d nibbled away, as she called it, at flowers of
the same colour but different shades, till they had got what they
wanted. Then off flew butterfly No. 1 with perhaps the palest tint of
maize, or yellow, or lavender, whichever he was in quest of, followed
by No. 2 with the next deeper shade of the same, and No. 3 bringing up
the rear.

Griselda gave a little sigh.

"What's the matter?" said the cuckoo.

"They work very hard," she replied, in a melancholy tone.

"It's a busy time of year," observed the cuckoo, drily.

After a while they came to what seemed to be a sort of centre to the
garden. It was a huge glass house, with numberless doors, in and out of
which butterflies were incessantly flying--reminding Griselda again of
bees and a beehive. But she made no remark till the cuckoo spoke again.

"Come in," he said.

Griselda had to stoop a good deal, but she did manage to get in without
knocking her head or doing any damage. Inside was just a mass of
butterflies. A confused mass it seemed at first, but after a while she
saw that it was the very reverse of confused. The butterflies were all
settled in rows on long, narrow, white tables, and before each was a
tiny object about the size of a flattened-out pin's head, which he was
most carefully painting with one of his tentacles, which, from time to
time, he moistened by rubbing it on the head of a butterfly waiting
patiently behind him. Behind this butterfly again stood another, who
after a while took his place, while the first attendant flew away.

"To fill his paint-box again," remarked the cuckoo, who seemed to read
Griselda's thoughts.

"But what _are_ they painting, cuckoo?" she inquired eagerly.

"All the flowers in the world," replied the cuckoo. "Autumn, winter, and
spring, they're hard at work. It's only just for the three months of
summer that the butterflies have any holiday, and then a few stray ones
now and then wander up to the world, and people talk about 'idle
butterflies'! And even then it isn't true that they are idle. They go up
to take a look at the flowers, to see how their work has turned out, and
many a damaged petal they repair, or touch up a faded tint, though no
one ever knows it."

"_I_ know it now," said Griselda. "I will never talk about idle
butterflies again--never. But, cuckoo, do they paint all the flowers
_here_, too? What a _fearful_ lot they must have to do!"

"No," said the cuckoo; "the flowers down here are fairy flowers.