nothing more! I am old and you are old! We can live very well for one
another, but to marry? No! Do not let us make fools of ourselves in
our old age."

So the butterfly obtained no one.

The butterfly remained a bachelor.

Many violent and transient showers came late in the autumn; the wind
blew so coldly down the back of the old willow trees, that it cracked
within them. It did not do to fly about in summer garments, for even
love itself would then grow cold. The butterfly however preferred not
to fly out at all; he had by chance entered a door-way, and there was
fire in the stove--yes, it was just as warm there, as in
summer-time;--there he could live. "Life is not enough," said he, "one
must have sunshine, liberty and a little flower!"

He flew against the window-panes, was seen, was run through by a pin
and placed in a curiosity-box; one could not do more for him.

"Now I also am seated on a stalk like a flower," said the butterfly,
"it is not so comfortable after all! But it is as well as being
married, for then one is tied down!" He consoled himself with this.

"What a wretched consolation!" said the flower, that grew in the pot
in the room.

"One can not entirely trust to flowers that grow in pots," thought
the butterfly, "they have too much intercourse with men."