I wish I knew how they move those tiny wings of theirs--a thousand times in a second, I dare say, some of them.

I wish I knew how far they know that they are happy--for happy they must be, whether they know it or not.

I wish I knew how they live at all.

I wish I even knew how many sorts there are humming round us at this moment.
How many kinds?
Three or four?
More probably thirty or forty round this single tree.
But why should there be so many kinds of living things?
Would not one or two have done just as well?
Why, indeed?
Why should there not have been only one sort of butterfly, and he only of one colour, a plain brown, or a plain white?
And why should there be so many sorts of birds, all robbing the garden at once?
Thrushes, and blackbirds, and sparrows, and chaffinches, and greenfinches, and bullfinches, and tomtits.
And there are four kinds of tomtits round here, remember: but we may go on with such talk for ever.

Wiser men than we have asked the same question: but Lady Why will not answer them yet.