which measured nearly four inches across the extended wings. The color
and size suggest a moth rather than a butterfly, do they not? Whatever
it was, it was sufficiently rare to attract a great deal of notice, but
not of the scientific sort. An unknown object was sure to be regarded
with suspicion; and this butterfly fluttered one July over a certain
farm, secure from ill because of the awe with which it was regarded. It
was constantly watched, and cautiously pursued. Its most innocent
actions became weighty, and were subject to much misconstruction. Some
one discovered by gruesome experience that the glance of its minute eye
could convey a shudder. Its friendliness was suspected. Well, by an
unfortunate coincidence, at this very time the churning of butter on
this farm was not attended with success. This fact impressed my friends
more than it did me, for I reflected grimly that their butter very
generally was not a brilliant issue. This had resulted in my eating
honey very extensively during my visits to them. However, I repressed
any unkind thoughts on the subject, and assisted with much pleasure in
the discussion regarding the doings of the butterfly. It is, moreover,
probable that what they complained of was not bad butter, but cream that
would not be butter at all. This state of things had begun with the
advent of the butterfly and continued in spite of everything done to
counteract the evil influence too evidently at work. The community was
aroused—_all but one person_. A certain woman who lived alone and
refused to know her neighbors evinced no interest in our investigations.
She knew of them, and sneered weird Gaelic sneers, which were translated
to me, and at which I shook my head according to custom. This woman did
not go to church, which was an extreme of wickedness all but unknown
there. I do not know if she were insane or only original, but she was
certainly at war with the sentiments of the community.
Well, for three weeks she scoffed, the butterfly fluttered, the butter
“did not come,” and we ventilated the subject, which naturally increased
in interest and bulk. At the end of those three weeks one man set his
teeth firmly, armed himself with a wet towel, and sallied out to meet
the mysterious insect single-handed. This man was directly interested in
the sale of the butter. He met the foe only a few yards from the house,
and got the better of it at once by one fell blow. All gathered round to
see it. I did not see it, and I never saw it living either. From
description it was a beautiful specimen. When I heard of its death I was
angry. I had not intended serious consequences to any of the actors in
this idyl, and was indignant for an hour. At the end of that time I was
startled to hear that the poor lonely woman had been found dead. Her
body was discovered on the ground near her own door. It was seen by
passers-by not twenty minutes after the butterfly’s destruction, and her
life had not been extinct much more than a quarter of an hour. Comment
is needless, as was felt at the time, little being said, but much
conveyed by nods and shaking of heads. As if to complete the chain of
evidence, next day the butter came!
The particular characteristic of these tales appears to me to be their
picturesqueness. They are more dramatic than “shop” ghost stories
usually are, and the situations and accessories are romantic. I have
some other stories of the superstitious kind gathered among a totally
different “folk,” and with two exceptions they have not seemed to me
worth remembering. The two I except are interesting only by reason of
the difficulty of arriving at any rational theory in explanation of
them. They have no prettiness nor romance about them; they are simply
_creepy_. But this is a digression, as I am not going to tell them now.
I will just remark before returning to my Glenelg friends, that in one
of these two _difficult_ tales of mine I was myself an active
participator in the plot, and conversed at length with the ghost,—quite
calmly, too, for I thought all the time that he was in the flesh. It is
something to mourn over, that such an opportunity should present itself
and be neglected,—an opportunity to “catch a ghost, and tame it, and
teach it to do tricks,” and realize fabulous proceeds!
Well, to return. The lore of my Scotch friends was like themselves. I
admired them very much. Sometimes certain persons and circumstances
surround us when we are uplifted in soul, and we see them bathed in
light, glorified, as it were, by roseate hues of our own conjuring.
Knowing this, I was often afraid that I created the transforming light
in which they appeared to me to move. It used, therefore, to give me
great happiness when something would happen that proved the charm to be
objective; as, for instance, when one of these unlettered men
unconsciously reëchoed a sentiment from the mysterious thinker whom we
call Thomas à Kempis, and almost in the same words enunciated the truth
that of the mysteries of the supernatural “no one can with safety speak
who would not rather be silent.” And they were silent, and profoundly
reverent. These pretty goblin tales lack the element of “research,” and
are not profane; they are only fantasies.
I have yet another to tell, and the telling of it gives me a sense of
guilt, for it was given to me by stealth, having assumed such
proportions that the recounting it was denounced publicly in church, the
denunciation being accompanied by threat of excommunication. It is much
the same as the Butterfly tale, and bears a striking resemblance to
certain German wehr-wolf legends. It is not about a wolf, however, the
chief actor being—