The bottles hung high in the branches of the oak tree outside the city. In summer, passers-by hardly noticed them, except at sunset, as glints of fire among the green leaves. But when the branches were bare, they shone like jewels in all shades of green, from peacock to the palest jade. Nobody knew who had hung them there or what they contained. Some hoped for gold and tried to shoot the bottles down with rifles. They missed and the bullets ricocheted down to wound or kill them. Others climbed the tree. Some were never heard of again. Others fell and broke their limbs or their necks.

The cat burglar took the matter as a personal challenge. He had climbed the highest buildings in town and stolen the best treasures available. He wanted at least one of those bottles, whatever was in them. He chose to climb by moonlight, which was when he did his best work, and he took plenty of rope. The bottles shone blue against the black branches and he waited for the wind to die down.

The lowest bottle hung from a twig at the very end of a skinny branch. The burglar listened to the creaks as he inched along and decided to stop before the branch cracked under him. He climbed higher, until he was just below the second bottle. He reached out and saw a turbulence inside it, coiling and shaking the glass. Not that one, he decided, and climbed higher still. A silent owl swooped down and tugged at his head but could not dislodge him. Then the wind roused up and tossed him backwards and forwards. He clung on until he reached the next bottle. No more procrastinating, he thought. He drew the bottle down and peered into it. The mouth of the bottle opened wide and swallowed him.