“I was not referring to either,” returned the Philosopher.
“To my utility to mankind?”
“Not by any manner of means.”
“To what then?”
“Well, if you must know, the best thing about you appears to me to be the prospect you enjoy of ultimately becoming a Butterfly.”
The Caterpillar erected himself upon his tail, and looked sternly at the Philosopher. The Philosopher’s countenance fell. A thrush, darting from an adjacent tree, seized the opportunity and the insect, and bore the latter away in his bill. At the same moment the shower prognosticated by the Sage burst forth, scattering the Butterflies in all directions, drenching the Philosopher, whose foresight had not assumed the shape of an umbrella, and spoiling his new hat. But he had ample consolation in the superiority of his head. And the Caterpillar was right too, for after all he never did become a Butterfly.
TRUTH AND HER COMPANIONS
Jupiter. Daughter Truth, is this a befitting manner of presenting yourself before your divine father? You are positively dripping; the floor of my celestial mansion would be a swamp but for your praiseworthy economy in wearing apparel. Whence, in the name of the Naiads, do you come?
Truth. From the bottom of a well, father.
Jupiter. I thought, my daughter, that you had descended upon earth in the capacity of a benefactress of men rather than of frogs.