which a dead bumble-bee lay in state. With the other he was keeping in
order a funeral procession of caterpillars. It was a motley crowd of
mourners that the energetic forefinger urged along the line of march.
He had evidently collected them from many quarters,--little green
worms that spun down from the apple boughs overhead; big furry brown
caterpillars that had hurried along the honeysuckle trellis to escape
his fat fingers; spotted ones and striped ones; horned and smooth.
They all straggled along, each one travelling his own gait, each one
bent on going a different direction, but all kept in line by that
short determined forefinger.

Steven laughed so suddenly that the little master of ceremonies jumped
up and turned a startled face towards him. Then he saw that there were
traces of tears on the dimpled face and one eye was swollen nearly
shut.

"O Robin! what is it now?" he cried in distress. "How did you hurt
yourself so dreadfully?"

"Ole bumble!" answered Robin, pointing to the leaf. "He flied in ze
kitchen an' sat down in ze apple peelin's. I jus' poked him, nen he
flied up and bit me. He's dead now," he added triumphantly. "Gramma
killed him. See all ze cattow-pillows walkin' in ze p'cession?"

So the days slipped by in the old farmhouse. Frost nipped the gardens,
and summer vanished entirely from orchard and field. The happy
outdoor life was at an end, and Robin was like a caged squirrel.
Steven had his hands full keeping him amused and out of the way.

"Well, my lad, isn't it about time for you to be starting to school?"