A Butterfly and a Boy
"Out in the open country fields,
With the green grass blowing merrily,
The daisies nod and the dewdrop shine,
And the sunbeams dance right cheerily.
"A lassie and laddie come tripping along,
Like the fair day smiling brightly;
They pluck the flowers and they hum a song
As they shake off the dewdrops lightly."
--_Mary Aimee Goodman._
"Beatrice, do you see that butterfly on the verbena bed?" asked Doctor
Raymond one bright morning in July, as he and his daughter sat at work
in the study.
Beatrice glanced through the open window to the bed of verbenas, over
which hovered a large butterfly.
"It is beautiful!" she exclaimed looking with delight at the insect's
broad expanse of wing. "Wouldn't you call that an orange-red, father?
And see the white spots on the secondaries. What kind is it?"
"The Anosia Plexippus," answered her father. "You know it better perhaps
as The Monarch, or Milkweed Butterfly. It is a magnificent specimen. I
must have it for my collection. Where is my net, child?"
"Let me capture it for you, father," cried Beatrice, catching up her net
hastily. "I'll have it in a jiffy."
"Be careful not to bruise it, Beatrice," cautioned the scientist as she
vaulted lightly through the window.
The insect still hovered over the verbena blossoms, but as the girl drew
near it rose and sailed away. Doctor Raymond gave an amused laugh at her
discomfiture.
"Never you mind," cried Bee. "I'll get it yet. See if I don't;" and away
she sped in hot pursuit.
"It has extraordinary powers of flight; so, if it lands you anywhere
near the postoffice, just see if there is any mail," called her father
teasingly.
Across the garden, through the grove, over the hedge and out into the
road the butterfly flew with Beatrice following after.
"I just believe that it heard father," ejaculated she, as the coveted
insect winged its way in the direction of town. "I don't care, I'll
follow it, anyway."
The naturalist and his daughter in pursuit of insects had become a
common sight to the people of Louisiana, and so the bareheaded, flushed
maiden in breathless pursuit of a beautiful butterfly caused only a few
persons to look after her curiously. Onward went the butterfly. Just as
the town was reached it began to rise in its flight, and Beatrice
realized that it was her last chance, for it would soon be lost over the
housetops. She made an upward leap, and by a fortunate sweep of the net
succeeded in capturing the prize.
"Bravo!" exclaimed a voice, and she looked around in some confusion to
discover a boy gazing at her with admiring eyes. "I think that's pretty
good for a girl."
[Illustration: "I THINK THAT'S PRETTY GOOD FOR A GIRL."]
"Oh! indeed!" cried Bee heatedly. "Could you have done any better
yourself, even though you are a boy?"
"I don't know," replied the lad coolly. "I never wanted a butterfly bad
enough to try it."
"I don't believe that you ever even chased one in your life," said the
girl, staring at him scornfully. "You look a namby-pamby sort."
The boy's face flushed. He was all of thirteen years old, but despite
the fact was garbed in black velvet knickerbockers, a ruffled white
blouse, long black stockings with low, ribbon-tied shoes, and had a
silken sash knotted about his waist. Worst of all, to the girl's mind,
he wore his hair in curls which fell far down upon his shoulders.
"If you were a boy I'd fight you for that," cried the urchin angrily,
clenching his fists.
"Pooh!" sniffed Bee, turning up her nose. "I would not be afraid of such
a baby if I were six times a boy. Where's your mother?"
"She's home, asleep. What's yours thinking about that she lets you go
wild like this? My mother said, when she saw you running through the
fields one day, that she wondered what kind of a woman she could be to
let you go like that. Where is she?"
"She is dead," answered the girl in a low voice. "I think your mother is
horrid."
"She isn't. She's lovely. Everybody says so. I am sorry that yours is
dead. You can't help being rude, of course, if you have no mother. Who
looks after you?"
"Why, father, of course," answered Bee. "And I am not rude."
"What makes you run after butterflies and things, then?" demanded he
sternly. "I saw you one day, and you had a worm--a great, ugly worm--in
your hand."
Beatrice gave way to a burst of laughter.
"A worm?" cried she mirthfully. "Oh, you poor little thing! You don't
know anything, do you? That was not a worm. It was a caterpillar."
"Well; what's the difference?"
"A true worm never turns into an insect," she informed him. "It goes
creeping around through life, a worm and nothing more; while a
caterpillar changes at last into a beautiful butterfly, or moth. This
was a caterpillar once," she ended, raising the net with her captured
prize for his inspection.
"You are a strange girl," observed the boy. "I never knew one before who
cared about such things. Where did you learn it?"
"I get it from my father," responded she with pride. "He is Doctor
William Raymond, a noted lepidopterist. He has been all over the world
just to study butterflies. What does your father do?"
"Haven't got any." The boy thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared
at her cheerfully.
"Haven't you? I am so sorry. It must be dreadful to be without a
father," spoke Bee with genuine commiseration.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess from what I've heard that they are pretty
much of a nuisance. You see they always want to handle the cash, and my
mother and I would rather keep that in our own hands."
"I don't care to talk with you any longer," remarked Bee, turning away
from him. "You say such awful things. My father isn't a nuisance,
whatever yours may have been."
"Say! I didn't mean your father. I don't know anything about him. He may
be all right. I never knew a father who was a lepi--what do you call
'em? They may be different. Does he let you have the money?"
"Of course not," answered Bee indignantly. "He gives me an allowance
that I can spend as I please."
"That's all right. I think that is the proper thing," declared the lad,
anxious to propitiate her. "It wouldn't do for me, you know, because I'm
a man."
"A pretty poor sort of one," flashed the girl. She started to go back
into the road, intending to go on to the postoffice, when the boy called
imploringly:
"Don't go yet. I like you even if you do catch butterflies and worms.
Come over and see me; won't you?
"I don't visit boys," loftily. "Besides, I don't know where you live."
"We live in the big white house just beyond you," he told her in an
injured tone. "You people are so inhospitable. I thought Missouri folks
were nice to strangers. My mother feels bad about it. We have been here
a whole month, and you haven't even noticed that we lived next to you."
"We have not been home very long ourselves," explained Bee, touched by
the allusion to Missouri. "You see, my father has been away from me for
a long, long time, and we have been so busy getting acquainted with
each other that we have not paid much attention to other people. Perhaps
we will come over to see you. I'll ask him. I must go on now; so,
good-bye."
"I'll just go along with you," said the boy, swinging into step by her
side. "You see my pony lost a shoe, and I had to wait for him to be
shod, so I walked out here a ways when I saw you coming. I'll just take
you back in my cart. It is a long, hot walk."
"Will you?" asked Bee gratefully. It was a long distance, and after the
chase the butterfly had given her she was glad of the offer. "It is very
kind of you."
"Oh, that's all right," he said in an offhand manner. "I like to be
obliging to my friends; and we are going to be friends, you know."
"Are we?" asked Bee, laughing outright. "Why, how do you know that you
will care to be after you know me?"
"We've got to be," he replied. "We live next to each other, and it would
be so convenient. I made up my mind that we'd be friends when I first
saw you."
"But you said that I was rude," reminded Bee. "I shouldn't think that
you would want to be friends with a rude girl."
"You said a few things, too," he retorted, laughing. "Are you going in
here?" as Bee stopped before the postoffice. "Then I'll bring the cart
here. Be sure you wait."
He scampered away, and Bee entered the office. There was a letter for
her father, and the girl congratulated herself that the offer of the
ride would enable her to get it to him quickly. She was anxious, too, to
show him that she had succeeded with the butterfly. She had not long to
wait until her new-found acquaintance appeared with his pony and cart.
"This is not really my pony," the boy told her as he assisted her into
the cart. "The cart is mine, but my mother just hired the pony until she
could find one to suit. Though this one is pretty nice."
"Indeed it is," remarked Beatrice approvingly, as the little pony
started off at a brisk pace. "Why don't you get this one?"
"They won't sell," said the boy. "I can have it until the fellow to whom
it belongs comes home. He's away now."
"I see," said she. And thus chatting she soon reached home. "I thank
you very, very much," she said as she jumped out. "I do hope that we
shall be friends."
"And you didn't ask my name," reproached the urchin. "No; I shan't tell
you now. If you want to know, just come over. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," she called after him. "I certainly shall come over to find
out. I want to know."
"So your chase led you to the office after all," laughed her father as
she ran into the study, taking the net and the letter from her at the
same time. "I had no idea that you would catch it. You have done well,
though I am sorry that you had such a long, hot, dusty walk."
"I did not walk back, father. We have a new neighbor in the white house,
and the boy brought me home in his pony cart." Bee sank into a chair and
began to fan herself, watching him as he carefully removed the butterfly
from the bag, and placed it in the poison jar. "Isn't it a beauty?"
"Yes;" replied Doctor Raymond, beginning the perusal of his letter. He
looked up suddenly. "Beatrice, I shall be obliged to leave you for a few
days. They wish to see me at the university. Would you rather go to
your Aunt Annie's than to stay here?"
"I would rather stay here, father," she answered promptly. "There is so
much to do."
"Just as you wish, my child. I'll ask Mrs. Jenkins to come over to be
with you nights. Then with the servants here I shall not be uneasy.
Don't do any cataloguing while I am away. A few days rest will do you
good. Now I must throw a few things into my grip if I expect to catch
the afternoon train. It is fortunate that you went for the mail."
"Let me pack your things for you, father," pleaded Bee. "I know exactly
what you will need. Aunt Annie says that I do nicely. I always did it
for her, and for Uncle Henry, too, sometimes."
"Very well, Beatrice. I have done those things so long for myself that
it will seem strange to have it done for me; but it will be none the
less pleasant for all that." And there was a very kindly light in the
look which he gave his daughter as she left the room.