A white butterfly met a thistle-ball in the airy highway. Expressions of mutual surprise were exchanged.
“Hello! I thought you were one of us,” said the butterfly.
“And I,” returned the thistle-ball, “took you for a white pea-blossom.”
PIMPERNEL, THE SHEPHERD’S CLOCK
I’ll go and look at the Pimpernel And see if she thinks the clouds look well. For if the sun shine And ’tis like to be fine, I’ll go to the fair.
So Pimpernel, what bode the clouds in the sky; If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.
Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up Her little gold star in her coral cup. And unto the maid A warning she said: “Though the sun seems down There’s a gathering frown O’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky So, tarry at home! for a storm is nigh!”