He had got his hind feet and his fore feet on the twig, and his body looped up like an arch in the air between, when a fly walked up the twig and began to mount the arch of the imitator, not having the least idea that it was on a gentleman's coat-tails.

The caterpillar shook his stern, and the fly made off as if it had seen a ghost.

The dead twig and the live twig now remain equally motionless, enjoying their different ways.

And when, with this very pencil, I push the head of the caterpillar off from the twig, he remains on his tail, arched forward in air, and oscillating unhappily, like some tiny pendulum ticking.

Ticking, ticking in mid-air, arched away from his planted tail.