The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's eyes saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good deal to your fancy. It was just a _delicious_ garden. There was a charming mixture of all that is needed to make a garden perfect--grass, velvety lawn rather; water, for a little brook ran tinkling in and out, playing bo-peep among the bushes; trees, of course, and flowers, of course, flowers of every shade and shape. But all these beautiful things Griselda did not at first give as much attention to as they deserved; her eyes were so occupied with a quite unusual sight that met them. This was butterflies! Not that butterflies are so very uncommon; but butterflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, children, none of you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were such enormous numbers of them, and the variety of their colours and sizes was so great. They were fluttering about everywhere; the garden seemed actually alive with them. Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sunshine which kissed her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm embrace. Then she turned to her little friend. "Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you _so_ much. This _is_ fairyland, at last!" The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently. "No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only butterfly-land." "_Butterfly_-land!" repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in her tone. "Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wishing to be yesterday, isn't it?" Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yesterday." She thought it would be as well to change the subject. "It's a beautiful place, whatever it is," she said, "and I'm sure, cuckoo, I'm _very_ much obliged to you for bringing me here. Now may I run about and look at everything? How delicious it is to feel the warm sunshine again! I didn't know how cold I was. Look, cuckoo, my toes and fingers are quite blue; they're only just beginning to come right again. I suppose the sun always shines here. How nice it must be to be a butterfly; don't you think so, cuckoo? Nothing to do but fly about." She stopped at last, quite out of breath. "Griselda," said the cuckoo, "if you want me to answer your questions, you must ask them one at a time. You may run about and look at everything if you like, but you had better not be in such a hurry. You will make a great many mistakes if you are--you have made some already." "How?" said Griselda. "_Have_ the butterflies nothing to do but fly about? Watch them." Griselda watched. "They do seem to be doing something," she said, at last, "but I can't think what. They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying away something like bees gathering honey. _Butterflies_ don't gather honey, cuckoo?" "No," said the cuckoo. "They are filling their paint-boxes."