"Why shouldn't I have wings like you?" said the primrose.
"How absurd!" replied the bee as he flew away.
But the next day the primrose looked up and saw a most wonderful thing. A primrose that really had wings! A flying primrose! A primrose that could go anywhere just like the bee. It darted hither and thither so gaily, alighting where it wished and then soaring up again right into the blue sky above the earth.
The solitary primrose called to it, but it did not hear, and was soon out of sight.
"So primroses needn't always stop where they are till they die," she said to herself. "Why did the bee deceive me? If I were like that I could see the garden and the gardener and the pretty gay sitting-rooms and the rich people."
She waited impatiently for the bee's return, and when he came she told him about the aviator.
"He was so splendid," she said, "so big and strong, and he flew beautifully. How can I get wings, too?"
"Pooh!" said the bee. "That wasn't a primrose. That was a brimstone butterfly; and as for flying—why, he can't compare with me. I could beat him every time: hundred yards, quarter-mile, mile, long distance—everything."
"He looked just like a wonderful big primrose," said the solitary flower wistfully.
"That's because you've got only one eye," said the bee. "He was a butterfly right enough;" and he hurried away laughing at the silliness of her mistake.