Pipthorn parted a curtain of tall grass. Beneath the leaves, a whole tiny city blinked into view.
Pebble streets curled between seedpod roofs. A bridge no wider than a shoelace crossed the middle of the city.
Pipthorn crouched low and went very still. Tick-tick, tick-tick, went the beetle carts somewhere under the leaves.
Pipthorn tiptoed onto the pebble path and lifted one finger in a tiny wave.
Little faces peeked from flower tunnels and acorn-door windows. Pollen floated in the warm air.
Then—CRACK! A sharp sound snapped across the garden.
A fallen twig thumped over the little bridge and blocked it from end to end.
Tiny squeaks filled the city. Bright berry seeds rolled everywhere.
Pipthorn reached in as gently as a breeze.
Once. Twice. The twig would not budge.
On the third try, Pipthorn slid a flat pebble under the twig and rolled it inch by inch.
Bump, roll, bump—and plonk! The twig tipped off the bridge into the dirt.
A cheer rang out under the leaves like tiny bell chimes. The bridge stood clear again.
Pipthorn stepped back. The bug-sized people hurried across the bridge.
At the leaf gate, they waved Pipthorn in. "Welcome, Pipthorn!"
Pipthorn followed the lantern glow past sweet-smelling flowers into the hidden city.
