Several days were passed by the butterfly in the same manner. It
fluttered aimlessly about the flower gardens while the sun shone,
and returned at night to the mandarin with false tales of turning
children into swine. Sometimes it would be one child which was
transformed, sometimes two, and occasionally three; but the mandarin
always greeted the butterfly's report with intense delight and gave
him molasses for supper.
One evening, however, the butterfly thought it might be well to vary
the report, so that the mandarin might not grow suspicious; and when
its master asked what child had been had been changed into a pig
that day the lying creature answered:
"It was a Chinese boy, and when I touched him he became a black
pig."
This angered the mandarin, who was in an especially cross mood. He
spitefully snapped the butterfly with his finger, and nearly broke
its beautiful wing; for he forgot that Chinese boys had once mocked
him and only remembered his hatred for American boys.
The butterfly became very indignant at this abuse from the mandarin.
It refused to eat its molasses and sulked all the evening, for it
had grown to hate the mandarin almost as much as the mandarin hated
children.
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