But the surprising thing was the length of his three fingers.
Each finger appeared to be about as long as the whole arm. From
his shoulder a thin, rubbery skin was stretched to the ends of
the long fingers, then across to the ankle of his hind foot on
that side, and from there across to the tip of his tail. A
little short thumb with a long, curved claw stuck up free from
the edge of the wing.
"Now you can see just why he is called winghanded," explained Old
Mother Nature, as Flitter folded the wing. In a minute he began
to clean it. Everybody laughed, for it was funny to watch him.
He would take the skin of the wing in his mouth and pull and stretch
it as if it were rubber. He washed it with his tiny tongue. Then
he washed his fur. You see, Flitter is very neat. With the little
claw of his thumb he scratched his head and combed his hair. All
the time he remained hanging head down, clinging to the twig with
his toes.
"Where is Mrs. Flitter?" asked Old Mother Nature.
"Don't know," replied Flitter, beginning on the other wing. "She's
quite equal to looking after herself, so I don't worry about her."
"Nor about your babies. Flitter, I'm ashamed of you. You are a
poor kind of father," declared Old Mother Nature severely. "If
you don't know where to find your family, I'll show you."
She stepped over to the very next tree, parted the leaves, and
there, sure enough, hung Mrs.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180