THE BUG AND THE BUTTERFLY
Her adventure with the spider gave Maya something to think
about. She made up her mind to be more cautious in the future,
not to rush into things so recklessly. Cassandra's prudent
warnings about the greatest dangers that threaten the bees, were
enough to give one pause; and there were all sorts of other
possibilities, and the world was such a big place--oh, there
was a good deal to make a little bee stop and think.
It was in the evening particularly, when twilight fell and the
little bee was all by herself, that one consideration after
another stirred her mind. But the next morning, if the sun
shone, she usually forgot half the things that had bothered her
the night before, and allowed her eagerness for experiences to
drive her out again into the gay whirl of life.
One day she met a very curious creature. It was angular and flat
as a pancake, but had a rather neat design on its sheath; and
whether its sheath were wings or what, you couldn't really tell.
The odd little monster sat absolutely still on the shaded leaf
of a raspberry bush, its eyes half closed, apparently sunk in
meditation. The scent of the raspberries spread around it
deliciously. Maya wanted to find out what sort of an animal it
was. She flew to the next-door leaf and said how-do-you-do. The
stranger made no reply.
"How do you do, again?" And Maya gave its leaf a little tap. The
flat object peeled one eye open, turned it on Maya, and said:
"A bee. The world is full of bees," and closed its eye again.
"Unique," thought Maya, and determined to get at the stranger's
secret. For now it excited her curiosity more than ever, as
people often do who pay no attention to us. She tried honey.
"I have plenty of honey," she said. "May I offer you some?" The
stranger opened its one eye and regarded Maya contemplatively a
moment or two. "What is it going to say this time?" Maya
wondered.
This time there was no answer at all. The one eye merely closed
again, and the stranger sat quite still, tight on the leaf, so
that you couldn't see its legs and you'd have thought it had
been pressed down flat with a thumb.
Maya realized, of course, that the stranger wanted to ignore
her, but--you know how it is--you don't like being snubbed,
especially if you haven't found out what you wanted to find out.
It makes you feel so cheap.
"Whoever you are," cried Maya, "permit me to inform you that
insects are in the habit of greeting each other, especially when
one of them happens to be a bee." The bug sat on without
budging. It did not so much as open its one eye again. "It's
ill," thought Maya. "How horrid to be ill on a lovely day like
this. That's why it's staying in the shade, too." She flew over
to the bug's leaf and sat down beside it. "Aren't you feeling
well?" she asked, so very friendly.
At this the funny creature began to move away. "Move" is the
only word to use, because it didn't walk, or run, or fly, or
hop. It went as if shoved by an invisible hand.
"It hasn't any legs. That's why it's so cross," thought Maya.
When it reached the stem of the leaf it stopped a second, moved
on again, and, to her astonishment, Maya saw that it had left
behind a little brown drop.
"How _very_ singular," she thought--and clapped her hand to her
nose and held it tight shut. The veriest stench came from the
little brown drop. Maya almost fainted. She flew away as fast as
she could and seated herself on a raspberry, where she held on
to her nose and shivered with disgust and excitement.
"Serves you right," someone above her called, and laughed. "Why
take up with a stink-bug?"
"Don't laugh!" cried Maya.
She looked up. A white butterfly had alighted overhead on a
slender, swaying branch of the raspberry bush, and was slowly
opening and closing its broad wings--slowly, softly, silently,
happy in the sunshine--black corners to its wings, round black
marks in the centre of each wing, four round black marks in all.
Ah, how beautiful, how beautiful! Maya forgot her vexation. And
she was glad, too, to talk to the butterfly. She had never made
the acquaintance of one before even though she had met a great
many.
"Oh," she said, "you probably are right to laugh. Was that a
stink-bug?"
"It was," he replied, still smiling. "The sort of person to keep
away from. You're probably very young still?"
"Well," observed Maya, "I shouldn't say I was--exactly. I've
been through a great deal. But that was the first specimen of
the kind I had ever come across. Can you imagine doing such a
thing?"
The butterfly had to laugh again.
"You see," he explained, "stink-bugs like to keep to themselves.
They are not very popular, so they use the odoriferous drop to
make people take notice of them. We'd probably soon forget the
fact of their existence if it were not for the drop: it serves
as a reminder. And they want to be remembered, no matter how."
"How lovely, how exquisitely lovely your wings are," said Maya.
"So delicate and white. May I introduce myself? Maya, of the
nation of bees."
The butterfly laid his wings together to look like only one wing
standing straight up in the air. He gave a slight bow.
"Fred," he said laconically.
Maya couldn't gaze her fill.
"Fly a little," she asked.
"Shall I fly away?"
"Oh no. I just want to see your great white wings move in the
blue air. But never mind. I can wait till later. Where do you
live?"
"Nowhere specially. A settled home is too much of a nuisance.
Life didn't get to be really delightful until I turned into a
butterfly. Before that, while I was still a caterpillar,
I couldn't leave the cabbage the livelong day, and all one did
was eat and squabble."
"Just what do you mean?" asked Maya, mystified.
"I used to be a caterpillar," explained Fred.
"Never!" cried Maya.
"Now, now, now," said Fred, pointing both feelers straight at
Maya. "Everyone knows a butterfly is first a caterpillar. Even
human beings know it."
Maya was utterly perplexed. Could such a thing be?
"You must really explain more clearly," she said. "I couldn't
accept what you say just so, could I? You wouldn't expect
me to."
The butterfly perched beside the little bee on the slender
swaying branch of the raspberry bush, and they rocked together
in the morning wind. He told her how he had begun life as a
caterpillar and then, one day, when he had shed his last
caterpillar skin, he came out a pupa or chrysalis.
"At the end of a few weeks," he continued, "I woke up out of my
dark sleep and broke through the wrappings or pupa-case. I can't
tell you, Maya, what a feeling comes over you when, after a time
like that, you suddenly see the sun again. I felt as though I
were melting in a warm golden ocean, and I loved my life so that
my heart began to pound."
"I understand," said Maya, "I understand. I felt the same way
the first time I left our humdrum city and flew out into the
bright scented world of blossoms." The little bee was silent a
while, thinking of her first flight.-- But then she wanted to
know how the butterfly's large wings could grow in the small
space of the pupa-case.
Fred explained.
"The wings are delicately folded together like the petals of a
flower in the bud. When the weather is bright and warm, the
flower must open, it cannot help itself, and its petals unfold.
So with my wings, they were folded up, then unfolded. No one can
resist the sun when it shines."
"No, no--one cannot--one cannot resist the sunshine." Maya
mused, watching the butterfly as he perched in the golden light
of the morning, pure white against the blue sky.
"People often charge us with being frivolous," said Fred. "We're
really happy--just that--just happy. You wouldn't believe how
seriously I sometimes think about life."
"Tell me what all you think."
"Oh," said Fred, "I think about the future. It's very
interesting to think about the future.-- But I should like to
fly now. The meadows on the hillside are full of yarrow and
canterbury bells; everything's in bloom. I'd like to be there,
you know."
This Maya understood, she understood it well, and they said
good-by and flew away in different directions, the white
butterfly rocking silently as if wafted by the gentle wind,
little Maya with that uneasy zoom-zoom of the bees which we hear
upon the flowers on fair days and which we always recall when we
think of the summer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]