In summer, in a lovely garden, all the little insects were buzzing with joy at the thought that Cally the Caterpillar was once more alive and kicking. She had been asleep for the whole winter long, rolled up in a ball on a lovely fresh leaf, and now Cally was wide awake and blinking at the sunbeams darting down through the leaves and branches.
“How good it is to be alive, my friends!” she exclaimed, crawling out to look for the beautiful fresh milkweed leaves which were her favourite food.
“Here she comes!” said old Mr. Ant. “Now we shall have some news. How are your old friends the butterflies, Cally?”
“Friend butterflies!” replied the Caterpillar. “Oh, I do not wish to think of them just now.”
“And why not, pray?” asked the little ladybird. “They are painted in lovely colours, and they fly here and there wherever they like. One cannot think of anything prettier.”
“Ah, but do you know,” said Cally, “they once were like me, little crawling Caterpillars, afraid of being blown away. I shall never be like those glorious creatures.”
“I hope you will. Think, Cally, of the time you’ll have this summer. Booted in copper and cloth of gold, with baubles and grandfathers all over your dress; and then—you’ll grow so tall and large, oh dear, so beautiful! The whole day long you can feast on the white daisies and drink the dew when the sun falls asleep—mind this—I’ll remember that song,” cried the ladybird.
But Cally only shook her head. “I do not want to change, I only want to eat milkweed leaves,” she said, and away she went.
But Cally never told them how hard it was to be always eating and growing; how she wished to spin a silky swaddling-cloth over herself and fall asleep until she woke up changed into a butterfly.
“I want to remain as I am!” she said, though she did want to change.
“How stupid she is!” said the ladybird. “Oh, not Cally, not Cally, but her talk—oh, how stupid!” she repeated.
And all the others sang, “Stupid, stupid.” But wait until next summer, wait until the sun shines again, and Cally is thinking it is winter-time.
But was it winter? Was the sun going to shine? And why did Cally think the sun was going to shine? Oh, no! It was still winter. She had eaten the last of her milkweed leaves, drunk the last drop of dew; she had spun herself a beautiful swaddling-cloth, where she was to lie and think the whole world was asleep. Not another leaf was left—yes, one little bud. She had gnawed the bottom of the bough, gnawed the yellow fibres away, stowed them away close under her silk dress, and then the bud burst open. That helped to keep her alive some time longer. Cally was last of all: the bough was bare—a cold, bleak wind raged through the branches; snow and ice formed all over the bough; and Cally was so cold, so very cold; she could not turn over. She was, as you see, the last.
“I would have liked another summer! Now I shall miss it,” said Cally. And then she fell asleep. “Good night! Good night!” sang the breeze playing round her; “good night! Good night!” sang all the little leaves and the little snowflakes; and thus the summer and all Cally with it went to sleep.