This is what we had to say about attributes and properties. As we have here and there mentioned inadequate identity, metaphysical distinction, distinction of reason, etc., we will take care to have the meaning of these words accurately explained in our next article, in which we hope to end this our cursory survey of the principles of real being. To Be Continued. The Butterfly. From The French Of Marie Jenna. Why silently draw near And menace my joyous flight? What is there in my gay career That can offend your sight? I am only a vivid beam, Flitting now here, now there, A wingéd gem, a fairy dream, A flower that the breeze may bear. The brother of the rose, In her breast I shun the storm; On her soft bosom I repose, And drink her perfume warm. My life is a transient thing, Why mar its glad estate? Answer me, O creation’s king! Art envious of my fate? Nay, hear me while I pray: Elsewhere thy footsteps bend; Let me live at least one happy day, Thou that shalt never end! The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. From the Revue Du Monde Catholique. XX. That day was February 25, 1848. If you remember, there had never been seen, at that season, such mild weather and such brilliant sunshine. But that the trees were without leaves, it seemed like May; and in the orchards exposed to the south, the almond‐trees were even covered with big buds ready to flower. This beautiful, early spring rejoiced all on the earth, both men and beasts; the peasants were heard singing in the fields, the horses neighing at the plough, the hens clucking, the sparrows chirping, the lambs bleating; and down to the babbling brooks, that flowed and leaped over the stones with more than ordinary rapidity, each creature, in its own way, appeared happy and glad. The _curé_ walked along slowly, a little fatigued by the heat, to which he was not yet accustomed. He closed his Breviary, and thought of the dear family he was about to rejoice with his good news, and doubtless, also, of the exile, who only waited for one word to return to his beloved home. When he reached the right of the barns at Muiceron, he paused a moment behind the cottage to take breath and wipe his forehead. From that spot he could see into the courtyard without being seen; and what he saw, although very simple, moved him to the bottom of his soul. Jeanne Ragaud was drawing water from the well; but, instead of carrying off the buckets already filled, she deposited them on the ground, and, resting her elbows on the curbstone of the well, covered her face with her hands in the attitude of a person completely overcome.