Nothing
in the world flies like a butterfly. Birds and other things fly
straight, or sweep in curves, or rise and drop in understandable
straight lines. But the Painted Lady obeyed no such rules. It dodged
and darted, it jerked and shot, it was everywhere and anywhere, least
of all where it ought to have been. The swallows always missed it. It
simply doubled--and disappeared round the corner of the building.
Then, puffing at his pipe, Uncle Felix looked at Tim and said, "I
couldn't tell you. It's one of the things nobody can understand, I
think."
"Yes," agreed Tim, "it must be."
There was a considerable pause.
"But there must be some way of finding out," the boy said presently.
He had been thinking over it.
"There is." The man rose slowly from his chair.
"What is it?" came the eager question.
"Try it ourselves, and see if we can do the same!"
And they went off instantly, hand in hand, and vanished round the
corner of the building.
The adventures they had since Uncle Felix came were of this impossible
and marvellous order. That strange and lovely cry, "There's some one
coming," ran through the listening world.
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