Jory’s Borrowed Eye-Spots — Before the orchard warmed, Jory dipped his feet into the first apple blossom and nudged three fat drops of nectar onto a leaf below. Read the full story →
Before the orchard warmed, Jory dipped his feet into the first apple blossom and nudged three fat drops of nectar onto a leaf below. He was saving breakfast for the ants who marched up the bark every morning, though he always pretended he had simply sneezed. The blossoms smelled like honey and rain, and his wings made a soft fuff-fuff against the leaves.
A polished green beetle arrived, tapping the twig like a judge with six little shoes. “Excellent cups,” she said, peering at the round spots on Jory’s wings. “But why are they empty?” Jory nearly fell off the blossom laughing. The beetle bowed to one eye-spot, then another, and announced that the orchard had very strange dishes.
So Jory played along. He tilted one wing toward the ants’ leaf and said, “Service is downstairs.” The ants found the nectar, the beetle found the joke, and nobody found out who had filled the leaf—unless you notice Jory’s borrowed eye-spots next time the branches smell like honey and rain.
