172 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



yond the last house (the last village house, 

 I mean), into the company of the river, the 

 long green meadow and the larch swamp, — 

 a goodly fellowship. A swamp sparrow 

 trilled me a welcome at the very entrance to 

 the valley, as he had done before, and musi- 

 cal goldluiches accompanied me for the whole 

 round, tiU I thought the day should be 

 named in their honor, Goldfinch Sunday. 



Pretty Atlantis butterflies were always in 

 sight, as they had been even in the coolest 

 weather, with now and then an Atalanta and, 

 more rarely, a Cybele. I had looked for 

 Aphrodite, also, being desirous to see these 

 three fritillaries (Cybele, Aphrodite, and At- 

 lantis) together, till the entomologist told 

 me that we were out of its latitude. Com- 

 moner even than Atlantis, perhaps, was the 

 dusky wood-nymph, Alope (strange notions 

 the old Greeks must have had of the vola- 

 tihty of their goddesses and heroines, to 

 name so many of them after butterflies !), 

 she of the big yellow blotch on each fore 

 wing; a wavering, timid creature, always 

 seeking to hide herself, and never holding a 

 steady course for so much as an inch — as if 



