Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast
“Stop!”
“Your money or your life!” added the lively young Cricket.
“Silence, pert monkey!—Let us wait a few moments, my friends, for here come our lamps.”
As she spoke, a soft light was seen in the far distance gleaming upon the stems of the trees and steadily advancing.
“Your relations, Mr Glow-worm, I presume,” said the Butterfly in a sweet silvery voice. “It is so very kind of you to send for them, and so obliging in them to come. Really I cannot find words to express my gratitude.”
The countenance of the Glow-worm lighted up with pleasure at these words.
As the new-comers drew near, they appeared like a great galaxy of minute stars—as if a mass of the Milky-way had been cut off and hurled down to earth. There were several hundreds of them. As they approached, the whole forest lighted up; and when at last they descended upon the scene of the ball, and ranged themselves in a circle round the gay party, it seemed as if the sun himself had risen again to give them light—only the radiance was softer and more mysteriously tender than that of the sun!
Strong light has always an enlivening effect on creatures, whether human or otherwise. It cheered up the guests of Mrs Butterfly so much that they gave vent to an irresistible cheer; called for the music; and went on to dancing with more zest and energy than ever, insomuch that the attendant Glow-worms smiled to each other and nodded their heads.
Now it happened that every time the Glow-worms smiled their light increased. The lively young Cricket observed this, and began to wonder whether their light would increase still more if they were to laugh.
“I’ll try to find out,” said he, going up to a small Glow-worm—apparently a young one—and requesting her to step aside with him for a moment.
The little Glow-worm immediately became grave—in other words, dim—and went with him a little way into the woods.
“Now,” said the lively young Cricket, stopping, “can you laugh?”
“What?” said the little Glow-worm smiling, and, of course, lighting up.
“Yes, that’s it, smile away; but do it harder. I want you to laugh outright. Can’t you laugh?”
“Oh yes, when there is anything to laugh at.”
“Well, do it now.”
“But I can’t, please.”
“No; then I’ll make you.”
So saying, the young Cricket seized the little Glow-worm round the waist and tickled her.
Of course she laughed at first, and, to the Cricket’s delight, her face became wonderfully bright for a moment; but suddenly it became dim, for he hurt her, and she began to cry.
“You rascal!” exclaimed an angry voice, as the Grasshopper gave the Cricket a kick that sent him head over heels into the grass; “I felt sure you were after mischief, and I was right.”
“Oh, please, don’t kick him,” pleaded the little Glow-worm. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“No matter. Get up, sir, and beg her pardon.”
The young Cricket got up at once and did what he was bid, for he really did not mean mischief, and was sorry he had hurt her; and little Miss Glow-worm rewarded him with a smile so radiant that it illuminated the spot where they stood quite brilliantly, and sparkled through her tears with rainbow hues.
“Now I would laugh to please you if I could,” said Miss Glow-worm, again smiling.
“Oh, never mind, my dear. I’ll make you and all your kindred laugh before the ball is over,” said the lively young Cricket, hurrying away, and going straight up to the Scotch Bee, who was clad in a tartan plaid and kilt.
“Bee,” said the Cricket, “can you dance the Highland Fling?”
“Ay, she can do that.”
“I could show you a better fling than the Highland one,” said the Cricket.
“Ho! could ye? ye must be verra cliver. Wull ye let her see’t?”
“Yes, if you’ll dance the Highland fling first? Will you do it if Mrs Butterfly asks you?”
The Scotch Bee good-naturedly agreed. Of course, the Cricket had no difficulty in persuading the hostess to ask him. The musicians could not play a reel; but this mattered not, for the Bee could hum to himself. Great was the delight and surprise of the company when they beheld the Scotch Bee twirling his legs, snapping his fingers, and humming the reel of Tulloch, while the tartans fluttered round him like shreds of a shattered rainbow.
The dance waxed more and more furious, and the plaudits of the company grew louder, when, suddenly, the lively young Cricket ran in between the Bee’s legs, tripped him up, and sent him sprawling on the grass. A wild shout of laughter burst from the company—Glow-worms included—and the ball-room brightened up for a few moments as if it had been set on fire!
“That’s the fling I spoke of,” cried the Cricket, leaping up and running away.
The Scotch Bee sprang up, drew his dirk, and gave chase, but Mr Grasshopper caught him by the arm and dragged him off.
“Ho! friends—supper—supper! This way. Don’t sheathe your dirk. I have a haggis ready for you to sheathe it in. Come along; give your arm to that bloated old Spider there. She’ll keep you in spirits.”
