"Why, it's to measure with!" cried Bruno. "How ever would you do a garden without one? We make each bed th'ee mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide." I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the "eerie" feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie. "I think the best way will be for _you_ to weed the beds, while _I_ sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with." "That's it!" cried Bruno. "And I'll tell you about the caterpillars while we work." "Ah, let's hear about the caterpillars," I said, as I drew the pebbles together into a heap, and began dividing them into colors. And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking to himself. "Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by the brook, just where you go into the wood. They were quite g'een, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn't see _me_. And one of them had got a moth's wing to carry--a g'eat b'own moth's wing, you know, all d'y, with feathers. So he couldn't want it to eat, I should think--perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?" "Perhaps," I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sort of question, and was looking at me for an answer. One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went on, merrily: "Well, and so he didn't want the other caterpillar to see the moth's wing, you know; so what must he do but t'y to carry it with all his left legs, and he t'ied to walk on the other set. Of course, he toppled over after that." "After what?" I said, catching at the last word, for, to tell the truth, I hadn't been attending much. "He toppled over," Bruno repeated, very gravely, "and if _you_ ever saw a caterpillar topple over, you'd know it's a serious thing, and not sit g'inning like that--and I shan't tell you any more." "Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn't mean to grin. See, I'm quite grave again now." But Bruno only folded his arms and said, "Don't tell _me_. I see a little twinkle in one of your eyes--just like the moon." "Am _I_ like the moon, Bruno?" I asked. "Your face is large and round like the moon," Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully. "It doesn't shine quite so bright--but it's cleaner." I couldn't help smiling at this. "You know I wash _my_ face, Bruno. The moon never does that." "Oh, doesn't she though!" cried Bruno; and he leaned forward and added in a solemn whisper, "The moon's face gets dirtier and dirtier every night, till it's black all ac'oss. And then, when it's dirty all over--_so_--" (he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke) "then she washes it." "And then it's all clean again, isn't it?" "Not all in a moment," said Bruno. "What a deal of teaching you want! She washes it little by little--only she begins at the other edge."