“What kind of a worm do you suppose it was?” “I do not know, but it must have been a large one, or the chrysalis would not be so heavy. We will keep it, and in the spring when the worm has turned into a butterfly and comes out of the case, perhaps we can learn what its name is.” “But how will it get out?” asked Letty, anxiously. “It is so hard and tough. I tried to pull off one of the leaves and it stuck on tight.” “Yes,” said her mother, “it is very tough and you could not tear it open with your fingers even if you tried very hard. But the butterfly throws out some kind of fluid which softens the silk—for it is a kind of silk, you know—and makes a hole large enough to crawl through. It does not have to be very big, as the butterfly’s wings are soft and wet. It has to let them dry and grow strong and stiff before it can fly.” The chrysalis was put in a safe place and Letty forgot all about it for many months, which was not strange when there were so many things for her to do all through the winter and early spring. But her mother did not forget, and one day in June she called Letty in from her play telling her that she had something to show her. “Do you remember the elm chrysalis?” she asked, and she put it in Letty’s hand. “Why how light it is!” she cried. “The butterfly has come out, oh! where is it?” Her mother led the way to the plant stand. “See, on that begonia,” she said. “Oh, oh!” cried Letty, “what a beautiful butterfly!” It was very large, nearly five inches across when its wings were spread. It was dull yellow, with darker shadings, a little red in waving lines, and a gray stripe along the front edge of its outer wings. It was quite furry, especially the large yellow body. Each of the four wings had a transparent eye spot, and the under wings had a good deal of black about these little round windows, as Letty called them. “And, mamma, see! It has beautiful little dark-blue eyes.” “Yes, it has, but I did not notice them before.” “Well, what kind of a butterfly is it?” “It is not a butterfly at all.” “Not a butterfly?” said Letty, surprised. “No; it is a moth. Have you noticed its antennae—the horns on the front of its head?” “They look like feathers,” said Letty; “no, like ferns.” “So they do,” said her mother. “Well, that is how we know it is not a butterfly, for they have thread-like antennae, with a little knob on the end. Moths fly by night and that is probably why this one stays so still now.” “I wish I knew its name,” said Letty. “If you will take my card and run over to the public library and ask the librarian to give you a book that tells about moths and butterflies, we will find out.” Letty came back in a little while with the book and her mother began to look in it. “Oh!” she said pretty soon, “it has such a long name that I don’t believe you can remember it. It is Telea polyphemus.” “I’ll call it Polly for short,” said Letty.