The Butterfly was looking out for a bride, and naturally he wished to select a nice one among the flowers. He looked at them, sitting so quietly and discreetly upon their stems, as a damsel generally sits when she is not engaged; but there were so many to choose among, that it became quite a difficult matter. The butterfly did not relish encountering difficulties, so in his perplexity he flew to the Daisy. She is called in France Mar guerite. He knew that she could "spae," and that she did so often; for lovers plucked leaf after leaf from her, and with each a question was asked respecting the beloved: "Is it true love?"

"From the heart?" "Love that pines?" "Cold love?" "None at all "-or some such questions. Everyone asks in his own language. The butterfly came too to put his questions; he did not, however, pluck off the leaves but kissed them all one by one, with the hope of getting a good answer.

"Sweet Marguerite Daisy," said he, "you are the wisest wife among all the flowers; you know how to predict events. Tell me, shall I get this one or that? or whom shall I get? When I know, I can fly straight to the fair one, and commence wooing her."

But Marguerite would scarcely answer him; she was vexed at his calling her "wife." He asked a second time, and he asked a third time, but he could not get a word out of her; so he would not take the trouble to ask any more, but flew away without further ado on his matrimonial errand.

It was in the early spring, and there were plenty of Snow drops and Crocuses. They are very nice-looking," said the Butterfly, "charming little things, but somewhat too juvenile." He, like most very young men, preferred elder girls. There upon he flew to the Anemones, but they were rather too bashful for him; the Violets were too enthusiastic; the Tulips were too fond of show; the Jonquils were too plebeian; the Linden-tree