And now you shall have a story that isn't in verse, though there's poetry in it. "Turn about is fair play," and this will interest you in the butterflies.
PRETTY DUSTY WINGS.
Dear Jack: Please let me tell you this true story:
Dusty Wings is the name of a charming little pet of mine; and he is so curious a thing to have for a pet, that if it were not for his name, I don't believe you could ever guess what he is.
One day in the early part of November, as I sat by the window, I noticed lying on the piazza a beautiful butterfly, with his gorgeous wings outspread. He was apparently stunned by the cold, as he did not attempt to fly away when I went to pick him up. I brought him into the warm room, when he soon became very lively.
His body is dark brown, covered with fine hairs, which look like feathers when put under a magnifying glass. The wings show all the colors of the rainbow, arranged in the most artistic manner. The wings themselves are transparent, like those of a fly, and the color is given to them by fine scales, which come off very easily. The antennæ which grow from each side of the head are black and white.
Although you all have probably seen many butterflies as beautiful as my pet, I don't believe you ever watched one eat, and that is a very interesting process. Dusty Wings alights on my finger and clings to it as if he really loved me. I then put a drop of sugar in front of him. Immediately a long trunk (it is hollow, like an elephant's) unwinds and feels about until it finds the liquid, which gradually disappears; and then Mr. Dusty Wings slowly coils his trunk around and stows it away in a vertical opening in the center of his head. The trunk is so delicate that when it is coiled up, it looks like a fine watch-spring. If he has not had enough, he lets me know by waving this trunk in the air. The first time I fed him, he seemed shy and only ate very little; now he is not at all afraid.
I made him a house with plenty of air-holes, and there he stays most of the time on a warm corner of the mantel. I do not like to let him out very often to fly about, as I am afraid he might be stepped on. If I wear a flower he will crawl up my dress until he comes to it, and there he will stay, showing that he has not forgotten his old life.
Yours sincerely,
Ada C. Ashfield.
TREES THAT RAIN.
Memphis, Tenn., January 10, 1886.
Dear Jack: I thought some of your readers might be able to answer my question.
There had been no rain here for about three weeks; it was in the fall, and our school went to see a tree that had been raining for two or three days; this tree was a sycamore. I saw two more trees that rained. One was a box-elder, and the other an elm. The elm was in the woods. The drops tasted like water, and dried up as quickly.
Can any one explain this to me?
Your constant reader,
Julia S.
All look out, my friends, for raining trees, and report the results of your observations. I've seen no such instance in my meadow as the one Julia describes. But you all may go searching the groves and the books, and see what you can discover.
SHOOTING STARS.
New York, March 1, 1886.
Dear Jack: I frequently have read of shooting stars, but never of anything like this that I saw. About four summers ago, I was staying at a village on Long Island. One evening as I was about to go into the house, I glanced up at the heavens. Myriads of stars were shining brightly, but no moon. As I was looking directly overhead, there was a sudden, intense light, and a star burst into fragments. The pieces slid a short distance and then disappeared, as all shooting stars do. The utter noiselessness of the whole occurrence made it even more impressive and startling. Will you please ask your readers whether they ever have seen such a thing or read of anything like it?
Yours respectfully,
Susan A.
COASTING IN AUGUST.
Gardiner, Maine.
Dear Jack: I meant to have written to you before, telling how we boys coast in August, as I was reminded of it by reading the story about coasting down the grass-covered hills, in St. Nicholas for August, 1885.
Along the Kennebec river are many huge ice-houses. The ice is sent away in big ships in summer. It is raised high in the air and swung on a sloping plank which reaches to the ship's deck. Block after block is dispatched in this way very quickly. We boys used to get pieces of old carpeting and put on the ice. Then each boy would seat himself on a carpet-covered block of ice, and, in something less than a wink, we would find ourselves on the ship. We did this, the boys and I, till our mothers found it out. Then we stopped.
Your constant reader,
John W.