216 THE BROOK BOOK 



that it was a Mourning Cloak. What else could 

 it be, out so early? 



My first knowledge of this hibernating butter- 

 fly came years ago when my father and uncle 

 went in winter to cut our supply of stove wood 

 in the "timber" bordering our little stream. One 

 day while eating lunch around a snapping fire 

 they saw a strange sight. Lured from its hiding 

 place by the warmth of the first day of our regu- 

 lar February thaw, a Mourning Cloak had fluttered 

 forth. Daintily it alighted, on the top of a fresh 

 stump and seemed to find something there to its 

 taste. My father was always full of stories after 

 a day away from us and this of the winter butter- 

 fly was one of our favorites. We begged to go 

 next day and see this wonder, but the next day 

 was cloudy and threatening. Though Uncle Joseph 

 put some drops of sweetened water on the stump, 

 no butterfly came to sip them. 



In later years I had watched the development 

 of this butterfly from a spiny black caterpillar dotted 

 with coral red, feeding ravenously on leaves of 

 elm, through the short chrysalis stage to the coming 

 of the butterfly. I had grown quite familiar with 

 its coat of maroon velvet faced with straw-color, 

 and ornamented with splashes of shining blue. But 

 never before had I encountered one in March on 

 this brookside path. I watched. It stood perfectly 

 still on the tree trunk. Going nearer I could see 

 that the bark of the tree was black with sap which 

 fairly streamed from a row of holes in the trunk, 

 at a level with the top of my head. The holes 



