SOME BUTTERFLY FRIENDS 



fragrance of Mexican jasmine, and I 

 thought I saw slip from them the in- 

 finitesimal dust of the pollen of stepha- 

 notis lately blooming in the glades of 

 Panama. Three months before he 

 floated serenely beneath my cherry tree 

 he may well have soared through the 

 tropic glades where crumble the ruins 

 of the palaces of the Incas. 



His flight, seemingly as frail as that 

 of a red autumn leaf sliding down the 

 October zephyr to carpet the nearby 

 field with rustling fragrance, has 

 matched that of that rifle-ball of bird 

 life, the ruby-throated humming bird. 

 Together they sip the sweets of my 

 sweet rocket in the spring. Together 

 they wing their way south to the region 

 of perpetual summer when the winds of 

 late September promise frost. Some- 

 times in this annual flight the monarchs 



163. 



