pride, she only saw that _now_ he was ill and in sorrow; so she placed
her clinging tendrils gently around him, trying thus to keep the poor
Butterfly under the shelter of her protecting leaves.
Night came stealing on, folding her sable curtains over the earth; and
it was a wild night, for not a star shone in the skies, all was dark and
dreary, for the Storm King was abroad in all his mighty strength. The
fierce gales came with terrific power, tossing the lordly ships as they
nobly braved its fury, but causing, oh, so many loving hearts to
fervently pray 'for those at sea.' No wonder, then, that when the cold
grey dawn awoke the early flowers, they saw the poor crushed Butterfly
lying dead! close beside the little Honeysuckle, whose trustful, meek
heart he had once so cruelly derided.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Parables from Flowers, by Gertrude P. Dyer