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search of treasures. Thus many a luckless Vanessa or Grapta, beguiled by the warm, 

 seductive sun from her winter quarters, to have a last serial promenade before her long 

 cold nap, has found her way into our collections. The morning of Thanksgiving Day 

 here (9th Nov.) seemed to outdo all its fellows in its efforts to charm grumbling man- 

 kind, and seemed to insist on everyone being thankful and happy. To the lover of 

 flowers the woods provided several autumn blossoms of such flowers as Viola hlanda and 

 V. Canadensis^ late blooms of Solidagos, Achillcea millefolium, and stunted Asters whose 

 heads had been broken or eaten off by cattle, but who were yet determined to have their 

 look at the world. Among the damp trees the gauzy-winged male moth of the canker 

 worm could frequently be seen hurriedly flying from tree to tree in search of his wingless 

 wife. On the walls of a house several specimens of the curious little hammer-headed 

 Fly, Sphyracephala brevicornis, were taken. A fine specimen of Vaoiessa milberti, which 

 came to peer at me by settling within a couple of feet of my head, reminded me of the 

 following, which formerly appeared in the " Dublin Penny Journal," and which, as such 

 literature is not at all common, I thought might be entertaining to some of the readers 

 of the Entomologist : 



"At the last meeting of the Entomological Society, Feb. 5th, 1844, a beautiful speci- 

 men of Pontia rapce, evidently just disclosed from the chrysalis, was exhibited by F. 

 Bond, Esq., which he had captured during the preceding month." 



" Child of the Summer, what doest thou here, 

 In the sorrow and gloom of the weeping year ? 

 When the roses have withered that bloomed on thy birth, 

 And the sunbeam that nursed thee has passed from the earth ; 

 The flowers that fed thee are frozen and gone — 

 Thy kindred are perished, and thou art alone — 

 No one to welcome — no one to cheer — 

 Child of the Siammer, what doest thou here ? 

 Yet 'tis sweet thy gossamer wing to view, 

 Revelling wild in the troubled blue — 

 Heeding nor rain, nor snow, nor storm — 

 Buffeting all with thy tiny form. 

 Even thus the hope of our summer days, 

 In the heart's lone winter gaily plays— 

 Thou art the type of that hope so dear — 

 Child of the Summer ! thou 'rt welcome here ! 



Welcome 'mid sorrow, and gloom, and showers, 

 Emblem of gladness that once was ours — 

 Emblem of gladness that yet will come, 

 When the sun-bright ether will be thy home ; 

 And myriads of others as bright as thou. 

 Will revel around us— all absent now : 

 Emblem of hope to the mourner dear, 

 Child of Summer ! thou 'rt welcome here ! " 



HYBERNATING BUTTERFLIES. 



By a. R. Grote, New Brighton, N. Y. 



I am sure your readers were pleased at your printing the pretty lines on a winter 

 butterfly, which Mr. Fletcher took the trouble to send. I remember very many years 

 ago, in January, finding a hibernating Vanessa Antiopa in the garret of our Staten Island 

 farm house. It hung from a rafter and seemed almost dead. I placed it on a brick flue, 

 which was hardly warm, but it did not revive at the time. Some few days after, the 



