“‘Alas!’ sighed the worm, ‘what a toilsome life is ours! We move only by great labor, and, even with that, can never travel far. Kept near the damp ground, liable at any moment to be crushed, toiling up and down rough stalks, eating tough leaves,—for it is only now and then we find a flower,—oh, it is truly a wearisome life!
“‘Yet none seem to pity our sorrows. Those proud insects flitting overhead,—the miller, the butterfly, the dragon-fly, the golden bumble-bee,—they never notice us. Oh, but life goes well with them! Flying is so easy! Wherever they wish to be, they have only to spread their wings, and the summer wind bears them on. Dressed gayly, at home with all the flowers, living on sweets, seeing fine sights, hearing all that is to be heard, what care they for us poor plodders? Selfish creatures, they think only of themselves. Now, for my part, if I had wings, and could move about so easily, I would think sometimes of the poor worms down below who cannot fly. I would bring them now and then a sip of honey, or a taste of something nice from the flower-gardens far away. I would come down and speak a kind word; tell them something good to hear; in short, be friendly. Oh, if one only had wings, how much good one might do! But these selfish creatures never think of that.’
“Not long afterward, this complaining worm was changed into a butterfly. Spreading her light wings, she passed the happy hours in flitting from field to field, rocking in the flower-cups, idling about where the sunshine was brightest, sipping where the honey was sweetest. Oh! a right gay butterfly was she, and no summer day ever seemed too long.
“One morning, while resting upon an opening rosebud, she saw below her a couple of worms, making their slow way over the ground.
“‘Poor creatures!’ she said. ‘Life goes hard with them. Dull things, how little they know! It must be stupid enough down there. No doubt their lives could be brightened if proper means were taken. Some few pleasures or comforts might be given them; and I hope this will be done. If I were not so busy—but really I haven’t a moment to spare. To-day there is a rose-party, and all the butterflies are going there. To-morrow the sweet-pea party comes off, and all the butterflies are going there. Next day the grasshoppers give a grand hop, and at sundown there will be a serenade by the crickets. Every hour is occupied. The bumble-bees and hornets are getting up a concert. Then there is a new flower blossoming in a garden far away, and all are flying to see it. The two rich butterflies—Lady Golden-Spot and Madame Royal-Purple—have arrived in great state, and they will expect great attentions. The bees have had a lucky summer, and, in honor of these new arrivals, have promised to give a grand honey-festival, at which the queen herself will preside. The wasps are on the police; and they will, I trust, keep out the vulgar. The gnats and mosquitoes have formed a military company, called the Flying Militia, which will serve, if needed. It is to be hoped that no low creatures, like the two creeping along below, will intrude themselves. Poor things! If I had the time, I really would try to do something for them; but every sunny day is taken up, and stirring out in the wet is not to be thought of.
“‘Besides, one meets with so much that is not pleasant in mixing with low people. Their homes are not always cleanly: I might soil my wings. And, if once taken notice of, they will always expect to be. Why make them dissatisfied? They are well enough off as they are. Perhaps, after all, it is my duty not to meddle with them: in fact, I have no doubt of it.
“‘Here comes Miss Gossamer. Welcome, Miss Gossamer! All ready for the rose-party? How sweetly you look! Wait one moment till I have washed my face in this dew-drop: the sun has nearly dried it up while I have been pitying those mean worms below there. It is folly, I know, to thus waste the time; but my feelings are so tender! I actually thought of calling! What would Lady Golden-Spot think, or Madame Royal-Purple? Have you seen them pass? They are sure to be there. Do you suppose they will take notice of us? If they don’t, I shall be perfectly wretched. Come, dear Miss Gossamer, one more sip, and then away!’”
THE STORY OF FLORINDA.
A party of small cousins were spending New-Year’s at grandma Bowen’s; and, while waiting for tea, they begged her to tell them the story of Florinda,—some because they had never heard it, others because they had. The old lady was more than willing. “Yes,” said she, “we Bowens ought to keep alive the memory of Florinda, the faithful hired girl; and I will tell you the story just as your grandfather told it to me, and just as his grandfather told it to him, and as his grandfather told it to him. Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather remembered Nathaniel Bowen very well; and his father—Nathaniel Bowen’s father, the first Mr. Bowen of all—came over from England in the bark ‘Jasper’ more than two hundred years ago. He brought his family with him, and they settled in this very place where we live now. The country was covered with woods then. Indians, buffaloes, deer, wolves, and foxes had it pretty much to themselves.