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Mother said so! Now there! Why didn't I remember that caterpillars turn into butterflies, before I promised to give away my porridge bowl! I should like to have my playground full of butterflies! I wish I had thought of that! Now those poor old caterpillars are gone and I promised to give away my bowl! Maybe the Pied Piper will not come back!" But he did. "I should like my bowl!" said he.
"But I was sure I had it," said Philip. "Just so," said Mr Inglis, smiling; "but it does not do to be too sure of anything. Now, Philip," he continued, "take the net again, and see if you cannot have a little better success; there's one of the little blue butterflies hovering over that dry bank there, where we picked the harebells last year.
But what could I know of the meaning of "normal" in the life of a butterfly I who boasted a miserable single pair of eyes and no greater number of legs, whose shoulders supported only shoulder blades, and whose youth was barren of caterpillarian memories! As I have said, migration was at an end, yet here I had stumbled upon a Bay of Butterflies.
The fleet of Admiral Sampson had disappeared; but its place had already been taken by a little fleet of fishing-smacks from Santiago, whose sun-illumined sails looked no larger, on the dark-blue expanse of the Caribbean, than the wings of white Cuban butterflies that had fallen into the sea.
"All right," said Budge, moving off, "but they DO, don't they?" At two o'clock I instructed Maggie to dress my nephews, and at three we started to make our call. To carry Toddie's bouquet, and hold a hand of each boy so as to keep them from darting into the hedges for grasshoppers, and the gutters for butterflies, was no easy work, but I managed to do it. As we approached Mrs.
They got her to her feet and pushed her out among the bowlders, through the storming spray, and across the floor of the ravine into the sunlight of a mossy place all set with trees. And she saw butterflies flitting there through green branches flecked with sunshine. The officer seated himself on a fallen tree and crossed his heavy feet on a carpet of wild flowers.
The father of Lyman Mertzheimer, who had been so loud in his denunciation of the tomfoolery baskets and dried weeds, suddenly developed an intense interest in a tray of butterflies and milkweed. In a few minutes it was time for dismissal. One of the older girls played a simple march on the little organ and the scholars marched from the room.
So cool and easy had his mind become that he was speculating on what kind of shelter the birds could find, and how the butterflies and moths saved their coloured wings from washing. Folded close they might hang under a leaf, he thought. Lovingly he looked into the dripping darkness of the coverts on each side, as one of their children. He was next musing on a strange sensation he experienced.
But their winged blossoms, with which a little while since they had "blued the earth," as Thoreau says, were now almost all gone; as if a countless flock of blue butterflies had taken flight and vanished. Only here and there one could see little groups of belated flowers, scraps of the coerulean colour, like patches of deep-blue sky seen through the rents in a drifting veil of clouds.
Butterflies there are also in abundance, and, if you be an entomologist, your heart will rejoice at the sight of such rare English insects as the Camberwell Beauty, the Northern Brown, and others.
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