ops and
crocuses. "They are very neat," said the butterfly, "pretty little
confirmed ones, but a little green!" He, like all young men looked at
older girls.

From thence he flew to the anemones; but he found them a little too
sentimental; the tulips, too showy; the broom, not of a good family;
the linden blossoms, too small--then they had so many relations; as to
the apple blossoms, why to look at them you would think them as
healthy as roses, but to-day they blossom and to-morrow, if the wind
blows, they drop off; a marriage with them would be too short. The pea
blossom pleased him most, she was pink and white, she was pure and
refined and belonged to the housewifely girls that look well, and
still can make themselves useful in the kitchen. He had almost
concluded to make love to her, when he saw hanging near to her, a
pea-pod with its white blossom. "Who is that?" asked he. "That is my
sister," said the pea blossom.

"How now, is that the way you look when older?" This terrified the
butterfly and he flew away.

The honeysuckles were hanging over the fence--young ladies with long
faces and yellow skins--but he did not fancy their style of beauty.
Yes, but which did he like? Ask him!

The spring passed, the summer passed, and then came the autumn. The
flowers appeared in their most beautiful dresses, but of what avail
was this? The butterfly's fresh youthful feelings had vanished. In
old age, the heart longs for fragrance, and dahlias and gillyflowers
are scentless. So the butterfly flew to the mint. "She has no flower
at all, but she is herself a flower, for she is fragrant from head to
foot and each leaf is filled with perfume. I shall take her!"

But the mint stood stiff and still, and at last said: "Friendship--but
nothing more! I am old and you are old! We can live very well for one
another, but to marry? No! Do not let us make fools of ourselves in
our old age."

So the butterfly obtained no one.

The butterfly remained a bachelor.

Many violent and transient showers came late in the autumn; the wind
blew so coldly down the back of the old willow trees, that it cracked
within them. It did not do to fly about in summer garments, for even
love itself would then grow cold. The butterfly however preferred not
to fly out at all; he had by chance entered a door-way, and there was
fire in the stove--yes, it was just as warm there, as in
summer-time;--there he could live. "Life is not enough," said he, "one
m