THE FINE WOOD. 79 



aside from the straight course before they fell. Down 

 the dusty road, inches deep in sand, comes a sulphur 

 butterfly, rushing as quick as if hastening to a butter- 

 fly-fair. If only rare, how valued he would be ! His 

 colour is so evident and visible ; he fills the road, 

 being brighter than all, and for the moment is more 

 than the trees and flowers. 



Coming so suddenly over the hedge into the road 

 close to me, he startled me as if I had been awakened 

 from a dream — I had been thinking it was August, 

 and woke to find it February — for the sulphur butterfly 

 is the February pleasure. Between the dark storms 

 and wintry rains there is a warm sunny interval of 

 a week in February. Away one goes for a walk, and 

 presently there appears a bright yellow spot among 

 the furze, dancing along like a flower let loose. It is 

 a sulphur butterfly, who thus comes before the earliest 

 chiffchaff— before the watch begins for the first 

 swallow. I call it the February pleasure, as each 

 month has its delight. So associated as this butterfly 

 is with early spring, to see it again after months 

 of leaf and flower — after June and July — with the 

 wheat in shock and the scent of harvest in the land, 

 is startling. The summer, then, is a dream ! It is 

 still winter; but no, here are the trees in leaf, the 

 nuts reddening, the hum of bees, and dry summer 

 dust on the high wiry grass. The sulphur butterfly 

 comes twice ; there is a second brood ; but there are 

 some facts that are always new and surprising, 

 however well known. I may say again, if only rare, 

 how this butterfly would be prized ! Along the hedge- 

 row there are several spiders' webs. In the centre 



