IN OLD PONKAPOAG 39 



in the meadow and bows before the wind as do 

 fields of grain sails Argynnis cybele, the great 

 spangled f ritillary, the fulvous glory of his broad 

 wings spangled beneath with silver, as if he carried 

 his coin of a fairy realm with him wherever he 

 goes. Over the very pine tops soars the monarch, 

 his rich dark red and black borne on wings that 

 are the strongest in butterfly flight. These three, 

 most conspicuous sprites in the meadow tangle, 

 give rich coloring and the poetry of motion as they 

 bear down upon the milkweed blooms, to leave 

 them no more save for short flights taken merely 

 to secure a better strategic position on the umbels, 

 till they are cloyed with the rich nectar, and 

 smeared with the sticky exudation which the plant 

 puts out on the blooms for purposes of its own. I 

 fancy the butterflies are vexed and indignant at 

 this stickiness which smears their legs and makes 

 yellow pollen masses cling to them when, satiated 

 and lazy, they next take flight. Yet the whole is 

 cleverly arranged. On the smeared legs as they 

 sail away cling pollen masses which the insect is 

 not likely to get rid of till it lights on another 

 head of bloom, very likely one of some distant 



