separated from the rest of the garden by a low wooden border about two
inches high. I do not know as to whether or not it was this exclusive
life they lived that made them so lacking in strength, but they were
swayed by the slightest breath of air, now this way and now that. In the
same garden were many other vegetables, and towering far above them all
were some giant plum trees. At least they seemed like giants to the
potato vine and tomato plants near by, both of whom were of a creeping
nature and had a great admiration for anybody, or anything, that was
higher than themselves. The young potato vines used to look up from the
top of their hills and wonder if they would ever get as near to the sky
as the branches of the plum trees seemed to be. Silly things! They did
not know that their only value lay in their keeping close to the ground
and bearing as many fine, smooth-skinned potatoes as possible; that is,
the younger vines did not know this important fact.

Our story, however, is not about the potato vines, but of something very
wonderful which took place upon the outside leaf of a round, green
cabbage-head which stood along with the other cabbage-heads in one
corner of the garden. I don't believe you would have understood much of
what was going on if you had been there, any more than did the
happy-faced, little, black-eyed woman who owned the garden. She thought
she loved her garden, every tree, and shrub, and herb that grew in it;
still she spent a great deal more time looking at the swift-flowing
river and the stretch of hills beyond than she did at her
cabbage-heads. Her neighbors said she was very far-sighted and called
her clever, but the ants and beetles which lived in the garden knew that
she was dull, because she spent hours each day poring over stupid books,
while the most wonderful things were happening all around her, under her
very nose, as it were, or rather, I should say, perhaps, under her very
feet--things far more interesting than her books could possibly have
been.

Among these wonderful things of which her garden could have told her was
the life-story of a little green caterpillar whose home was on the
outside leaf of a large green cabbage-head. He was not an inch long and
not much bigger around than a good-sized broom straw, yet he was an
honest little fellow in his way, and spent most of his time crawling
about on his cabbage-leaf and nibbling holes in it, which you know, is
about all a caterpi