ne early spring day, a little shoot of Honeysuckle was putting forth its tendrils low down on the ground at the foot of a quickset hedge. As yet it was but a weakly sprig, not knowing its own strength, nor even dreaming that it would ever rise far above the earth. Yet still it was very contented, drawing happiness from its lowly surroundings, happy in living, and feeling the warm sunshine kissing its fragile leaves.
Close by, there was a strange, dark, oblong mass, and the little Honeysuckle tried to imagine what it could possibly be, for it never moved, nor evinced emotion of any kind; and yet it was alive, because people would take it up, examine it, then put it down again, saying,—
'It is only a common Chrysalis!' But what that was the Honeysuckle knew not.
At last, one day, when the sun was shining very brightly indeed, and the air was warm, and filled with the sweet breath of spring, to her great surprise she saw this peculiar object move, then by degrees the dark brown casing was cast aside, and she saw that it had wings!
'Why, what are you?' she questioned, in utter amazement at this marvellous transformation.
'Me!' he replied. 'Oh, I am a Butterfly, and you will see that very soon I shall become most lovely, such gloriously tinted feathers will deck my wings, all the world will be lost in admiration, I shall be so beautiful!'
'And will you let me see you then?' the meek little flower asked humbly.
'Oh yes! certainly you shall gaze upon me,' he answered, with a mighty air of condescension.
'But will you not always remain here?' she questioned, pleased at the idea of having so charming a neighbour.
'Dear me, no! I should think not, indeed. Why, I shall fly far away from this humble neighbourhood!' was his exclamation.