MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST 



between eacli tliiinib and forefinger, and running with 

 all possible speed to reach the screen before my touch 

 could soil the down on their exquisite wings. I stumbled, 

 and fell, so suddenly, there was no time to release them. 

 The black one sailed away with a ragged wing, and the 

 yellow was crushed into a shapeless mass in my hand. 

 I was accustomed to falling off fences, from trees, and 

 into the creek, and because my mother was an invalid I 

 had learned to doctor my own bruises and uncomplain- 

 ingly go my way. My reputation was that of a very 

 brave little girl; but when I opened my hand and saw 

 that broken butterfly, and my down-painted fingers, I 

 was never more afraid in my life. I screamed aloud in 

 panic, and ran for my mother with all my might. Heart- 

 broken, I could not control my voice to explain as I 

 threw myself on her couch, and before I knew what they 

 were doing, I was surrounded by sisters and the cook 

 with hot water, bandages and camphor. 



My mother clasped me in her arms, and rocked me on 

 her breast. "There, there, my poor child," she said, 

 "I know it hurts dreadfully!" And to the cook she 

 commanded, "Pour on camphor quickly! She is half 

 killed, or she never would come to me like this." I 

 found my voice. "Camphor won't do any good," I 

 wailed. "It was the most beautiful butterfly, and I've 

 broken it all to pieces. It must have taken God hours 

 studying how to make it different from all the others, 



95 



