ONCE a caterpillar, as it fed on a tree, was given the power of speech. It said:

“What wonderful eyes I have! I can see the whole of this leaf at one time—not only the part I am feeding on, but its whole length and breadth.”

“Let me tell you,” replied the tree, “there are eyes that can see not only one leaf, but all the leaves on a tree—yes, and on a whole woods—at a glance.”

“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.—And what wonderful feet I have!” continued the caterpillar. “I can creep from the ground up to your topmost bough, between the rising and the setting of the sun.”

“And I can tell you,” replied the tree, “there are feet that can pass over a space equal to that in a moment, and in one short hour can go farther than you in all the days of your life.”

“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.”

“But this is not all I have to tell you,” continued the tree. “There are beings that can dart from the ground up to my highest branch without so much as touching me with their feet, and that can pass swiftly from tree to tree, borne through the air on wings.”

“That is impossible,” said the caterpillar. “There may be stronger eyes that can see farther even than mine, and quicker feet that can travel faster; but, as for wings to fly through the air with, that cannot be. You are talking of things you know nothing about, or else are only trying to deceive me. After such an absurd statement, I will not listen to you any more, or believe anything you say.”

The summer passed, and autumn came with its cloudy days and chilly nights. The leaves of the tree shrivelled up and dropped to the ground, and one frosty morning the caterpillar was found suspended from a naked twig by a thread of its own spinning, shut up in its cocoon. And there it slept, unconscious from day to day, and month to month, through the long winter. The fierce storm could[109]
[110] not weaken its hold, or shake it loose, as it hung secure, tossed to and fro by the blast.

But at length spring approached. The buds began to swell and the young leaves to appear. The blossoms on the fruit trees opened, and the birds sang among them. And one morning the imprisoned caterpillar revived in its narrow cell, and, rending its walls asunder, came forth and basked in the sunshine. But what are these at its side gently expanding and unfolding? It spreads them forth, and, loosening its hold upon the twig, floats away on the breeze. It mounts up, it flies, it lodges on a lofty bough, and flies from one to another again and again.

“Was it I,” it says, astonished, “that declared there were no beings with wings, and that to pass from place to place through the air was impossible? Now am I made to see that it was not the tree, but myself, who spoke about things I knew nothing of; now am I made to feel the denseness of my own ignorance. If this, which is so unlooked for and so far beyond the reach of my understanding, has been done to me, I will wait and see what yet remains to be done, nor ever again limit the power that created me at first, and still goes on perfecting its own work.”

He who can speak most wisely within the circuit of his knowledge if he venture beyond it utters foolishness.