Waltey
Metulj, ki je hodil na obiske
019 THE BUTTERFLY THAT WENT CALLING
Živalske zgodbe Clare Dillingham Pierson · Clara Dillingham PiersonO besedilu
Metulj, ki je hodil na obiske
- Vir
- Živalske zgodbe Clare Dillingham Pierson
- Avtor
- Clara Dillingham Pierson
- Jezik branja
- Slovenščina
- Jezik izvirnika
- English
- Čas branja
- 5 min branja
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- 4 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- 019 THE BUTTERFLY THAT WENT CALLING
O izvirniku
Živalske zgodbe Clare Dillingham Pierson
Devetindevetdeset avtorskih zgodb o živalih na kmetiji, travniku, v gozdu, ob ribniku in ponoči. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Živalske zgodbe Clare Dillingham Pierson v jeziku English.
Besedilo
Metulj, ki je hodil na obiske
Ko so prišli topli avgustovski dnevi, se je gospod Rumeni metulj zvijal in prerival v svoji tesni zeleni bubici ter si želel, da bi lahko prišel ven in si ogledal svet. Spominjal se je dni, ko je bil še majhna kosmata Gosenica in je počasi lezel po travi in listju, ter tega, kako lepi so bili nebo in vse cvetlice. Nato je pomislil na nova krila, ki so mu zrasla na hrbtu, in jih skušal premakniti, da bi videl, kakšen je občutek. Odkar so mu zrasla krila, je imel le še šest nog in pogrešal je vse oprijemljive nožice, ki se jim je moral odreči, ko se je začel spreminjati v Metulja.
Bolj ko je razmišljal o tem, bolj se je zvijal, dokler ni nenadoma zaslišal rahlega zvoka, pretihega, da bi ga slišala večja bitja, in opazil drobno razpoko v steni svoje bube. Bubica je bila tako ljubka, zelena in belo nagubana, da jo je bilo skoraj škoda razbiti. Vendar ga je že osem dni držala zaprtega, in toliko časa je v bubi visel vsak član njegove družine, zato je bil že skrajni čas, da se razpre in ostane prazna. Gospod Rumeni metulj je pripadal drugemu zarodu, ki se je izlegel tisto leto, in želel si je priti na plano, dokler so bili dnevi še lepi in vroči. Zdaj je zlezel skozi pravkar odprta vratca, da bi prvič poletel.
Ubogi gospod Metulj! Njegova krila so bila tako mokra in zmečkana, da z njimi sploh ni mogel leteti, zato je moral ves dan mirno sedeti na soncu in jih sušiti. In ravno ko so postala velika, gladka in suha, se je stemnilo in gospod Metulj je moral zlesti pod list ter zaspati.
Naslednje jutro je že navsezgodaj odletel obiskat cvetlice. Najprej se je ustavil pri Marjeticah ob cesti. Vse so plesale v vetru in njihovi svetli obrazi so bili kar se da veseli. Razveselile so se gospoda Metulja in si zaželele, da bi ves dan ostal pri njih. Rekel je: »Zelo ste prijazne, vendar mi kaj takega res ne pride na misel. Oprostite, da to rečem, a čudim se, da sploh hočete rasti tukaj. Zelo prašno in suho je, pa še sence ni. Prepričan sem, da bi jaz izbral boljši kraj.«
Marjetice so se nasmehnile in si prikimale. »Prav za tak kraj smo ustvarjene, to je vse,« so rekle. Gospod Metulj je zelo nejeverno zmajal z glavo, jim nato vljudno zaželel dobro jutro in odletel obiskat Škrlatne lobelije.
Škrlatne lobelije so, kot vsi vedo, zelo dostojanstvena družina. Glave držijo visoko in se nikoli globoko ne priklanjajo, niti vetru, a so kljub temu zelo prijetna družba. Gospodu Metulju so postregle z okusnim medenim kosilcem in bile videti zelo zadovoljne, ko jim je povedal, kako lepa je reka v sončni svetlobi.
»Tu je čudovito rasti,« so rekle. »Že-e,« je odgovoril gospod Metulj, »zelo lepo je, vendar mislim, da ne more biti zdravo. Res ne razumem, zakaj si cvetlice izbirate tako nenavadna domovanja. Vzemimo Marjetice, ki sem jih pravkar obiskal. Rastejo na prašnem, suhem kraju, kjer ni niti malo sence. O tem sem jim nekaj povedal, pa so se vedle prav vzvišeno.«
»Toda Marjetice si vedno izberejo takšne kraje,« so rekle Škrlatne lobelije. »Vaša družina pa,« je dejal gospod Metulj, »že tako dolgo živi na mokrih krajih, da je pravi čudež, da ste še žive. Lepo barvo imate, toda ves čas stati s koreninami v vodi! To je grozno.«
»Škrlatne lobelije in Metulji živimo različno,« so rekle cvetlice. »Dobro jutro.« Gospod Metulj je zapustil reko in odletel proti gozdu. Potrpljenje ga je povsem minilo. Bil je tako jezen, da so mu trepetale tipalnice, in zdaj veste, kako hudo se je moral razjeziti. Vedel je, da so Vijolice zelo prijetna družina, ki se nikoli ne dela pomembne, zato se je takoj odpravil k njim.
Komaj jim je zaželel dobro jutro, že je začel pojasnjevati, kaj ga je razburilo. »Pomislite,« je rekel, »kakšne muhe imajo nekatere cvetlice! Ve imate tu na robu gozda prav prijeten dom. Marjeticam in Škrlatnim lobelijam sem dopovedoval, da bi morale rasti na takšnem kraju, pa me niso hotele poslušati. Marjetice so bile pri tem prav vzvišene, Škrlatne lobelije pa zelo toge.«
»Dragi prijatelj,« je odgovorila neka Vijolica, »če bi se preselile v našo soseščino, sploh ne bi mogle živeti. Vsaka cvetlica ima na tem svetu svoj prostor in na njem je najsrečnejša. Vsako bitje ima svoj prostor in svoje delo in vsaka modra cvetlica ostane na kraju, ki ji je namenjen. Zelo prijazno od vas, da ste hoteli pomagati cvetlicam, toda predstavljajte si, da bi one vam govorile, kaj morate početi. Predstavljajte si, da bi vam Škrlatne lobelije rekle, da letanje naokrog ni dobro za vaše zdravje in da bi morali, če bi hoteli biti zares zdravi, rasti z nogami zasajeni v blato in vodo.«
»Oh!« je rekel gospod Metulj. »Oh! Na to pa nisem nikoli pomislil. Morda pa Metulji le ne vemo vsega.« »Ne,« je rekla Vijolica, »ne veste vsega, pa tudi iz bube ste prišli šele pred kratkim. Toda kdor se je pripravljen učiti, lahko vedno najde koga, ki mu bo kaj povedal. Bi malo medu?«
In gospod Metulj je srkal med in bil srečen.
Izvirnik
019 THE BUTTERFLY THAT WENT CALLING
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
As the warm August days came, Mr. Yellow Butterfly wriggled and pushed in his snug little green chrysalis and wished he could get out to see the world. He remembered the days when he was a hairy little Caterpillar, crawling slowly over grass and leaves, and he remembered how beautiful the sky and all the flowers were. Then he thought of the new wings which had been growing from his back, and he tried to move them, just to see how it would feel. He had only six legs since his wings grew, and he missed all the sticky feet which he had to give up when he began to change into a Butterfly.
The more he thought about it the more he squirmed, until suddenly he heard a faint little sound, too faint for larger people to hear, and found a tiny slit in the wall of his chrysalis. It was such a dainty green chrysalis with white wrinkles, that it seemed almost a pity to have it break. Still it had held him for eight days already and that was as long as any of his family ever hung in the chrysalis, so it was quite time for it to be torn open and left empty. Mr. Yellow Butterfly belonged to the second brood that had hatched that year and he wanted to be out while the days were still fine and hot. Now he crawled out of the newly-opened doorway to take his first flight.
Poor Mr. Butterfly! He found his wings so wet and crinkled that they wouldn't work at all, so he had to sit quietly in the sunshine all day drying them. And just as they got big, and smooth, and dry, it grew dark, and Mr. Butterfly had to crawl under a leaf to sleep.
The next morning, bright and early, he flew away to visit the flowers. First he stopped to see the Daisies by the roadside. They were all dancing in the wind, and their bright faces looked as cheerful as anyone could wish. They were glad to see Mr. Butterfly, and wished him to stay all day with them. He said; "You are very kind, but I really couldn't think of doing it. You must excuse my saying it, but I am surprised to think you will grow here. It is very dusty and dry, and then there is no shade. I am sure I could have chosen a better place."
The Daisies smiled and nodded to each other, saying, "This is the kind of place we were made for, that's all."
Mr. Butterfly shook his head very doubtfully, and then bade them a polite "Good-morning," and flew away to call on the Cardinals.
The Cardinals are a very stately family, as everybody knows. They hold their heads very high, and never make deep bows, even to the wind, but for all that they are a very pleasant family to meet. They gave Mr. Butterfly a dainty lunch of honey, and seemed much pleased when he told them how beautiful the river looked in the sunlight.
"It is a delightful place to grow," said they.
"Ye-es," said Mr. Butterfly, "it is very pretty, still I do not think it can be healthful. I really cannot understand why you flowers choose such strange homes. Now, there are the Daisies, where I just called. They are in a dusty, dry place, where there is no shade at all. I spoke to them about it, and they acted quite uppish."
"But the Daisies always do choose such places," said the Cardinals.
"And your family," said Mr. Butterfly, "have lived so long in wet places that it is a wonder you are alive. Your color is good, but to stand with one's roots in water all the time! It is shocking."
"Cardinals and Butterflies live differently," said the flowers. "Good-morning."
Mr. Butterfly left the river and flew over to the woods. He was very much out of patience. He was so angry that his feelers quivered, and now you know how angry he must have been. He knew that the Violets were a very agreeable family, who never put on airs, so he went at once to them.
He had barely said "Good-morning" to them when he began to explain what had displeased him.
"To think," he said, "what notions some flowers have! Now, you have a pleasant home here in the edge of the woods. I have been telling the Daisies and the Cardinals that they should grow in such a place, but they wouldn't listen to me. The Daisies were quite uppish about it, and the Cardinals were very stiff."
"My dear friend," answered a Violet, "they could never live if they moved up into our neighborhood. Every flower has his own place in this world, and is happiest in that place. Everything has its own place and its own work, and every flower that is wise will stay in the place for which it was intended. You were exceedingly kind to want to help the flowers, but suppose they had been telling you what to do. Suppose the Cardinals had told you that flying around was not good for your health, and that to be truly well you ought to grow planted with your legs in the mud and water."
"Oh!" said Mr. Butterfly, "Oh! I never thought of that. Perhaps Butterflies don't know everything."
"No," said the Violet, "they don't know everything, and you haven't been out of your chrysalis very long. But those who are ready to learn can always find someone to tell them. Won't you eat some honey?"
And Mr. Butterfly sipped honey and was happy.
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