“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.” 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. [Illustration: Snythergen cried, “Don’t do that!”] The nest was progressing alarmingly. The fuzzy material tickled Snythergen’s limb, and every time he tried to rub it, the goldfinch was watching. “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 did that happen?” he said. “This place must be bewitched!”