of the places of the Pacific 

 coast. To it each autumn comes 

 a pilgrimage, the members of 

 which number tens of thou- 

 sands of pilgrims, drawn hither 

 to seek shelter from the cold 

 and the frost of winter, which 

 to them would mean death. 

 They are not men, they are not 

 beasts, nor are they birds, these 

 travellers of long distances. 

 They are butterflies. 



It is one of the most interest- 

 ing things to be seen the world 

 over, this vast annual gathering 

 of these fragile creatures. In- 

 deed, it is almost an incredible 

 thing, unless one has with one's 

 own eyes beheld it. It is not 

 only this vicinity to which they 

 come, but one especial group of 



