoying himself, but now he is beginning to damage my costume!” He gave a kick and the pig jumped back, so frightened that his hair and his tail stood pompadour. He was pale and trembling and his little eyes grew big and round.
“What in the world is the matter with that tree?” he exclaimed. “I thought it moved!”
It was now Snythergen’s turn to be surprised. “Can he talk, the little rascal? Now how did a pig ever learn to talk? I must investigate.”
Evidently the pig liked the taste of bark; and as Snythergen stood very still the pig’s courage returned. He approached the tree once more, and was just about to take a really good bite when Snythergen cried, “Don’t do that!”
“Who said that?” cried the pig, startled.
“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.”
[32]
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.
[33]
 
Snythergen cried, “Don’t do that!”
 
[34]
The nest was progressing alarmingly. The fuzzy material tickled Snythergen’s limb, and every time he tried to rub it, the goldfinch was watching.
[35]
“Is there no way to get rid of the little pest?” he groaned. “Can’t I ever get him to turn his back long enough for me to rub my itching limb? My, but he must love me, the way he keeps staring all the while! If this keeps up much longer I’ll get the St. Vitus’ dance.”
He remembered that the finch had gone a long way off for milkweed silk and thistle down with which to line his nest, and it was while he was searching for these that Snythergen had had his chance to hide.
“I’ll just pull out some of that fuzzy stuff and put it in my pocket the next time birdie turns his back,” he chuckled. “When he sees it is gone he will go for some more, and when he comes back—well, there won’t be any tree or any nest to welcome him!”
This thought amused Snythergen so much that he almost gave himself away by laughing out loud. Luckily the finch thought it was a child in the woods and turned his back to see. And the moment he did so Snythergen jerked out most of the fuzzy stuff and put it into his pocket. When the finch saw the damage he was very much puzzled.
“Bless my feathers! Now how in the world[36] did that happen?” he said. “This place must be bewitched!”
He looked around, painfully twisting his neck, then sat still on a branch for a long time, watching and thinking, but he failed to find a single clue leading to the cause of the damage. At length he gave it up and went to work to repair it. First he looked all around carefully, then dashed away to the place where the thistles grew, planning to grab a billful of down and fly back in the briefest possible time. But the moment he was out of sight Snythergen took to his roots and ran toward the place where he had told the pig to meet him, tearing off his tree suit as he ran, and he had barely gotten out of it when the finch flew screeching by.
“This time I fooled you,” thought Snythergen, as he stretched out on the ground for a nap.