WOODLAND PATHS 



forms of frail life stirring in the sun, 

 though just a night or two ago the ther- 

 mometer registered ten degrees of frost, 

 and the ground was frozen solid the next 

 morning. Here was my hunter's butter- 

 fly, a wee dab of pulpy cell that a touch 

 of my finger could crush, borne on 

 wings of gossamer frailness that might 

 be whipped to tatters by a wind-snapped 

 twig, yet sailing serenely about, defying 

 anything to harm him. 



The strange part of it is that he has 

 been somewhere hereabouts all winter 

 long. All about in the pastures are the 

 frail ghosts of last year's cudweed, on 

 which as a caterpillar he fed. But it is 

 six months at least since he cast off his 

 chrysalis skin and emerged in his present 

 form to face bitter winds and a constantly 

 lowering temperature, days of chilling 



rain, smothering snow, and ice that coated 

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