A stout caterpillar,[9] who sat near, and was troubled with asthma, overhearing this, put in his word. “It is only because you are young that it all seems so good; wait till you are old and stout like me, and you won’t be so mad at dancing!”
“But you will be a lovely butterfly by-and-by,” added little Cis.
Vegetable Caterpillar.
“Not I!” said the caterpillar, “I would not be anything so flighty.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“I mean to retire to some quiet spot on the earth,” said the caterpillar, “and be of some use in the world. I have heard that some of my brothers who have buried themselves grew after a while into plants which are much sought for and valued, and I intend to try it too, I admire variety, for what is the good of being one of the common herd, I should like to know?” and the caterpillar stopped, panting, for it was a long speech for him with his short breath.
“I should do what other caterpillars do, if I were you,” said little Cis thoughtfully, “for I’ve heard that the hearts of those caterpillars you speak of, get harder and harder, till, when the plant grows from them, they turn into wood, too, and die.”
“May be! may be! but I don’t care what people say,” replied he in impatient husky tones, as he turned away and began to dig in the earth under a big rata-tree as quickly as he could.
“Too fast, stop him!” shouted the brown owl.