One early spring day, a little shoot of Honeysuckle was putting forth its tendrils low down on the ground at the foot of a quickset hedge. As yet it was but a weakly sprig, not knowing its own strength, nor even dreaming that it would ever rise far above the earth. Yet still it was very contented, drawing happiness from its lowly surroundings, happy in living, and feeling the warm sunshine kissing its fragile leaves.

Close by, there was a strange, dark, oblong mass, and the little Honeysuckle tried to imagine what it could possibly be, for it never moved, nor evinced emotion of any kind; and yet it was alive, because people would take it up, examine it, then put it down again, saying,—

'It is only a common Chrysalis!' But what that was the Honeysuckle knew not.

At last, one day, when the sun was shining very brightly indeed, and the air was warm, and filled with the sweet breath of spring, to her great surprise she saw this peculiar object move, then by degrees the dark brown casing was cast aside, and she saw that it had wings!

'Why, what are you?' she questioned, in utter amazement at this marvellous transformation.

'Me!' he replied. 'Oh, I am a Butterfly, and you will see that very soon I shall become most lovely, such gloriously tinted feathers will deck my wings, all the world will be lost in admiration, I shall be so beautiful!'

'And will you let me see you then?' the meek little flower asked humbly.

'Oh yes! certainly you shall gaze upon me,' he answered, with a mighty air of condescension.

'But will you not always remain here?' she questioned, pleased at the idea of having so charming a neighbour.

'Dear me, no! I should think not, indeed. Why, I shall fly far away from this humble neighbourhood!' was his exclamation.

'What! and leave me?'

'Certainly! what else could you expect?' he replied. 'My ambition could not endure such a humdrum existence as yours; with these gay-coloured wings of mine I shall soar to higher realms, and be courted and caressed where'er I go!'

'Oh that I had wings like yours, or that you clung to earth!' sighed the tender-hearted Honeysuckle, who, from having been so long in close companionship with the dark, unsociable Chrysalis had actually grown to like him.

'Nonsense! what a ridiculous wish!' exclaimed the gaudy insect, who did not share his little friend's feeling of regard. 'Why, I should die if I were rooted to one place! I require a large sphere in which to move about; while as to you—I doubt if ever you will rise higher in the world than you are now.'

Not a kind remark to make, certainly, and it sadly grieved the humble flower to hear the Butterfly thus speak.

'And yet,' she sorrowfully mused, 'perhaps he is right; I know I am but a little green plant, very small, and very lowly, whilst he is so noble and beautiful with his gorgeous wings. Still, it is heart-rending to think I shall never rise above the sordid earth, always remain a mere groundling! But never mind,' she added more cheerfully; 'even groundlings can do good sometimes, so I'll take courage, and hope for the best.'

Not many days after this, the Butterfly called out joyfully to his little admirer,—

'Good-bye! good-bye! See! I have acquired my full beauty, so now I am off to entrance the world with my perfect loveliness! I think I am an Emperor, though I am not quite sure; but there! people will soon appreciate me, and, of course, will acknowledge my claims to admiration.'

'And are you really going?' she asked sadly.

'Yes, of course! I am perfect now, and could not possibly stay here any longer;' looking round contemptuously upon his humble surroundings. 'But I'll come and see you again, perhaps; you are sure to be found in the same place!'

And away he flew with a mocking laugh; his gay wings fluttered merrily in the sunshine as he poised above the gorgeous garden flowers a while, then he sped away into distance, and was lost to sight, whilst the little Honeysuckle felt very lonely as she watched him disappear.

'Oh dear me!' she sighed; 'I feel rather sad now he has gone. It certainly must be very nice to rise a little in the world, not to be'—

'Take hold of my hand, my dear,' said a kind Bramble, who happened to hear the flower lament her lowly fate. 'I may perhaps be able to give you a lift up.'

'Oh, thank you very much,' was the response; 'but I fear your kindness would be thrown away, for I do not think I shall ever be more than I am at present.'

'One can never know, until he has tried, what may be done,' was the encouraging rejoinder. 'Look at me, for example! I am only what is called a Bramble, very much despised by some folks, no doubt; but then, who despises the fruit I bear? Why, every one likes the hardy blackberry, and I believe "by your fruit ye are known."'

'But I shall never yield fruit,' the Honeysuckle exclaimed; 'and as to flowers'—

'You are as yet only a green sprig of something —what I know not,' interrupted the Bramble sharply. 'But courage, child; take fast hold of me. I am rough but trusty; so take my hand.'

'I fear to climb!' cried the other timidly.

'Nonsense, child! nothing is done without an effort. Only, when once you have secured a chance, hold it fast,' was the caution given.

So she ventured to put forth a tender green tendril and clasp her kind friend's helping hand, which, if rough and thorny, was certainly honest and true.

It is very seldom in this world that the humble and shrinking find friends ready and willing to raise them from the ground; for there is such a rush and scramble to reach the temples of 'Fame' and of 'Mammon,' that each one elbows the other in the crowd. Some of the weaker ones get sadly pushed to the wall, others are trampled under foot, and it is only the very boldest and most daring of the throng who ever reach the desired goal.

But amongst the flowers it is not so; for how many of the weak ones cling for support to others, and, through their tender care, gain strength and beauty. And this was the case with the Honeysuckle; she felt so secure resting on that strong, protecting arm, that by degrees she began to gain courage, and to feel her own power. The Bramble, too, perceiving she was something more than a mere 'little green sprig of something,' kindly encouraged her to persevere in her upward course. So she clambered up higher and higher; the delicate green tendrils became firmer and stronger, and at length, after much painful toiling and many a disappointment, she reached the highest summit of her hopes—the top of a quickset hedge!

'Oh, how can I thank you all!' she joyfully cried, when from her lofty position she gazed around on beautiful scenes undreamt of ere this, and then looked back upon the toilsome path she had travelled, and beheld the many kind friends who had helped her on her way, each one of whom was now rejoicing in her success; 'and you, dear Bramble, my first generous guide'—

'We are all very pleased to see that at last you have succeeded in your efforts, my dear,' interrupted that sturdy friend; 'and, what is more, we do not fear you will prove ungrateful, you are sure to remember us.'

'Indeed, indeed I ever shall!' cried the happy little flower. 'Can I ever forget those who loved me when I was poor and lowly? that would be cruel and unkind.'

And so it proved; for, as the summer grew warmer, and her lovely blossoms opened to the bright sunshine, she in her gratitude showered them over those dear ones who had helped her in the days of her poverty; and the fragrant blossoms thus spread over the hedge and the bramble enhanced their beauty, and rendered them still more lovely in the eyes of the passers-by.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the Butterfly, as one very hot day he alighted to rest upon one of the Honeysuckle's leaves. 'Dear me!' he repeated, surveying her critically; 'why, really I did not know you again. How did you contrive to get so high up in the world?'

'Kind hearts, loving hands, helped me,' was the simple answer given.

'Oh, indeed!' he curtly said. 'Well, I owe gratitude to no one. I suppose you will not get any higher?' he questioned, after a pause.

'No,' she replied, with her usual humility; 'and even if I could, I would not wish it; for, living as I do amongst all who are dear to me, I have no higher ambition.'

'You were always a faint-hearted thing,' exclaimed the insect, quite forgetting even to be commonly polite, so elated was he with pride. 'Just compare the difference in our lives! I fly here, I fly there, now on this flower, now on that. Ah, mine is a glorious life! nothing but pleasure and excitement all the livelong day. Confess, now, would you not like to be me?'

'No,' she answered, with the utmost sincerity; 'I am so happy here, I would not change my lot even for a career so brilliant as yours.'

'What a taste!' he exclaimed, with scornful pity; 'no wonder you remain a hedge-flower! Why, poets write about us, and there is actually a song called "I'd be a Butterfly." Only think of that!' he exultantly cried.

'What! and have a pin stuck through one's head, and to be suffocated with camphor, merely for the sake of being placed in a glass-case for people to stare at!' ejaculated Spleenwort, with a dash of malice in his tone.

'Don't talk of such things, you common flower!' the insect angrily exclaimed. 'I'll not stay here any longer to listen to such vulgarity. I prefer more refined society!'

And away he flew, evidently very much disturbed in his mind by what Spleenwort had remarked as occurring to butterflies in general, although he would not acknowledge that it was so, even to himself, but tried to banish the thought by indulging more freely in what he considered pleasure. You see—poor, giddy flutterer—he did not like to hear the plain truth spoken; flattery would have pleased him better, yet truth, though sometimes bitter, is a wholesome tonic when taken properly.

The summer days sped fast, for Father Time's scythe is never idle, and he was gradually, though slowly, mowing down the flowers which had garlanded the sunny hours. The leaves once so green were changing now, assuming their glowing autumn tints, whilst some would fall fluttering to the ground with a gentle sigh of weariness, as the cold winds were rustling by. Then the stern northern gale came sweeping along, proclaiming to the forest trees that winter was on her way; and a shudder would pass through their sturdy branches when they heard the tidings, for they feared her chill, icy breath.

The bees took refuge in their well-stored hives, the ants had barred their outer doors, and retired to their most secluded apartments; even the garden spider was sheltered in his home—only the once gay butterfly was homeless and friendless.

'Shelter me, shelter me, dear Honeysuckle,' moaned the shivering insect, coming back to the old home in the day of his sorrow. 'I am so cold, so weary!'

'Poor thing!' the tender flower exclaimed, with the utmost pity, forgetting now all former slights. 'Creep under my leaves, perhaps they may shield you. But your beautiful wings, how came they so torn and colourless?'

'The pitiless storm last night fell upon me and crushed me to the earth in its fury,' he answered, with difficulty, for he was so feeble. ''Tis true the gleams of sunshine to-day have revived me a little; but alas! I am dying! my brief day is over, and there is no one to give me a refuge save you!'

'Where are your gay friends?' she asked,'those with whom you sported throughout the livelong summer hours?'

'Gone far from me,' he answered bitterly; 'they were but friends of the fleeting sunshine, and I in the day of my power thought but of myself, and now—I am left alone to die!'

The Honeysuckle was deeply moved; she remembered no more his haughty 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.