“Excellent! my good friend,” cried the Lark, exultingly; “you have found it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.”
“Never!” cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. “It was their mother’s last request that I should do no such thing.”
“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” persisted the Lark; “but why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither faith nor trust.”
“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar.
“Nay, but you do not,” replied the Lark; “you won’t believe me even about the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to be?”
“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Caterpillar.
“Caterpillars!” sang the Lark; “and you’ll find it out in time;” and the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point with his friend.
“I thought the Lark had been wise and kind,” observed the mild green Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up too high this time. Ah, it’s a pity when people who soar so high are silly and rude nevertheless! Dear! I still wonder whom he sees, and what he does up yonder.”
“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the Lark, descending once more.
“I believe everything I am told,” reiterated the Caterpillar, with as grave a face as if it were a fact.