THE BUTTERFLY
by Hans Christian Andersen
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."
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