I0 g THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



easy grace on the air, and perhaps a bold leaf-butterfly 

 will pass with the flight ot a strong-winged pigeon, the 

 blue sheen of its wings glancing in the sun, until it plunges 

 into some withered bush, and not an eye can distinguish 

 its motionless form from any of the dead leaves around it. 

 And when the afternoon is drawing on, then many a rich 

 hair-streak will appear, and, taking its station in the 

 middle of some large leaf, will open its wings just a little, 

 and give you a peep of the dazzling blue within. By 

 sunset all these will be sound asleep, and then the richly 

 pencilled brown butterflies of the twilight will come out 

 and dance their fairy dances about the roots of some dark 

 tree. 



In one particular butterflies seem to me to s'and apart 

 from all other forms of animal life. Other animals of all 

 kinds, with plants and trees, are the furnishing of this great 

 kosmos, its various vessels and manifold appliances. Every 

 one has its own use ; none can be dispensed with. Butter- 

 flies, on the other hand, are the pictures on the walls, the 

 little nic-nacs on the table, the bouquet in the vase. They 

 are not for use, only for looking at. By this one point of 

 entire uselessness butterflies are sharply separated even 

 from moths. Most moths in their caterpillar state are good 



