“Not I,” said the butterfly.  “I was a crawling, creeping caterpillar, and I fed on leaves in your Grandmother’s garden until I got ready to spin my nest; and then I wrapped myself up so well that you would never have known me for a caterpillar; and when I came out in the Spring I was a lovely butterfly.”

“How beautiful!” said Lindsay.  “Grandmother, let us count the butterflies in your garden.”  But they never could do that, though they saw brown and blue and red and white and yellow ones, and followed them everywhere.

[Illustration:  So the Grandmother played that she was a great yellow butterfly.]

PART II.

It might have been the very next day that Grandmother took her knitting to the summer house.  At all events it was very soon; and while she and Lindsay were wondering when the red rose bush would be in full bloom, Lindsay saw, close up to the roof, a queer little house, like a roll of crumpled paper, with a great many front doors; and, of course, he wanted to know who lived there.

“You must not knock at any of those front doors,” advised Grandmother, “because Mrs. Wasp lives there, and might not understand; although if you let her alone she will not hurt you.  Just let me tell you something about her.”

So Lindsay listened while Grandmother told the story:—­

Once there was a little elf, who lived in the heart of a bright red rose, just like the roses we have been talking about.

There were many other elves who lived in the garden.  One, who lived in a lily which made a lovely home; and a poppy elf, who was always sleepy; but the rose elf liked her own sweet smelling room, with its crimson curtains, best of all.

Now the rose elf had a very dear friend, a little girl named Polly.  She could not speak to her, for fairies can only talk to people like you and me in dreams and fancies, but she loved Polly very much, and would lie in her beautiful rose room, and listen to Polly’s singing, till her heart was glad.

One day as she listened she said to herself, “If I cannot speak to Polly, I can write her a letter;” and this pleased her so much that she called over to the lily elf to ask what she should write it on.  “I always write my letters on rose petals, and get the wind to take them,” said the rose elf.  “But I am afraid Polly would not understand that.”

“I will tell you,” answered the lily elf, “what I would do.  I would go right to Mrs. Wasp, and ask her to give me a piece of paper.”

“But Mrs. Wasp is very cross, I’ve heard,” said the rose elf timidly.

“Never believe the gossip that you hear.  If Mrs. Wasp does seem to be a little stingy, I’m sure she has a good heart,” replied the lily elf.  So the rose elf took courage, and flew to Mrs. Wasp’s house, where, by good fortune, she found Mrs. Wasp at home.

“Good morning Mrs. Wasp,” called the little elf, “I’ve come to see if you will kindly let me have a sheet of paper to-day.”