A FEW FRIENDS OF OUR SUMMER GLADNESS. 



" See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 

 Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May." 



LET us fill up our slight sketch of " Butterflies in general" by 

 a few outlines of the chief among their tribes, which are native 

 to our island. 



In our winter's pursuit of "Life in Death," we have ad- 

 verted already to the hardy few (survivors of the fugacious 

 many), which are accustomed to resort in autumn to some snug 

 recess, fold their wings, wrap round them their cloaks of 

 torpor, and thus, " taking no note of time," to await the 



