THERE was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as
may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from
among the flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at
all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated
quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should
sit before they are engaged; but there was a great number of
them, and it appeared as if his search would become very
wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much
trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French
call this flower "Marguerite," and they say that the little
daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they
pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus:
"Does he or she love me?- Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A
little? Not at all?" and so on. Every one speaks these words
in his own language. The butterfly came also to Marguerite to
inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a
kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to
be done by kindness.

    "Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the
wisest woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the
flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which will be my bride?
When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose."

    But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that
he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there
is a great difference. He asked her a second time, and then a
third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he
would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at
once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the
snowdrop were in full bloom.

    "They are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming
little lasses; but they are rather formal."

    Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the
elder girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather
sour to his taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The
lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large
family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like
roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the
first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with one
of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom pleased
him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender,
and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty
appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He was just
about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw
a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

    "Who is that?" he asked.

    "That is my sister," replied the pea-blossom.

    "Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day," said he;
and he flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

    A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom;
but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and
sallow complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did
he like?

    Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn
came; but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in
their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the
fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for
fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very
little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry
chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on
the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is
sweetness all over,- full of fragrance from head to foot, with
the scent of a flower in every leaf.

    "I will take her," said the butterfly; and he made her an
offer. But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to
him. At last she said,-

    "Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and
you are old, but we may live for each other just the same; as
to marrying- no; don't let us appear ridiculous at our age."

    And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all.
He had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And
the butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.

    It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather.
The cold wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so
that they creaked again. It was not the weather for flying
about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was not
out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room
heated by a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here,
he said, well enough.

    "But it is not enough merely to exist," said he, "I need
freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion."

    Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and
admired by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on
a pin, in a box of curiosities. They could not do more for
him.

    "Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the
butterfly. "It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should
imagine it is something like being married; for here I am
stuck fast." And with this thought he consoled himself a
little.

    "That seems very poor consolation," said one of the plants
in the room, that grew in a pot.

    "Ah," thought the butterfly, "one can't very well trust
these plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind."


                            THE END