Huxley’s Backward Binoculars — Under the tickly shade of the fern clearing, Huxley polished his old binoculars with a grass blade until they smelled green and peppery. Read the full story →
Under the tickly shade of the fern clearing, Huxley polished his old binoculars with a grass blade until they smelled green and peppery. He wanted to spot a gigglebird before snack time, because its call sounded exactly like a hiccup wearing tap shoes. The binoculars were scratched, dented, and much too small for a giraffe, but Huxley wore them proudly on his chest. “Patience first, peeking second,” he whispered, copying the tiny words scratched on one lens.
So he waited. Ants marched over a root. A breeze rattled the giant leaf like paper. Huxley counted his own spots, then lost count on purpose because it made the waiting funnier. At last, a squeaky hee-hee-hee came from the leaf. Huxley lifted the binoculars—and everything looked farther away than before.
That was when he noticed the secret: he had been wearing the binoculars backward all morning. Through the wrong end, three leaf bugs looked enormous, each balancing a seed hat and bowing like royal comedians. They had not been hiding from him; they had been practicing for their tallest audience. Huxley laughed so hard his safari hat wobbled. Next time you see those dangling binoculars, check which way they face—the hee-hee-hee may be waiting in the tickly shade.
