THE BUTTERFLY.
“Don’t kill me,”—caterpillar said,
As Clara raised her heel,
Upon the humble worm to tread,
As though it could not feel.
“Don’t kill me—I will crawl away,
And hide me from your sight,
And when I come, some other day,
You’ll view me with delight.”
The caterpillar went and hid
In some dark, quiet place,
Where none could look on what he did,
To change his form and face.
And then, one day, as Clara read
Within a shady nook,
A butterfly, superbly dressed,
Alighted on her book.
His shining wings were dotted o’er
With gold, and blue, and green,
And Clara owned she naught before
So beautiful had seen.