"I suppose this is the end of me," he thought in his little round head
as he tried to wriggle across the road and couldn't because his back
was so stiff. "Now I am an old man and I shall never see another
summer. Good-bye." And Fuzzy Caterpillar rolled himself up in a gray
blanket and hung himself on the end of a dried twig. "This is the last
of me," he said once more as the dried little grub he now was rattled
around in the cold.
All his beautiful furry coat was scattered to the winds. The path he
had made in the dust grew narrower as it wound across the road. That
was because Fuzzy Caterpillar had shrivelled as he crawled. Poor Fuzzy
Caterpillar, who had so loved the Out-Doors!
The winter was white, and cold, and long. Then it was over, just as
all winters are over at last, and Spring came. Spring came over the
hills, in a pretty new green frock and with wild flowers in her hair.
Sometimes she looked up at the sky, but oftener she looked down at
the ground. Spring was looking for the little creatures that she loved
so much; the tiny ants, the patient spiders, the cheerful beetles, and
Fuzzy Caterpillar.
"Where is Fuzzy Caterpillar?" Spring wondered. She did not see him,
all dried up and hanging in his gray blanket from the twig.
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