Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast
Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his light;
So home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you or for me.
The sun went down at last, but still the dancers continued their sport under the old oak-tree, when suddenly a clear, beautiful light streamed across the turf. It was the Glow-worm’s light.
“How charming!” exclaimed the Butterfly. “It is such a sweet, subdued light.”
“Rather too much subdued,” growled the blundering Black Beetle, as he tripped over a twig and pulled his partner, a humble-bee, down with him; “couldn’t you shine a little brighter—eh?”
The Glow-worm shook his head. “Couldn’t give you another ray to save my life,” he said; “but if you send for a few of my friends, they will be happy to come and help me, no doubt.”
“A good suggestion,” said the Black Beetle, assisting his partner to rise.
“Oh, my poor frock,” cried the Humble-bee, gazing sadly at a long rent in the skirt.
“Never mind, let’s have at it again,” cried the Beetle, seizing her round the waist, and blundering on again in a furious gallop of his own invention.
“Whom shall I send for the Glow-worm’s relations?” muttered the Butterfly to herself.
“Send the Snail,” said a lively young Cricket, who had devoted himself to doing mischief during the whole evening.
“Peace, little goose,” replied the Butterfly, tapping the Cricket on the nose with her fan, and hastening towards the Grasshopper, who was still enthralled and convulsed by the bloated old Spider.
“Whom should we send, my dear!” said the Grasshopper, in reply to the Butterfly’s question; “the Fly footman, to be sure; and pray tell him to be smart about it, for I’ve been run down half-a-dozen times already by the dancers since the sun set. One lamp is too little for our ball-room. That blind Mole has run—ha! there he comes again. Look out!”
As he spoke, the Mole came bearing down towards them in a furious Portuguese waltz, with a horrified Dragonfly struggling in his arms.
The Grasshopper made a bound to get out of the way, but at that moment the lively young Cricket laid hold of his leg and held him fast. The consequence was that the Mole tumbled over him, fell on the top of the bloated Spider, and hit his head so violently on the breast of the Bull-frog that he stopped his noise immediately.
This sudden stoppage of the bass brought the other musicians to a stand, and as a matter of course stopped the dancing abruptly—with the exception of a deaf Squirrel, who had failed to find a partner, and who went on revolving slowly by himself as if nothing had happened.
“Dear me,” exclaimed everybody (except the Squirrel), “what has happened?”
“Oh, nothing worth mentioning,” said the Grasshopper, getting up with a limp. “You young rascal, what—why—there, take that.”
“Oh!” sobbed the young Cricket, pointing with a look of surprise at the Spider; “what a sight!”
He might well say so, for the bloated old Spider had been flattened out by the weight of the Mole to nearly twice her size, and was apparently quite dead. In great concern, the host and hostess ran to raise her.
“Are you hurt, dear?” asked the Butterfly, anxiously.
“Hurt!” exclaimed the Grasshopper, pushing her aside; “don’t you see she’s burst!”
“Oh me! I’m so sorry,” exclaimed the Mole, wringing his fore-paws.
At that moment there was a shout of eager expectation, for the Spider was seen to move. The Butterfly knelt at her side, and bending down, said tenderly—
“Tell me, dear, has he burst you?”
“N–no, n–not—qu–quite,” answered the Spider faintly; “I’m only f–flattened. Let some of you sq–squeeze m–my sides.”
Immediately a dozen of the young Crickets surrounded the old lady, and pressed her sides with all their might. This had the effect of raising her back a little, and enabling her to draw a good long breath, which speedily raised her up to her original size.
“There, I’m all right now,” she said in a cheerful voice; “I’m used to accidents of that sort, and they never leave any bad effects beyond a little stiffness of the lungs. Come, Grasshopper, I’ll finish that story. Get on with your dancing, good people.”
“Nobody inquires after me,” croaked the Bull-frog, rubbing his chest. “I had no idea a Mole’s head was so hard.”
“Have some mountain-dew,” said the Butterfly, gracefully handing him a blue-bell filled with the precious liquid. “It has been gathered on the Scottish hills by a native Bee, who has just arrived laden with heather-honey.”
The Bull-frog accepted the goblet, and drained it to the bottom.
“It is strong,” he said, coughing and smacking his lips.
“Oo ay,” observed the Scotch Bee; “it’s got the credit o’ bein’ a wee thing nippy.”
Under the influence of the dew the Bull-frog began to sing bass lustily. The other musicians chimed in. The dancers seized each other by waist and hand—or by tail and wing those that happened to have no waists or hands—and the ball was about to go on, when the Grasshopper shouted—
