There lived a poor farmer in Bergengocia with his daughter Kincső, a pig farmer. They lived in great misery, supported by their little land. They missed the farmer's wife, Kincső's mother, from whose hands they had once woven the most beautiful and colourful fabrics.
But for a long time, the blatant tree had been covered in a thick layer of dust, with only a few pieces of red apple kept as decoration. On cold winter evenings, only fond memories sometimes saved the old structure from becoming a fireplace.
One early summer morning, the girl went out into the yard to sweep up the leaves that the wind had blown in. As she was sweeping, she saw a cocoon on the ground the size of a bean's eye. She picked up the strange creature and carried it into the house.
He put it on the windowsill, hoping the slowly waking sun would warm it up and reveal what he was hiding inside. After tidying up the house, she went out to the potato field to help her father.
They arrived home at dusk, and then turned dead, seeing everything bathed in light. They thought their hut was on fire. But they soon realised there was no fire. The cocoon left on the windowsill shone with a dazzling brilliance.
Curious, the little girl took the tiny cocoon in her hand, and it opened and a beautiful butterfly popped out. It fluttered up and down the room, lighting up every corner of the dark little room.
Treasure had a dream that night. She saw her mother floating on butterfly wings, holding out to her a soft, softly flowing, colourful fabric of clouds. She said something, but what she said she did not understand, for she woke up. Then he remembered the butterfly.
He looked around and saw the little thing circling the door. "He must want to get out," he thought, and opened the door. The butterfly circled above his head, beckoning him to follow. He followed.
In the wide open field, the butterfly soared high, touched the blue sky, and as it descended, it released a thread of sky-blue silk from its wings. Then it flew over the green field, and from under its wings fell green silk threads. Then it touched the fiery red poppies, the sunny yellow primroses, the purple larkspur, and for a moment it flew over the snow-white daisies.
At the touch of the butterfly's wings, a thread of silk drifted from the petals of the flower, and fell at the girl's feet. Treasure followed the butterfly, running and leaping, and wound and wound and wound the more and more beautiful and colourful thread. She felt as if her dream had come true, the rainbow-coloured gift must have been sent by her mother. The butterfly accompanied Treasure home.
Inside the house, he sat down on the loom and danced, fluttering his wings, until he was lured there. The maiden sat down by the gross woodwork, wiped the dust from it, and her hands seemed to move involuntarily in the right direction.
Under his fingers, the old structure came to life. The silk threads were knotted together before Treasure's widened eyes, forming a pattern, and a wonderful, fairy-tale garden began to unfold on the shimmering, light foam fabric. In the silence, she could almost hear the birds trilling in the trees of the garden, and smell the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of the flowers.
She had made a good piece of fabric, but the yarn just didn't seem to want to run out, the more she used the bigger the skein got. Although the butterfly had flown away, the girls in Kincső's family still weave her miraculous yarn and pass on this beautiful tale to their offspring.
