Metamorphoses.
"There is a difference between a grub and butterfly; yet
Your butterfly was a grub."—Coriolanus.
Once upon a time an aged butterfly, with wings all
crumpled and torn, crawled up the stem of a willow,
and seated himself on the nearest leaf.
"My last moments are drawing near," said he, "but I do not repine, for life has become a burden to me. My wings are useless, my joints stiff and rheumatic, and my antennae have long since lost their exquisite sensibility. It is quite evident that my flying days are over, but so much happiness has fallen to my share, that I have no right to complain." The butterfly had scarcely finished this soliloquy, when a large tiger-moth alighted on a leaf close by.
"Ah, my friend!" exclaimed the moth, "I am truly glad to see you; I have not many hours to live, and I wish to make you my executor. Do not start, my friend, I am old and decrepit, and you shall see me meet death with becoming resignation."
The butterfly smiled sadly, and declined the
