when she is not affianced; but there were many of them, and it was a
difficult matter to choose amongst them. The butterfly could not make
up his mind; so he flew to the daisy. The French call her
_Marguerite_; they know that she can tell fortunes, and she does this
when lovers pluck off leaf after leaf and ask her at each one a
question about the beloved one: "How does he love me?--With all his
heart?--With sorrow?--Above all?--Can not refrain from it?--Quite
secretly?--A little bit?--Not at all?"--or questions to the same
import. Each one asks in his own language. The butterfly flew towards
her and questioned her; he did not pluck off the leaves, but kissed
each separate one, thinking that by so doing, he would make himself
more agreeable to the good creature.

"Sweet Margaret Daisy," said he, "of all the flowers you are the
wisest woman! You can prophesy! Tell me, shall I obtain this one or
that one? Which one? If I but know this, I can fly to the charming one
at once, and pay my court!"

Margaret did not answer. She could not bear to be called a _woman_,
for she was a young girl, and when one is a young girl, one is not a
woman.

He asked again, he asked a third time, but as she did not answer a
single word, he questioned her no more and flew away without further
parley, intent on his courtship.

It was early spring time, and there was an abundance of snow-drops and
crocuses. "They are very neat," said the butterfly, "pretty little
confirmed ones, but a little green!" He, like all young men looked at
older girls.