A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION
A REAL Butterfly, I mean,
With Orange-pointed saffron wings
And coat of inky Velveteen—
None of your Fashion-plated Things
That dangle from the Apronstrings
Of Mrs. Grundy—or you see
Loll by the Stage Door or the Wings,
Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea.
Not such a Butterfly was he;
He lived for Sunshine and the Hour;
He did not flit from Tea to Tea,
But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.
One Day, there came a Thunder Shower—
An Open Window he espied.
He fluttered in; behold, a Flower!
An Azure Rose with petals wide.
He did not linger to decide
Which Flower; there was no other there.
He calmly settled down inside
That Rose, and no one said "Beware!"
There was no Friend to say, "Take care!"
How ever, then, could he suppose
This Blossom of such Color Rare
Was just an Artificial Rose?
All might have ended well—who knows—
But just then someone chanced to say:
"The very Latest Thing! That Rose
In Paris is the Rage To-day."
No Rose of such a Tint outré
Was ever seen in Garden Bed;
The Butterfly had such a Gay,
Chromatic Sense, it turned his head.
