After the caterpillar stage of humiliation and danger, comes the strange period of sleep or seeming death, when the cocoon or chrysalid appears. The name _pupa_ or babe is also used, from the likeness to an infant in swaddling bands. The caterpillar was always liable to curious fits of drowsiness or stupor; this stage of the pupa is a prolonged stupor, and it prepares for it by rolling off the garment of skin, and leaving it underfoot in the silken shroud or cell. Sometimes it sleeps in the earth, sometimes in a rock crevice, sometimes hangs like our _Troilus_ looped up by a thread to a tree. The case has knobs or horns to protect the sleeper when the wind blows it against anything. It is sensitive to light, and swings towards or from it, according to need. At last comes the resurrection. From a narrow slit emerges a crumpled, wrinkled thing. If the struggles are long, dare not aid even by a touch! The butterfly is of such delicate texture that outside help means mutilation. Let it alone. Soon are the wings smoothed--I saw one hang himself up, and lengthen and lengthen, until he was about twice as long as at first--then he spreads them in flight, a glorious and joyous creature of the sunshine! He likes companions, and quickly will he find himself greeted by a Jason or splendid Ajax, or encounter a flock of his own kind, with whom he may feast by roadside puddle or beds of opening flowers. Marvelous care is shown in the provision for the awakening from its long slumber. The threads are woven so loosely near the place of opening that they are easily broken, even in his first feebleness. The old garment, rolled in a heap at his feet, cannot impede or entangle him. He is now the _imago_--"image in full of his species,"--and, like the fairy, Ariel, he will follow summer as it flies, and swing "under the blossom that hangs on the bough"--an airy spirit of joy! THE DEAD BIRD. NELLY HART WOODWORTH. Hark to the beating at the lattice!--sure It is some winged creature asks for room Within my walls. Shall I deny its quest, Refuse a welcome to the homeless guest? Who could the rigor of such night endure? Nay, open wide the window. Come, oh, come, And share my shelter! All the air was stirred By the mysterious pulsing of the wings In useless haste, until their murmurings Grew faint and fainter; now they pulse-less lay. Again they found the light--my eyes were blurred With tears of pity. "Here upon my breast Thou shalt have rest. Rest thee, dear bird, I pray!" And as the bird's throat trembles when the song Throbbing for wings pours to the generous air, So my heart throbbed with pity and my hand Went quivering as I held the stranger there.