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have a strange enmity to some flowers, while upon 
others they lavish a world of kindness. I once 
heard a French lady say ; £ II faut souffrir, pour 
etre belle;’ which means, we must suffer if we 
wish to look beautiful—but I much prefer to grow 
in my own way.” 
As Mary gazed upon the lovely tree, she saw upon 
it a curious little gossamer net-work of silk, and 
there seemed to be life beneath it. It was the pa¬ 
vilion of the Black-veined Hawthorn Butterfly, so 
called from the veins of black that streak the edges 
and nerves of its wings. 
“ If you will lift the corner gently,” said the 
flower, “ you will see the pretty creatures. Is it 
not the cunningest house that ever was made ? 
When they leave this silken home, they lay their 
eggs upon my twigs, and cover them with a firm 
shining substance, that often lasts for years ;—and 
