Part 1
A BOLD BAD BUTTERFLY
A Bold Bad Butterfly _& Other_ FABLES and VERSES by
OLIVER HERFORD
with many pictures by _the Author_
London: Published by Gay and Bird
MCMVI
PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE BOLD BAD BUTTERFLY 1
CRUMBS 6
THE SILVER QUESTION 7
HOW THE LION BECAME KING 13
THE WAKEFUL PRINCESS 19
A CORNER IN CURLS 27
TELL-TALE 35
GOSSIP 38
A HOPELESS CASE 39
THE FALL OF THE ROSE 43
SCANDAL 44
THE QUARREL 46
A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION 49
THE MISSING LINK 53
THE SNAIL’S DREAM 56
LÈSE MAJESTÉ 57
THE LOVESICK SCARECROW 59
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE 61
THE DOORLESS WOLF 64
THE CHARM THAT FAILED 67
JAPANESQUE 73
THE FIRST 1ST OF APRIL 74
THE BOASTFUL BUTTERFLY 76
THE TRAGIC MICE 80
A THREE SIDED QUESTION 82
THE LEGEND OF THE LILY 88
THE UNTUTORED GIRAFFE 90
THE ENCHANTED WOOD 94
A BUNNY ROMANCE 98
THE FLOWER CIRCUS 103
THE FATUOUS FLOWER 109
THE INVENTIVE DRAGON 112
THE LION’S TOUR 115
THE MERMAID CLUB 119
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
THE BOLD BAD BUTTERFLY
One day a Poppy, just in play, Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way, Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my! But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”
Of course ’twas only said in fun, He was a perfect paragon-- In every way a spotless thing (Save for two spots upon his wing).
But tho’ his morals were the best, He could not understand a jest; And somehow what the Poppy said Put ideas in his little head, And soon he really came to wish He _were_ the least bit “devilish.”
He then affected manners rough And strained his voice to make it gruff, And scowled as who should say “Beware, I am a dangerous character. You’d best not fool with me, for I-- I am a bold, bad butterfly.”
He hung around the wildest flowers, And kept the most unseemly hours, With dragonflies and drunken bees, And learned to say “By Jove!” with ease, Until his pious friends, aghast, Exclaimed, “He’s getting awf’lly fast!”
He shunned the nicer flowers, and threw Out hints of shady things he knew About the laurels, and one day He even went so far to say Something about the lilies sweet I could not possibly repeat!
At length, it seems, from being told How bad he was, he grew so bold, This most obnoxious butterfly, That one day, swaggering ’round the sky, He swaggered in the net of Mist- er Jones, the entomologist.
“It seems a sin,” said Mr. J., “This harmless little thing to slay,” As, taking it from out his net, He pinned it to a board, and set
Upon a card below the same, In letters large, its Latin name, Which is--
┌─────────────┐ │ │ │ ? │ │ │ └─────────────┘
but I omit it, lest Its family might be distressed, _And stop the little sum per year They pay me not to print it here_.
CRUMBS
Up to my frozen window-shelf Each day a begging birdie comes, And when I have a crust myself The birdie always gets the crumbs.
They say who on the water throws His bread, will get it back again; If that is true, perhaps--who knows?-- I have not cast my crumbs in vain.
Indeed, I know it is not quite The thing to boast of one’s good deed; To what the left hand does, the right, I am aware, should pay no heed.
Yet if in modest verse I tell My tale, some editor, maybe, May like it very much, and--well, My bread will then return to me.
THE SILVER QUESTION
The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold.
He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye. “I travel round the world,” he said, “And travelling rates are high.”
With frigid glance I pierced him through. He squirmed and changed his tune. Said he: “I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon.
“Poor thing! You know she’s growing old And hasn’t any folk. She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she’s broke.”
That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I buttonholed the Moon.
“Tell me about that gold,” said I. I saw her features fall. “You see, it’s useless to deny; The Sun has told me all.”
“Sir!” she exclaimed, “how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way? As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day.”
I smiled and shook my head. “All right, If you _must_ know,” said she, “I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea.
“He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place.”
When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in ships, And felt I’d said enough.
For if one virtue I have learned, ’Tis tact; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more.
I hate a scene, and do not wish To be mixed up in gales, But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish Whence came their silver scales!
HOW THE LION BECAME KING
Once in the hazy days of Yore (I cannot very well be more Explicit, since it was before Dates were invented). Once on a time, as I began To say, the Lion formed a plan To undermine the rule of Man, Which he resented.
In answer to the Lion’s call, His fellow-creatures, great and small, From earth and air came one and all In Trepidation. He then delivered a discourse, And proved with eloquence and force Man was their one and only source Of Tribulation.
“What is he--taken at his best? A mere pretence! Not even dressed, If we his puny form divest Of spoil he’s looted. The fact that we can far excel His boasted Strength and Speed, as well As Hearing, Sight, and Taste, and Smell, Is undisputed.
“I am not boasting when I own For Strength I’d back my claws alone Against his battle-axe of stone; While, as to Vision, ’Tis nothing more than idle talk To mention Man beside the Hawk-- The swift Horse, too, his clumsy walk Views with derision.
“Only Man’s Ignorance, I’m bound To say, could possibly confound The Scent and Hearing of the Hound With his dull powers; As well his Taste, that gluts on fare Like half-burnt Antelope and Bear, With the fastidious Bee compare, That sips the flowers.
“And yet,” the Lion said, “though we Outshine Man to the last degree Collectively, none holds as he The Combination.” In short, the moral of his theme Was this: If Beasts would reign supreme Their only practicable scheme Was Federation.
And so, in view of Public Need, The Hawk, Hound, Bee, and Horse agreed To pool their Sight, Scent, Taste, and Speed; And in due season They made, _pro tem._, the Lion King, Intrusting him with everything Upon condition he would bring Proud Man to reason.
The crafty Lion then proposed To send an Embassy composed Of those same four. As none opposed, They started straightway, And, coming to Man’s portals wide, They entered, but no trace espied Of Man, until (from the outside) He closed the gateway.
And there he kept them till they swore To be his servants evermore, And work his will, and bow before His rod of iron: The Dog to watch, the Hawk to kill, The Horse to carry and to till, The Bee with sweets his jars to fill. All save the Lion--
The Lion stayed at home--and purred, And kept thenceforth the crown conferred _Pro tem._, and nothing more was heard About Conditions. So ends my tale. Perchance it brings Some light to bear on certain things-- Such as the Origin of Kings, And Politicians.
THE WAKEFUL PRINCESS
One Time there lived (that is to say, If half a crust of bread a day And sleeping on a bed of hay May so be rated) A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay To all the Metres of the day, But was not, I regret to say, Appreciated.
In Market-place or Public Way He read his ode or sang his lay, As was the custom of the day, But none suggested A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay: Instead, one morn, to his dismay, While spouting forth a Tragic Play, He was arrested.
In Irons he was led away, And, by a Justice stern and gray, For blocking up the Public Way He was indicted. Then, since he had nowith to pay The Fine (a trifle anyway), To leave the town without delay He was invited.
There was no choice but to obey-- He left the town at break of day, Yet still his heart was brave and gay Fate could not queer him. For was it not the month of May, Were there not flowers beside the way, And little lambs to sport and play, And birds to cheer him?
He journeyed on for many a day; The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey; For aught I know the Fairies may Some Food have found him. At night he slept beneath a Bay Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say, Dreamed he was Laureate, and they Were twined around him.
Indeed, his only trouble lay In this, that though his spirits gay And gentle Heart and winning way Charmed and delighted All whom he met, yet, strange to say, To hear his verses none would stay-- Even the Peasants ran away, When he recited.
But he was not the sort that say, “Oh, woe is mine--alack-a-day!” He lived for Hope, and in some way Was bound to find it. “What matter! Let them go,” he’d say; “Each to his taste--henceforth I’ll play And sing to Birds alone, for they Don’t seem to mind it.”
And so he journeyed many a day, Till now at last his darkening way Lies through a forest dim and gray; Yet, nothing daunted, Though hoary branches bar the way, And twisted roots his steps betray, And ghostly voices seem to say The place is haunted,
Singing a Carol blithe and gay, He presses on, nor does he stay, Until at last the light of day His sight surprises. And now a little winding way Leads, through a meadow pink with May, To where, not half a mile away, A Palace rises.
He wandered on, his thoughts astray, Framing a little Roundelay And weaving garlands of the May (For whom not guessing), Until before him suddenly There loomed a gateway grim and gray, Whose dark doors yielded to the sway Of his light pressing.
And lo! a garden gleaming, gay With flowers in dazzling array, And fountains flashing silver spray, And bowers shady; And on an emerald bank there lay A creature fairer than the day, Yet sadder than a moonlight ray-- A wondrous lady.
Abashed the Poet turned away, When a low voice entreated, “Stay! Read me that little Roundelay I heard you singing.” It was as though upon him lay A spell that forced him to obey, And he recited it straightway In voice clear ringing.
A dreamy, languid, far-away Expression dims her eyes as they, Like violets at droop of day, Are closing--closing. The Poet ends his Roundelay, And turns to hear what she may say, And finds to his complete dismay The Princess dozing.
Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray! The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day! The spell is broken--Rise, I pray, Oh, sweet song-maker.” ’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray: I make you Laureate this day; My daughter’s hand, too, by the way, Is yours--don’t wake her.”
A CORNER IN CURLS
Once on a time when Men were Bold And Women Fair--to be precise-- A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;
Beauty she had and Wealth untold, Besides a Fabulous Amount Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold, And Suitors more than she could count.
Such Suitors! Though her Fingers Fair Had been as leaves upon the Trees They still were far too few to wear The Rings they offered, on their Knees.
In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships The Suitors came in Flocks untold, Happy to kiss her Finger-tips And beg from her a Lock of Gold.
For though she seemed to Cupid’s Dart Impervious, and would not share The smallest atom of her Heart, She was most lavish with her Hair.
To all who craved the Golden Boon She gave, until one Night Her Maid Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon Will not have Hair enough to braid!”
Next day the Court was in a state, The usual audience was refused, A Notice hung upon the Gate-- “_The Princess begs to be Excused._”
Daily the Throng of Suitors grew And clamoured madly at the door, Until at length they formed a queue Extending for a mile or more.
The Chancellor was in despair. “Princess, it comes to this,” he said, “That either you must lose your hair Or I must surely lose my head!”
The Princess turned away her face. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore; It will be hard to fill your place-- You were a first-rate Chancellor!
“But do not grieve--I have a plan To keep your head and save my Pride.” Then to the marble gate she ran, Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:
“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold, This mint of Curls--lo, I present A share to each of you--behold My Notes of Curl--at five per cent.!”
A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats; The panic passed--and months flew by. The Princess issued Tons of Notes, When lo!--a Bolt from out the Sky--
A message came, brought by a Churl: “_Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,_ _Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,_ _And all your Notes are falling Due!_”
The Princess grew distraught with fears By Day. At night she tossed in Bed, Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears Hung by a Hair above her Head.
At last the Fatal Morning came, And with it came Pont Morgan, too With Awful Shears to press his claim, And an Enormous Retinue.
“The Law is just!” the People cried; “And She the Penalty must pay!” The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide, When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”
An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud, And clad in Silken Cap and Gown, Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd, And struck the Awful Scissors down.
“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere You touch a Hair of that Fair Head; For know you not that Every Hair Is numbered--as the Prophet said?
“Show me the Notes--see, here is writ A number plain across each Bond, And you may only draw for it The numbered Hair to correspond.
“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw A Single Hair from that Gold Head; If it be wrong--then by the Law Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”
“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!” The People cried with mad uproar. The Sultan turned a deadly white, And fell in Fits upon the Floor.
“O Lady, whosoe’er you be, Claim what you will in all my Land!” The Princess cried. “I am,” said he, “Not Maid, but Man--I claim your Hand.”
“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be Your Bride--for in Creation’s Plan I never dreamed to find,” said she, “A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”
TELL-TALE
The Lily whispered to the Rose: “The Tulip’s fearfully stuck up. You’d think, to see the creature’s pose, She were a golden altar-cup. There’s method in her boldness, too; She catches twice her share of Dew.”
The Rose into the Tulip’s ear Murmured: “The Lily is a sight; Don’t you believe she _powders_, dear, To make herself so saintly white? She takes some trouble, it is plain, Her reputation to sustain.”
Said Tulip to the Lily white: “About the Rose--what do you think?-- Her colour? Should you say it’s quite-- Well, quite a natural shade of pink?” “Natural!” the Lily cried. “Good Saints! Why, _everybody_ knows she paints!”
GOSSIP
The news around the garden flew: Last night the Rose was robbed--_A flower Was filched from her and flung into The casement of my Lady’s bower_.
The flowers were mystified. In vain They asked of one another, “_Pray, What ails our Lady of Disdain That she must wear a Rose to-day_”?
The Daisy, with her latest breath, ’Reft of her petals, whispered low, “_It is a secret to the Death; I gave my petals all to know_.”
A HOPELESS CASE
Her sisters shunned her, half in fear And half in pity. “’Tis too bad She is not made as we--poor dear!” (Four leaves instead of Three she had.)
Said Doctor Bee: “Her case is rare And due to Influence prenatal. To amputate I would not dare, The operation might be fatal.
“With Rest and Care and Simple Food She may outlive both you and me; A change of scene _might_ do her good.” (One bag of Honey was his fee.)
* * * * *
“Take me! take me!” the clovers cry, To a maid bending wistful-eyed. With gentle hand she puts them by, Till all but one are passed aside.
Before her sisters’ wondering eyes Her leaves with kisses are told over. “At last! at last!” the maiden cries, “I’ve found you, little four-leaved clover.”
THE FALL OF THE ROSE
What the First Bee sang, who knows When he tempted the First Rose? Some such tale the Flowers believe, As the Serpent told to Eve. Only this the Roses know: Petals once as white as snow To a burning crimson grew, As her Loveliness she knew. Then it was a leaf she took Out of Eve’s own fashion-book; And from Eden’s mosses wove An apron chaste. In vain she strove, For in that veil of emerald lace The Moss Rose found an added grace.
SCANDAL
For all the Morning Glory’s airs, She has the instincts of a Weed; To-day I caught her unawares Kissing a Squash--I did indeed.
“But don’t repeat it,” said the Rose, Then told the Pink, who told the Bee, Who said, “I’ll see to it, it goes No farther.” Then he told it me.
Said I, “It is a shame, O Bee! To circulate such arrant Bosh; And if it’s true--it’s plain to see-- You’re only jealous of the Squash.”
THE QUARREL
The Laurel started the affair, Calling the Rose a vain coquette. The Rose replied she did not care _What_ people thought, outside her set.
“Faith, you speak true!” the Laurel cried, “Roses and Laurels only meet When on the Hero’s head we ride, And you are tossed beneath his feet.”
The Rose retorted, “I could name More than one Hero who threw down His precious Laurel wreath of fame For just one Rose from Beauty’s crown.”
The Laurel frowned, “’Tis as you say, And yet it cannot be gainsaid, Their Laurels are undimmed to-day Save by the Folly of that trade.”
“Your reasoning’s false!” exclaimed the Rose, “Your premises are falser yet; Your sentiment is all a pose! Besides--you are not in my set!”
MORAL
’Twixt Duty, here below, and Love, Alas! we see a great gulf fixed; Perhaps they’re Introduced Above-- In Heaven, society is mixed.
A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION
A real Butterfly, I mean, With Orange-pointed saffron wings And coat of inky Velveteen-- None of your Fashion-plated Things
That dangle from the Apronstrings Of Mrs. Grundy--or you see Loll by the Stage Door or the Wings, Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea.
Not such a Butterfly was he; He lived for Sunshine and the Hour; He did not flit from Tea to Tea, But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.
One Day there came a Thunder Shower-- An Open Window he espied. He fluttered in; behold, a Flower! An Azure Rose with petals wide.
He did not linger to decide _Which Flower_; there was no other there. He calmly settled down inside That Rose, and no one said “_Beware!_”
There was no Friend to say, “Take care!” How ever, then, could he suppose This Blossom, of such Colour Rare, Was just an Artificial Rose?
All might have ended well--who knows?-- But just then some one chanced to say: “_The very Latest Thing! That Rose In Paris is the Rage To-day._”
No Rose of such a Tint _outré_ Was ever seen in Garden Bed; The Butterfly had such a Gay, Chromatic Sense, it turned his head.
“_The Very Latest Thing?_” he said; “Long have I sighed for something New! O Roses Yellow, White, and Red, Let others sip; _mine shall be Blue!_”
The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true (He felt a Pain inside his Waist). “It is not well to overdo,” Said he, “a just-acquired taste.”
The Shower passed; he joined in haste His friends. With condescension great, Said he, “I fear your time you waste; _Real Roses_ are _quite_ out of date.”
He argued early, argued late, Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSE Grew to a Fierce, Inordinate Craving for Artificial Rose.
He haunted Garden Parties, Shows, Wherever Ladies Congregate, And in their Bonnets thrust his nose His Craving Fierce to Satiate.
At last he chanced, sad to relate, Into a Caterer’s with his Pose, And there Pneumonia was his Fate From _sitting on an Ice Cream Rose_.
O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose. They buried him, with scant lament, Beneath a Common Brier-Rose, And wrote:
HERE LIES A DECADENT.
THE MISSING LINK
_There was chattering and jabbering and bellowing and growling, And the sound of many waters and of many creatures howling As the voices of creation all were lifted up together In a universal chorus--“Did you ever see such weather?”_
Beside the rail, despite the gale, Old Noah took each ticket, And registered each Beast and Bird That passed inside the wicket.
And when at last they had made fast As much as they could stow away, He cried “Let go! cut loose! yo ho! Hoist gang! avast! heave ho--away!”
With heave and yank, up came the plank, A-straining and a-creaking, When, rising o’er the wind and roar, They heard two voices shrieking,--