Once upon a time there were three little mice.

One who fetched the dresses.

One who washed the dishes.

One who drew the baths.

And they worked for a butterfly who lived in the gardens.

One day, the butterfly met a cat on the edge of the garden.

"Come home with me," said the cat. "Into the house where it is safer and warmer."

And the butterfly went.

But a house is no place for a butterfly, and its wings grew pale and heavy.

The mice did what they could.

Fetched her clothes.

Washed her dishes.

Drew her baths.

Brought flowers and perfumes and opened the windows but nothing could compare to what had come before.

And the butterfly grew paler still.

"It's all these reminders of the outside that are making you sick," said the cat.

And he did as cats do.

And picked off the mice.

One (face cut like fabric)

By

One (thrown down a well to break like her dishes)

By

One (pushed in the tub)

And so the cat and the butterfly continued, but she grew paler and paler.

Until he was bored.

And crushed her beneath his paws.