“What is winter?” asked the Butterfly, and flew off without awaiting an answer.

The Philosopher remained for a moment speechless, whether from amazement at the Butterfly’s nescience or disgust at his ill-breeding.  Recovering himself immediately, he shouted after the fugitive: 

“Frivolous animal!” “It is this levity,” continued he, addressing a group of butterflies who had gradually assembled in the air, attracted by the conversation, “it is this fatal levity that constrains me to despair wholly of the future of you insects.  That you should persistently remain at your present depressed level!  That you should not immediately enter upon a process of self-development!  Look at the Bee!  How did she acquire her sting, think you?  Why cannot you store up honey, as she does?”

“We cannot build cells,” suggested a Butterfly.

“And how did the Bee learn, do you suppose, unless by imbuing her mind with the elementary principles of mathematics?  Know that time has been when the Bee was as incapable of architectural construction as yourselves, when you and she alike were indiscriminable particles of primary protoplasm. (I suppose you know what that is.) One has in process of time exalted itself to the cognition of mathematical truth, while the other—­Pshaw!  Now, really, my friends, I must beg you to take my observations in good part.  I do not imply, of course, that any endeavours of yours in the direction I have indicated could benefit any of you personally, or any of your posterity for numberless generations.  But I really do consider that after a while its effects would be very observable—­that in twenty millions of years or so, provided no geological cataclysm supervened, you Butterflies, with your innate genius for mimicry, might be conformed in all respects to the hymenopterous model, or perhaps carry out the principle of development into novel and unheard-of directions.  You should derive much encouragement from the beginning you have made already.”

“How a beginning?” inquired a Butterfly.

“I am alluding to your larval constitution as Caterpillars,” returned the Philosopher.  “Your advance upon that humiliating condition is, I admit, remarkable.  I only wonder that it should not have proceeded much further.  With such capacity for development, it is incomprehensible that you should so long have remained stationary.  You ought to be all toads by this time, at the very least.”

“I beg your pardon,” civilly interposed the Butterfly.  “To what condition were you pleased to allude?”

“To that of a Caterpillar,” rejoined the Philosopher.

“Caterpillar!” echoed the Butterfly, and “Caterpillar!” tittered all his volatile companions, till the air seemed broken into little silvery waves of fairy laughter.  “Caterpillar! he positively thinks we were once Caterpillars!  He! he! he!”

“Do you actually mean to say you don’t know that?” responded the Philosopher, scandalised at the irreverence of the insects, but inwardly rejoicing at the prospect of a controversy in which he could not be worsted.