By RUTH McENERY STUART
September butterflies flew thickO’er flower-bed and clover-rick,When little Miss Penelope,Who watched them from grandfather’s knee,
Said, “Grandpa, what’s a butterfly?”And, “Where do flowers go to when they die?”For questions hard as hard can beI recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful wayOf dodging things too hard to say,By giving fantasies insteadOf serious answers, so he said,
“Whenever a tired old flower must die,Its soul mounts in a butterfly;Just now a dozen snow-wings spedFrom out that white petunia bed;
“And if you’ll search, you’ll find, I’m sure,A dozen shrivelled cups or more;Each pansy folds her purple cloth,And soars aloft in velvet moth.
“So when tired sunflower doffs her capOf yellow frills to take a nap,’Tis but that this surrender bringsHer soul’s release on golden wings.”
“But is this so? It ought to be,”Said little Miss Penelope;”Because I’m sure, dear grandpa, youWould only tell the thing that’s true.
“Are all the butterflies that flyReal angels of the flowers that die?”Grandfather’s eyes looked far away,As if he scarce knew what to say.
“Dear little Blossom,” stroking nowThe golden hair upon her brow,”I can’t—exactly—say—I—know—it;I only heard it from a poet.
“And poets’ eyes see wondrous things.Great mysteries of flowers and wings,And marvels of the earth and seaAnd sky, they tell us constantly.
“But we can never prove them right,Because we lack their finer sight;And they, lest we should think them wrong,Weave their strange stories into song
“So beautiful, so seeming-true,So confidently stated too,That we, not knowing yes or no,Can only hope they may be so.”
“But, grandpapa, no tale should closeWith ifs or buts or may-be-sos;So let us play we’re poets, too,And then we’ll know that this is true.”