BUTTERFLY-LAND.
"I'd be a butterfly."
Griselda opened her eyes.
What did she see?
The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's eyes
saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good deal to your
fancy. It was just a _delicious_ garden. There was a charming mixture of
all that is needed to make a garden perfect--grass, velvety lawn rather;
water, for a little brook ran tinkling in and out, playing bo-peep among
the bushes; trees, of course, and flowers, of course, flowers of every
shade and shape. But all these beautiful things Griselda did not at
first give as much attention to as they deserved; her eyes were so
occupied with a quite unusual sight that met them.
This was butterflies! Not that butterflies are so very uncommon; but
butterflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, children, none of
you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were such enormous numbers of
them, and the variety of their colours and sizes was so great. They were
fluttering about everywhere; the garden seemed actually alive with them.
Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the
lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sunshine which kissed
her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm
embrace. Then she turned to her little friend.
"Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you _so_ much. This _is_ fairyland, at
last!"
The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of
speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently.
"No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only butterfly-land."
"_Butterfly_-land!" repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in
her tone.
"Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wishing to be yesterday,
isn't it?"
Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yesterday." She
thought it would be as well to change the subject.
"It's a beautiful place, whatever it is," she said, "and I'm sure,
cuckoo, I'm _very_ much obliged to you for bringing me here. Now may I
run about and look at everything? How delicious it is to feel the warm
sunshine again! I didn't know how cold I was. Look, cuckoo, my toes and
fingers are quite blue; they're only just beginning to come right again.
I suppose the sun always shines here. How nice it must be to be a
butterfly; don't you think so, cuckoo? Nothing to do but fly about."
She stopped at last, quite out of breath.
"Griselda," said the cuckoo, "if you want me to answer your questions,
you must ask them one at a time. You may run about and look at
everything if you like, but you had better not be in such a hurry. You
will make a great many mistakes if you are--you have made some already."
"How?" said Griselda.
"_Have_ the butterflies nothing to do but fly about? Watch them."
Griselda watched.
"They do seem to be doing something," she said, at last, "but I can't
think what. They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying
away something like bees gathering honey. _Butterflies_ don't gather
honey, cuckoo?"
"No," said the cuckoo. "They are filling their paint-boxes."
"What _do_ you mean?" said Griselda.
"Come and see," said the cuckoo.
He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way through the
prettiest paths in all the pretty garden. The paths were arranged in
different colours, as it were; that is to say, the flowers growing along
their sides were not all "mixty-maxty," but one shade after another in
regular order--from the palest blush pink to the very deepest damask
crimson; then, again, from the soft greenish blue of the small grass
forget-me-not to the rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower.
_Every_ tint was there; shades, to which, though not exactly strange to
her, Griselda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see,
had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, as she
had never done before.
"How beautifully the flowers are planned," she said to the cuckoo. "Is
it just to look pretty, or why?"
"It saves time," replied the cuckoo. "The fetch-and-carry butterflies
know exactly where to go to for the tint the world-flower-painters
want."
"Who are the fetch-and-carry butterflies, and who are the
world-flower-painters?" asked Griselda.
"Wait a bit and you'll see, and use your eyes," answered the cuckoo.
"It'll do your tongue no harm to have a rest now and then."
Griselda thought it as well to take his advice, though not particularly
relishing the manner in which it was given. She did use her eyes, and as
she and the cuckoo made their way along the flower alleys, she saw that
the butterflies were never idle. They came regularly, in little parties
of twos and threes, and 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. They
never fade or die, they are always just as you see them. But the colours
of your flowers are all taken from them, as you have seen. Of course
they don't look the same up there," he went on, with a slight
contemptuous shrug of his cuckoo shoulders; "the coarse air and the ugly
things about must take the bloom off. The wild flowers do the best, to
my thinking; people don't meddle with them in their stupid, clumsy
way."
"But how do they get the flowers sent up to the world, cuckoo?" asked
Griselda.
"They're packed up, of course, and taken up at night when all of you are
asleep," said the cuckoo. "They're painted on elastic stuff, you see,
which fits itself as the plant grows. Why, if your eyes were as they are
usually, Griselda, you couldn't even _see_ the petals the butterflies
are painting now."
"And the packing up," said Griselda; "do the butterflies do that too?"
"No," said the cuckoo, "the fairies look after that."
"How wonderful!" exclaimed Griselda. But before the cuckoo had time to
say more a sudden tumult filled the air. It was butterfly dinner-time!
"Are you hungry, Griselda?" said the cuckoo.
"Not so very," replied Griselda.
"It's just as well perhaps that you're not," he remarked, "for I don't
know that you'd be much the better for dinner here."
"Why not?" inquired Griselda curiously. "What do they have for dinner?
Honey? I like that very well, spread on the top of bread-and-butter, of
course--I don't think I should care to eat it alone."
"You won't get any honey," the cuckoo was beginning; but he was
interrupted. Two handsome butterflies flew into the great glass hall,
and making straight for the cuckoo, alighted on his shoulders. They
fluttered about him for a minute or two, evidently rather excited about
something, then flew away again, as suddenly as they had appeared.
"Those were royal messengers," said the cuckoo, turning to Griselda.
"They have come with a message from the king and queen to invite us to
a banquet which is to be held in honour of your visit."
"What fun!" cried Griselda. "Do let's go at once, cuckoo. But, oh dear
me," she went on, with a melancholy change of tone, "I was forgetting,
cuckoo. I can't go to the banquet. I have nothing on but my night-gown.
I never thought of it before, for I'm not a bit cold."
"Never mind," said the cuckoo, "I'll soon have that put to rights."
[Illustration: SHE LOOKED LIKE A FAIRY QUEEN.]
He flew off, and was back almost immediately, followed by a whole flock
of butterflies. They were of a smaller kind than Griselda had hitherto
seen, and they were of two colours only; half were blue, half yellow.
They flew up to Griselda, who felt for a moment as if she were really
going to be suffocated by them, but only for a moment. There seemed a
great buzz and flutter about her, and then the butterflies set to work
to _dress_ her. And how do you think they dressed her? With
_themselves_! They arranged themselves all over her in the cleverest
way. One set of blue ones clustered round the hem of her little white
night-gown, making a thick "_rûche_," as it were; and then there came
two or three thinner rows of yellow, and then blue again. Round her
waist they made the loveliest belt of mingled blue and yellow, and all
over the upper part of her night-gown, in and out among the pretty white
frills which Dorcas herself "goffered," so nicely, they made themselves
into fantastic trimmings of every shape and kind; bows, rosettes--I
cannot tell you what they did not imitate.
Perhaps the prettiest ornament of all was the coronet or wreath they
made of themselves for her head, dotting over her curly brown hair too
with butterfly spangles, which quivered like dew-drops as she moved
about. No one would have known Griselda; she looked like a fairy queen,
or princess, at least, for even her little white feet had what _looked_
like butterfly shoes upon them, though these, you will understand, were
only a sort of make-believe, as, of course, the shoes were soleless.
"Now," said the cuckoo, when at last all was quiet again, and every blue
and every yellow butterfly seemed settled in his place, "now, Griselda,
come and look at yourself."
He led the way to a marble basin, into which fell the waters of one of
the tinkling brooks that were to be found everywhere about the garden,
and bade Griselda look into the water mirror. It danced about rather;
but still she was quite able to see herself. She peered in with great
satisfaction, turning herself round so as to see first over one
shoulder, then over the other.
"It _is_ lovely," she said at last. "But, cuckoo, I'm just thinking--how
shall I possibly be able to sit down without crushing ever so many?"
"Bless you, you needn't trouble about that," said the cuckoo; "the
butterflies are quite able to take care of themselves. You don't suppose
you are the first little girl they have ever made a dress for?"
Griselda said no more, but followed the cuckoo, walking rather
"gingerly," notwithstanding his assurances that the butterflies could
take care of themselves. At last the cuckoo stopped, in front of a sort
of banked-up terrace, in the centre of which grew a strange-looking
plant with large, smooth, spreading-out leaves, and on the two topmost
leaves, their splendid wings glittering in the sunshine, sat two
magnificent butterflies. They were many times larger than any Griselda
had yet seen; in fact, the cuckoo himself looked rather small beside
them, and they were _so_ beautiful that Griselda felt quite over-awed.
You could not have said what colour they were, for at the faintest
movement they seemed to change into new colours, each more exquisite
than the last. Perhaps I could best give you an idea of them by saying
that they were like living rainbows.
"Are those the king and queen?" asked Griselda in a whisper.
"Yes," said the cuckoo. "Do you admire them?"
"I should rather think I did," said Griselda. "But, cuckoo, do they
never do anything but lie there in the sunshine?"
"Oh, you silly girl," exclaimed the cuckoo, "always jumping at
conclusions. No, indeed, that is not how they manage things in
butterfly-land. The king and queen have worked harder than any other
butterflies. They are chosen every now and then, out of all the others,
as being the most industrious and the cleverest of all the
world-flower-painters, and then they are allowed to rest, and are fed on
the finest essences, so that they grow as splendid as you see. But even
now they are not idle; they superintend all the work that is done, and
choose all the new colours."
"Dear me!" said Griselda, under her breath, "how clever they must be."
Just then the butterfly king and queen stretched out their magnificent
wings, and rose upwards, soaring proudly into the air.
"Are they going away?" said Griselda in a disappointed tone.
"Oh no," said the cuckoo; "they are welcoming you. Hold out your hands."
Griselda held out her hands, and stood gazing up into the sky. In a
minute or two the royal butterflies appeared again, slowly, majestically
circling downwards, till at length they alighted on Griselda's little
hands, the king on the right, the queen on the left, almost covering her
fingers with their great dazzling wings.
"You _do_ look nice now," said the cuckoo, hopping back a few steps and
looking up at Griselda approvingly; "but it's time for the feast to
begin, as it won't do for us to be late."
The king and queen appeared to understand. They floated away from
Griselda's hands and settled themselves, this time, at one end of a
beautiful little grass plot or lawn, just below the terrace where grew
the large-leaved plant. This was evidently their dining-room, for no
sooner were they in their place than butterflies of every kind and
colour came pouring in, in masses, from all directions. Butterflies
small and butterflies large; butterflies light and butterflies dark;
butterflies blue, pink, crimson, green, gold-colour--_every_ colour, and
far, far more colours than you could possibly imagine.
They all settled down, round the sides of the grassy dining-table, and
in another minute a number of small white butterflies appeared, carrying
among them flower petals carefully rolled up, each containing a drop of
liquid. One of these was presented to the king, and then one to the
queen, who each sniffed at their petal for an instant, and then passed
it on to the butterfly next them, whereupon fresh petals were handed to
them, which they again passed on.
"What are they doing, cuckoo?" said Griselda; "that's not _eating_."
"It's their kind of eating," he replied. "They don't require any other
kind of food than a sniff of perfume; and as there are perfumes
extracted from every flower in butterfly-land, and there are far more
flowers than you could count between now and Christmas, you must allow
there is plenty of variety of dishes."
"Um-m," said Griselda; "I suppose there is. But all the same, cuckoo,
it's a very good thing I'm not hungry, isn't it? May I pour the scent on
my pocket-handkerchief when it comes round to me? I have my handkerchief
here, you see. Isn't it nice that I brought it? It was under my pillow,
and I wrapped it round my hand to open the shutter, for the hook
scratched it once."
"You may pour one drop on your handkerchief," said the cuckoo, "but not
more. I shouldn't like the butterflies to think you greedy."
But Griselda grew very tired of the scent feast long before all the
petals had been passed round. The perfumes were very nice, certainly,
but there were such quantities of them--double quantities in honour of
the guest, of course! Griselda screwed up her handkerchief into a tight
little ball, so that the one drop of scent should not escape from it,
and then she kept sniffing at it impatiently, till at last the cuckoo
asked her what was the matter.
"I am so tired of the feast," she said. "Do let us do something else,
cuckoo."
"It is getting rather late," said the cuckoo. "But see, Griselda, they
are going to have an air-dance now."
"What's that?" said Griselda.
"Look, and you'll see," he replied.
Flocks and flocks of butterflies were rising a short way into the air,
and there arranging themselves in bands according to their colours.
"Come up on to the bank," said the cuckoo to Griselda; "you'll see them
better."
Griselda climbed up the bank, and as from there she could look down on
the butterfly show, she saw it beautifully. The long strings of
butterflies twisted in and out of each other in the most wonderful way,
like ribbons of every hue plaiting themselves and then in an instant
unplaiting themselves again. Then the king and queen placed themselves
in the centre, and round and round in moving circles twisted and
untwisted the brilliant bands of butterflies.
"It's like a kaleidoscope," said Griselda; "and now it's like those
twisty-twirly dissolving views that papa took me to see once. It's
_just_ like them. Oh, how pretty! Cuckoo, are they doing it all on
purpose to please me?"
"A good deal," said the cuckoo. "Stand up and clap your hands loud three
times, to show them you're pleased."
Griselda obeyed. "Clap" number one--all the butterflies rose up into the
air in a cloud; clap number two--they all fluttered and twirled and
buzzed about, as if in the greatest excitement; clap number three--they
all turned in Griselda's direction with a rush.
"They're going to kiss you, Griselda," cried the cuckoo.
Griselda felt her breath going. Up above her was the vast feathery cloud
of butterflies, fluttering, _rushing_ down upon her.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," she screamed, "they'll suffocate me. Oh, cuckoo!"
"Shut your eyes, and clap your hands loud, very loud," called out the
cuckoo.
And just as Griselda clapped her hands, holding her precious
handkerchief between her teeth, she heard him give his usual cry,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo."
_Clap_--where were they all?
Griselda opened her eyes--garden, butterflies, cuckoo, all had
disappeared. She was in bed, and Dorcas was knocking at the door with
the hot water.
"Miss Grizzel said I was to wake you at your usual time this morning,
missie," she said. "I hope you don't feel too tired to get up."
"Tired! I should think not," replied Griselda. "I was awake this morning
ages before you, I can tell you, my dear Dorcas. Come here for a minute,
Dorcas, please," she went on. "There now, sniff my handkerchief. What do
you think of that?"
"It's beautiful," said Dorcas. "It's out of the big blue chinay bottle
on your auntie's table, isn't it, missie?"
"Stuff and nonsense," replied Griselda; "it's scent of my own, Dorcas.
Aunt Grizzel never had any like it in her life. There now! Please give
me my slippers, I want to get up and look over my lessons for Mr.
Kneebreeches before he comes. Dear me," she added to herself, as she
was putting on her slippers, "how pretty my feet did look with the blue
butterfly shoes! It was very good of the cuckoo to take me there, but I
don't think I shall ever wish to be a butterfly again, now I know how
hard they work! But I'd like to do my lessons well to-day. I fancy it'll
please the dear old cuckoo."