72 THE OPEN AIR. 



low, so tender a song the willow-wren sang that it 

 could scarce be known as the voice of a bird, but was 

 like that of some yet more delicate creature with the 

 heart of a woman. 



A butterfly with folded wings clung to a sialk of 

 grass ; upon the under side of his wing thus exposed 

 there were buff spots, and dark dots and streaks drawn 

 on the finest ground of pearl-grey, through which 

 there came a tint of blue; there was a blue, too, 

 shut up between the wings, visible at the edges. 

 The spots, and dots, and streaks were not exactly 

 the same on each wing ; at first sight they appeared 

 similar, but, on comparing one with the other, differ- 

 ences could be traced. The pattern was not mechani- 

 cal ; it was hand-painted by Nature, and the painter's 

 eye and fingers varied in their work. 



How fond Nature is of spot-markings! the wings of 

 butterflies, the feathers of birds, the surface of eggs, 

 the leaves and petals of plants are constantly spotted ; 

 so, too, fish as trout. From the wing of the butter- 

 fly I looked involuntarily at the foxglove I had just 

 gathered ; inside, the bells were thickly spotted dots 

 and dustings that might have been transferred to a 

 butterfly's wing. The spotted meadow-orchis ; the 

 brown dots on the cowslips ; brown, black, greenish, 

 reddish dots and spots and dustings on the eggs of the 

 finches, the whitethroats, and so many others some of 

 the spots seem as if they had been splashed on and had 

 run into short streaks, some mottled, some gathered 

 together at the end; all spots, dots, dustings of 

 minute specks, mottlings, and irregular markings. 

 The histories, the stories, the library of knowledge 



