134 
THE BUTTERFLY. 
When the butterfly does not want her trunk, 
she rolls it up into a very small compass, like the 
main-spring of a watch. 
But in an instant she 
can unroll it, and dart 
it into the deepest re¬ 
cesses of a flower, and 
regale herself upon its 
sweetest juices. 
Nothing can he more 
exquisite than the work¬ 
manship of the butterfly’s trunk, or more 
suited to the life she has to lead. You may 
watch her plunge it again and again into the 
same flower, as if determined to search it to 
the very bottom; then flutter away to another, 
and hover over it as though to enjoy its 
fragrance. 
The eyes of the butterfly are large, and occupy 
a great part of the head. If you were to examine 
one of them under a glass, you would see 
numberless lines, crossing each other and forming 
myriads of little squares. Each of these little 
squares is a lens, which collects the rays of light 
into a point, and the lines are only made by the 
lenses fitting into each other. One lens possesses 
all the properties of a perfect eye; and as the 
number of them is very great, indeed almost 
