My love for the butterflies took on the form of adoration. There
was not a delicate, gaudy, winged creature of day that did not
make so strong an appeal to my heart as to be almost painful. It
seemed to me that the most exquisite thoughts of God for our
pleasure were materialized in their beauty. My soul always craved
colour, and more brilliancy could be found on one butterfly wing
than on many flower faces. I liked to slip along the bloom-bordered
walks of that garden and stand spell-bound, watching a black velvet
butterfly, which trailed wings painted in white, red, and green, as
it clambered over a clump of sweet-williams, and indeed, the flowers
appeared plain compared with it! Butterflies have changed their
habits since then. They fly so high! They are all among the
treetops now. They used to flit around the cinnamon pinks, larkspur,
ragged-robins and tiger lilies, within easy reach of little fingers,
every day. I called them `flying flowers,' and it was a pretty
conceit, for they really were more delicate in texture and brighter
in colouring than the garden blooms.
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