THE BUTTERFLY. tit 



not look at them ? One docs sometimes meet a man who 

 will come into a drawing-room where every shade of colour, 

 every ornament, the very placing of each book, tells of 

 tasteful thought, and move about in it like a bullock, see- 

 ing no more than he would see in a barn ; and many move 

 about in the world in the same way. What an infinity of 

 grace and beauty is lost on them ! I have seen a fosse of 

 ladies almost disappear into raptures over a "quite too 

 awfully delicious" specimen of a Christmas card, and I was 

 constrained to add some corroborative ejaculations with a 

 tepid effort at enthusiasm ; but who would put the prettiest 

 conception in which art ever dressed a Christmas greeting 

 beside that exquisite little butterfly which at this season 

 flits over the barren plains of the Deccan, whose wings of 

 velvet black and intense blue are bordered with peacock 

 eyes of the richest red ? And every day thousands of them 

 are born and perish ; for, like the bouquet on your table, 

 these little decorations are constantly being renewed, so 

 that they may ever be fresh and bright, and the old ones, 

 almost before they have time to fade, are cast away. Few 

 of them live much over a week. 



Looking at butterflies as ornaments, there is a good deal 

 to note in the placing of them, for they are not like each 



