166 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



beware of the gypsy, who toils not, neither does he spin. 

 Yet for all that we may send greeting to the gypsy, out- 

 side the pale of our lives though he be. For he loves the 

 open world, the night, and the sunrise, and his is an in- 

 domitable spirit that refuses to bend to conventions and 

 the money craze of the time. His is an unquenchable 

 thirst for freedom. 



But the gypsy of the black eye and gay-striped skirt 

 and tinsel-trimmed jacket is not the only mischief-making 

 tramp in the fields in September. The human gypsy is a 

 gay, light-footed soul, but not so fleet as the winged 

 gypsies, the moths and butterflies that are putting in their 

 tricks among the late vegetables in the gardens and the 

 autumn flowers. 



Swarms of little white butterflies flutter their wings 

 over the cabbage patch, the parsley beds, and the nastur- 

 tium borders. Armies of warm-hued, brown-winged 

 creatures have invaded the city streets, and the butterfly 

 lover is bewildered at the numbers and varieties to be 

 seen above the marshes and where goldenrod and asters 

 are in bloom. The mischief-making gypsy butterflies 

 are living swiftly in the brief period of life permitted 

 them. It is birth from a hidden chrysalis, courtship, mar- 

 riage, and the laying of eggs among plants where the 

 hatched grubs may find material to fatten upon and the 

 fine threads with which to spin cocoons from which to 

 begin a new cycle of existence. 



