ime to spin a cocoon."

"But do all caterpillars turn into moths or butterflies?" asked Jack.

"Yes, every one, my son, that lives long enough, just as surely as a boy
will turn into a man. The butterfly lays the egg, and after the egg has
been quiet for a while out comes a little worm; the worm spins the
cocoon, and out of the cocoon comes a perfect moth, or butterfly. It is
a wonderful cycle, a wonderful series of changes. Little boys and girls
seem to be surrounded with more love and don't change their skins as
moths do, but the mystery of life belongs quite as much to the helpless
moth as it does to any one of us."

"But is a caterpillar an insect, and is a butterfly an insect?" asked
Betty.

"Of course, you goose," said Jimmie; "you don't expect to hatch a duck
from a hen's egg, do you?"

But Ben Gile, who was older than Jimmie and decidedly more patient,
explained, carefully: "If you look at a caterpillar and a moth you will
see that their bodies aren't so unlike, after all. They are made up of
rings, and both the moth and the caterpillar have six legs apiece. Most
caterpillars have little prop legs, but these aren't real legs and
shouldn't be counted. Caterpillars eat and eat and eat; they are such
solid little chaps they must need a good many legs, real and false, to
keep moving at all. Well, heigho! stretch your own legs, boys! We'll
leave the caterpillar where it is, and move on to the top of the
mountain, or we'll never be there in time to eat our own supper. One,
two, three, march!"

And off they went, talking and laughing and scrambling up the side of
the mountain, which swung dark and steep above them.

XII

CAMP-IN-THE-CLOUDS

The camp was reached. Once there, the children found the other two
guides in the cabin. The cook-tent was already pitched; the
sleeping-tents had been left so that the boys might choose their own
locations and help in pitching them. It was a beautiful place--remote,
wild, two-thirds up the side of the great mountain.

In front was the famous trout pond, and beyond the little valley made by
the pond the crest of the mountain rose higher and higher. Dusk was
coming on, and the crisp mountain air was filled with the shadows of the
woods; along the mountain summit lay streamers of white cloud. Down,
down, down reached the long fingers of cloud, and up, up, up reached the
deep shadows, just as if a great hand were closing the world in dusk.
Every little sound was as