fter this that the princess was
really going to marry a Turkish angel.

As soon as the merchant's son had come down to the wood after the
fireworks, he thought, "I will go back into the town now and hear what
they think of the entertainment." It was very natural that he should
wish to know. And what strange things people did say, to be sure! Every
one whom he questioned had a different tale to tell, though they all
thought it very beautiful.

"I saw the Turkish angel myself," said one. "He had eyes like glittering
stars and a head like foaming water."

"He flew in a mantle of fire," said another, "and lovely little cherubs
peeped out from the folds."

He heard many more fine things about himself and that the next day he
was to be married. After this he went back to the forest to rest himself
in his trunk. It had disappeared! A spark from the fireworks which
remained had set it on fire. It was burned to ashes. So the merchant's
son could not fly any more, nor go to meet his bride. She stood all day
on the roof, waiting for him, and most likely she is waiting there
still, while he wanders through the world telling fairy tales--but none
of them so amusing as the one he related about the matches.

[Illustration]

THE BUTTERFLY

THERE was once a butterfly who wished for a bride; and, as may be
supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers.
He glanced with a very critical eye at all the flower beds and found
that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their stalks, just
as maidens should sit. But there was a great number of them, and it
appeared as if making his choice would become very wearisome. The
butterfly did not like to take too much trouble, so he flew off on a
visit to the daisies.

The French call this flower Marguerite and say that it can prophesy.
Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each leaf they ask a
question about their sweethearts, thus: "Does he or she love me? Dearly?
Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?" and so on. Each one
speaks these words in his own language.

The butterfly came, also, to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck
off her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there
was always more to be done by kindness.

"Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest woman of
them all. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife.
Which will be my bride? When I know,