Chloe the Caterpillar was feeling very sad one morning. All her friends had gone home after spending a delightful holiday with her in the blooming garden, and she had to stay behind because she was too little to go.
Two or three roses were still blooming on a bush near by, and Chloe crept up to a black-and-yellow-winged butterfly that was resting there and said:
“Don’t you think you could take me up and give me a little ride? The way seems so long to travel alone.”
“But I cannot see you very well,” said the butterfly, fluttering his wings and trying to ready himself for flight. “You are too small. Why, it’s only in a dream that I could take care of you.”
Just then a ladybird came near by and said: “A dream is a nice place to be in.”
“Do tell me how to get in,” cried Chloe. “That’s just the place for me tonight.”
“Oh, you can easily go,” said the ladybird. “Only shut your eyes and think hard. Your friends with the right-wings may be there. Good night,” and off she flew.
Chloe said, “Good night” to her friend, but she felt very lonely. She went down to the bottom of the rose-bush where the leaves were warm and dry and told all her troubles to a little cricket that was playing there.
He said, “You have your friends still before you. Nobody knows how long he will live till he does live. Patience and go to sleep.”
“Oh dear, I wish I could fly,” said Chloe. “I should be able to see my friends then, and not be lonely. Do give me a little song, and I will try to be happy.”
“Close your eyes, shut your wings and think of things,” sang the cricket, and bright dreams came trooping around poor Chloe.
The next morning when the rosy light came over the flowers she woke from her sleep and said:
“How, happy I am, I feel so happy since I’m in a dream.”
But just then a dreadful thing happened. A blade of grass fell over her and tore open the thin veil over her back and Chloe thought it was daylight coming, and she opened her eyes. How cold the beautiful rainbow colors were from her poor body. The dew was falling and Chloe thought she would die.
Grasshoppers, ladybirds, beetles, and dragonflies all were looking about the garden and came by her just in time to hear her moan. They holiday friends of hers, who had left her before, were all glad to see her again. They said they had seen her in the green field where the broom grew and hoped to meet her there again.
Oh, but her pain became worse and worse. She looked down about her house and found a little cabbage-leaf whereon she lay, stretched out as she thought, and got frightened about.
“Have pity upon me and come to see me, my ladyfriends,” said Chloe.
“Happy are those who can hasten when their friends need them.”
“You must know that you have a dangerous land to travel over,” said the lady. “The weather is very warm, the air is very dry. Here is some dew. But you are not able to eat more yet than a little of the juice of flowers.”
“Good bye till next time,” all her friends said when they dismounted and went back again.
Quite alone she lived during the hot weather. How gloomy it was in her house.
Chloe was giddy in eyes as if she was walking at a great height, while her body grew even less than it had been before.
At last she became a beautiful large flower-grown like her friend. She had long scarlet pipes. A little Provencal snail crawled up and drank the honeydew that fell while she was singing gay little songs.
“These roses don’t bloom well,” said the Provencal snail. “They only look well. They dare not shoot out their thorny quills. Yes in the spring they would not endure the parching sun. And under summer’s general skin perhaps we shall speak differently.”
Days flew on, autumn came again, it became cold, stormy, and the first frost came. Then an ice-mould flew up into her chamber.
The next morning she could scarcely stir or breathe. But who came at the time a little later? The starry-eyed May-summer-saul. “O you beautiful steam rose,” said she. “How shock and frost miserably have taken all bloom out of you. Let us out. Away with the cracked bleak earth-cover lying above us. Away with our mud honeydew. Let us come into the garden. I now know my way thither.”
At the same time she whirled and turned her little wings among the withered leaves and rubbish, and then flew up high and off to the garden to light.
Yes, thought Chloe, meanwhile, I am in a dream with the rest of my holidays.
But horrible ice-cold, heavy down came tumbling into her daylight dream. She was snow-bound. All the earth lay like in rough-cast white.
When it cleared at last and the sky became blue again and warm beams of sunlight entered into her green chamber box, Chloe felt desire and joy to be light and merry. She began to walk up and down and hum; as she had done the winter prior to the extraordinary voice like that of a flute sounded out from above.
It was a brilliant bright butterfly that had flown from far and wide down again into her armchair rose wreath.
“Where are you flying to, hey!” cried she. “Out again to the house-big ladies?”
“Very likely,” answered the butterfly. “I had so much to talk about with my friends that I forgot the road home.”
“I am very sorry, I never saw you before.”
“Oh, don’t take it so to heart; I go and tell the others thus immediately,” and he did so.
Chloe went to see her friends in the field, and rose-leaf and spoke of butterflies; she remained the color of a rose-bud; her narrow-wind lotus flower-tongue among the thousand reeds but managed still to make itself understood.
“It is an agreeable dream, when we look over our friends from house to house,” said they.