THE BUTTERFLY. 



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where rippling water runs among shady trees, and Art has 

 let Nature alone. Well-kept gardens are a nuisance in 

 their estimation ; for nearly all the operations of the 

 gardener are directly contrary to the interests of the butter- 

 fly. He pulls up the weeds on which its caterpillar should 

 feed, or destroys the caterpillar itself; he introduces 

 strange and unknown plants of suspicious flavours, and, 

 above all, he cultivates double flowers, in which all the 

 parts where the sweet drop of nectar should lie are turned 

 into unprofitable petals. Every double flower is an 

 abomination to butterflies. On the other hand, dry plains 

 and fields afford them no sustenance, and wind dis- 

 composes them. But seek some retired valley, or hollow 

 among hills, in the month of October, when weed and 

 thorn-bush and waving creeper are in bloom, and the sun 

 is hot, and the air is moist, and you will preside at a 

 durbar. The lordly swallow-tail will sail past, the little 

 whites and yellows will flutter ceaselessly from flower to 

 flower, the huge orange-tipped white, hurrying by, will 

 yield to temptation, and pause for a moment on a little 

 blossom which looks insignificant, perhaps, but tastes most 

 exquisite to the connoisseur's palate, diadema and junonia 



will display their glories, dana'is and euplcea will float with 



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