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The Butterfly from the Wood. 27
rose that had had its colour painted by the day-
dawn was withered almost before it had enjoyed
the morning of life, and its leaves were scattered
by the sighing wind.
The little white butterfly flew once again from
the wood to the garden, when the sun was lowering
in the west—irresistibly drawn there by a yearning
once more to see the beautiful rose; but. it looked
in vain, and its heart beat anxiously. It would so
have loved to have asked of the other flowers about
the rose, but it dared not, for they looked so proud
in their gaudy raiments; then its eyes lit upon a
common flower of the forest—a chatterbox that grew
amongst the weeds’ on the side: of a flower bed
—it flew thither and asked, “What has become of
the crimson rose?” “Oh, it is a long and very sad
story to tell,” answered the funny little flower, and
commenced to chatter about a lot of things, for
chatterboxes are always jabbering. Amongst other
things it knew to tell of, was that the ancestors
of the rose had been common briars, but through
an expert and clever gardener had become ennobled.
“What has become of the crimson rose?”
anxiously inquired the butterfly from the wood, for
it had not listened to one word of the gossip.
“Look around you, dreamer!” cried the chatter-
box, and grew deep-yellow with rage when it found
that the butterfly had paid no attention to its chatter-
ing. “These withered leaves that you see scattered
about by the sportive wind—of all these the con-
ceited crimson rose was once made up; but so it
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