72 THE OPEN AIB. 



low, SO tender a song the willow- wren sang tbat it 

 could scarce be known as the voice of a bird, but was 

 like that of some yet more delicate creature with the 

 heart of a woman. 



A butterfly with folded wings clung to a stalk of 

 grass ; upon the under side of his wing thus exposed 

 there were buff spots, and dark dots and streaks drawn 

 on the finest ground of pearl-grey, through which 

 there came a tint of blue; there was a blue, too, 

 shut up between the wings, visible at the edges. 

 The spots, and dots, and streaks were not exactly 

 the same on each wing ; at first sight they appeared 

 similar, but, on comparing one with the other, differ- 

 ences could be traced. The pattern was not mechani- 

 cal ; it was hand-painted by Nature, and the painter's 

 eye and fingers varied in their work. 



How fond Nature is of spot -markings ! — the wings of 

 butterflies, the feathers of birds, the surface of eggs, 

 the leaves and petals of plants are constantly spotted ; 

 so, too, fish — as trout. From the wing of the butter- 

 fly I looked involuntarily at the foxglove I had just 

 gathered ; inside, the bells were thickly spotted — dots 

 and dustings that might have been transferred to a 

 butterfly's wing. The spotted meadow-orchis ; the 

 brown dots on the cowslips ; brown, black, greenish, 

 reddish dots and spots and dustings on the eggs of the 

 finches, the whitethroats, and so many others — some of 

 the spots seem as if they had been splashed on and had 

 run into short streaks, some mottled, some gathered 

 together at the end; all spots, dots, dustings of 

 minute specks, mottlings, and irregular markings. 

 The histories, the stories, the library of knowledge 



