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certain butterflies, those pendant, gold-studded earrings of 

 Nature, hung by her in moments of pride from trees and 

 pretty blooming plants. Buds to open, to expand, to take 

 their flight. 



Somtimes, now, I dream of fields Elysian, where, on beds 

 of Asphodel, hang pendulous immortal butterflies., beneath 

 an eternal sky. And, coming kindly to meet me, I see 

 Harris and Doubleday, Boisduval and Say ; while, with his 

 nervous manner all gone, I find again Francis Walker, his 

 good work all remembered. And he forgives all I have said, 

 as I ask his pardon, because it really was (and I have been 

 there myself) very dark in the entresol of the British Museum 

 where he had to work. But here it is Light at last and 

 an everlasting Sun is shining. 



