“We know nothing of the sort,” rejoined a Butterfly.

“Can you possibly be plunged into such utter oblivion of your embryonic antecedents?”

“We do not understand you.  All we know is that we have always been Butterflies.”

“Sir,” said a large, dull-looking Butterfly with one wing in tatters, crawling from under a cabbage, and limping by reason of the deficiency of several legs, “let me entreat you not to deduce our scientific status from the inconsiderate assertions of the unthinking vulgar.  I am proud to assure you that our race comprises many philosophical reasoners—­mostly indeed such as have been disabled by accidental injuries from joining in the amusements of the rest.  The Origin of our Species has always occupied a distinguished place in their investigations.  It has on several occasions engaged the attention of our profoundest thinkers for not less than two consecutive minutes.  There is hardly a quadruped on the land, a bird in the air, or a fish in the water to which it has not been ascribed by some one at some time; but never, I am rejoiced to say, has any Butterfly ever dreamed of attributing it to the obnoxious thing to which you have unaccountably made reference.”

“We should rather think not,” chorussed all the Butterflies.

“Look here,” said the Philosopher, picking up and exhibiting a large hairy Caterpillar of very unprepossessing appearance.  “Look here, what do you call this?”

“An abnormal organisation,” said the scientific Butterfly.

“A nasty beast,” said the others.

“Heavens,” exclaimed the Philosopher, “the obtuseness and arrogance of these creatures!  No, my poor friend,” continued he, addressing the Caterpillar, “disdain you as they may, and unpromising as your aspect certainly is at present, the time is at” hand when you will prank it with the gayest of them all.”

“I cry your mercy,” rejoined the Caterpillar somewhat crossly, “but I was digesting a gooseberry leaf when you lifted me in that abrupt manner, and I did not quite follow your remarks.  Did I understand you to mention my name in connection with those flutterers?”

“I said the time would arrive when you would be even as they.”

“I,” exclaimed the Caterpillar, “I retrograde to the level of a Butterfly!  Is not the ideal of creation impersonated in me already?”

“I was not aware of that,” replied the Philosopher, “although,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “far be it from me to deny you the possession of many interesting qualities.”

“You probably refer to my agility,” suggested the Caterpillar; “or perhaps to my abstemiousness?”

“I was not referring to either,” returned the Philosopher.

“To my utility to mankind?”

“Not by any manner of means.”

“To what then?”

“Well, if you must know, the best thing about you appears to me to be the prospect you enjoy of ultimately becoming a Butterfly.”