IN FEATHERS AXD FUR. 173 
atom of a green egg, stuck to the stem of some weeds under the 
water. After a while the egg burst open, out crawled Mr. Worm, 
and proceeded at once to look for building materials. 
You see, except his head and neck, which are protected by a 
hard covering, he is a soft little worm, and he wouldn't live long in 
the same pond with fish, and bugs, and spiders, who have nothing 
to do but to eat, and are always hungry, unless he had a safe home. 
So, of course, he goes, the first thing, to building. 
There are several branches of the family, and they all build 
droll little houses, though they're not all alike. One of them hunts 
up two dead leaves, and glues them together in such a way as to 
leave a nice cozy home between them. It's perfectly safe ; for who 
would suspect an old dead leaf of being anybody's house ? 
Another of the family builds of stems of grass, cut off and 
fastened together side by side, till they look like a bundle of straw. 
A third member of this interesting family wants a more ele- 
gant house ; so he takes tiny atoms of shells, often with the owner 
inside, glues them together, and lives in a shell house. 
Others use grains of sand and tiny stones. In fact, there 
seems no end to the different things these industrious little fellows 
find to build of. 
No sooner is the house done, than Mr. Worm moves in. He 
don't have to wait for painters and furniture-men, — happy fellow ! 
He just goes in and fastens himself there by means of a pair of 
hooks he has at the end of his tail, and then he's ready to live. 
The next thing is something to eat. So he starts off, taking 
his house with him, to hunt up some bits of green stuff, or some 
atom of a worm smaller than he is. 
But strange things happen to this bit of a worm at the bottom 
of the pond. His life is full of wonderful adventures. If he was 
bigger, he'd be the wonder of the world. 
After eating as much as he can — stuffing himself, in fact — Mr. 
Worm thinks it's time to retire from the gay world ; so he finishes 
his house by hanging before it a silk door, — no loose curtain, but a 
tightly-woven network, which he spins and fastens carefully on 
every side. 
Now, whether he goes to sleep in his comical little house, or 
what he does, nobody knows, because nobody can peep in, you 
know. But something goes on there in the dark ; for, after awhile, 
the little prisoner opens the door, comes out of his house, crawls 
