4 MY GARDEN 



and there is no place for butterflies in a properly 

 kept border. Off with them ! Down with them ! 

 Or, if you cannot trust your accuracy, then away 

 with them next door. See that they go and do not 

 return. You will call these cruel words, and perhaps 

 tell me that they only come for nectar. You are in 

 error. Of course, they want all they can get, like 

 everybody else ; and there would be no difficulty 

 with me about nectar ; but mark this : it is not what 

 a butterfly takes, but what she leaves, that makes me 

 adamant against them. The females of the diurnal 

 lepidoptera lay eggs in a prodigal and generous spirit, 

 and no silly mother of spoilt children has more ex- 

 pensive tastes in the matter of her nursery than they. 

 Nothing at five shillings a dozen will do for them. 

 No ; they choose a specimen plant for every accouche- 

 ment ; and with marvellous instinct they select the 

 period immediately before flowering, so that your 

 buds and their eggs shall burst into fulness of life 

 together. Then weak humanity shows temper about 

 Nature's plans, and many a jolly young caterpillar 

 comes to a squashy end. How much better that it 

 should have had no beginning. 



I remember a romneya Coulteri just budding deli- 

 ciously for bloom. Three score lovely glaucous 

 buttons hung on the points of the grey-green foliage ; 

 and presently they opened, and great crimped petals, 

 glittering like snow, unfolded about each heart of 

 gold. That corner of the garden was scented as with 

 primroses. The plant stood eight feet high ; the sun 

 himself left it reluctantly. Peace and joy and com- 



