THE RETURN HOME 
S81 
lived in my room, where there are many flowers and 
two lumps of sugar. There was no wind there to 
toss it about, and the rain could not get in to wet 
its wings. It liked living there very much. It 
often sat on my head and on my hands. It was 
not a bit afraid of me.” 
“Then why did it die?” Joseph asked. 
“Because it was stupid,” Queenie answered. “It 
got into the mucilage-pot.” 
This, indeed, was a more humiliating death for 
the tame butterfly than either Joseph or I had an- 
ticipated. When we asked her if she intended to 
tame another one, she said: “No, anyway not 
until I have finished reading a beautiful story about 
some butterflies that in the winter fly off to the 
South to live.” 
“Do you mean that butterflies migrate like 
birds?” Joseph asked. 
Queenie nodded her head. “Some of them do,” 
she added; “not all. Jack Frost kills many butter- 
flies,” and she waved her hands around as though 
the air was full of them. 
“Which ones migrate?” Joseph asked, seeking 
information. 
“The milkweed butterflies,” Queenie answered 
promptly. “They are the only ones that fly down 
to North or South Carolina, or some warm State 
of the Gulf, to spend the winter. Hundreds and 
hundreds of them go together. I think their 
wings must be tired by the time they get there.” 
