WINTERING BUTTERFLIES. 105 







Let us linger for a while under this southern wall. The 

 sun, gleaming at intervals all the morning, has now come forth 

 in right good earnest, and it is not for us to turn our back upon 

 the sun. This February noon is more soft and gentle than 

 many a May morning, and here we might believe it veritable 

 spring. But why should we fancy it any thing but what it is, 

 a day when surly winter, like many other surly visitants, 

 seems to have grown tender at thoughts of bidding us farewell. 

 Besides, we may wait with patience for spring leaves and 

 spring flowers, for we are not without our verdure and our 

 blossoms too, all the dearer in that they are more rare. On 

 the face of this weather-beaten wall, our eye can regale itself 

 on pleasant patches of emerald velvet, tufts of winter moss, 

 bright enough to make the green of spring sicken and 

 turn yellow with envy. Above, rise the clustered flower-buds 

 of the elder, and yonder across the road, hang the drooping 

 blossoms of the hazel. What want we more in anticipation of 

 spring delights ? Not spring music while we are listening to 

 dear robin's solo, sweeter than an orchestra of warblers. Care 

 we for spring Butterflies? We may content us with their 

 promise, as it hangs in safe dependence on the silken threads 

 of this our cabbage chrysalis, and the remainder of its yet 

 quiescent crew. But look ! What is flitting past us, even 

 now? In very sooth, a "Devil's Butterfly' has come from 

 the ivy overhead, or a warmer place below, to reproach us for 

 indifference to Butterfly presence, or to upbraid yonder cabbage 



