comparatively dry air, in the glowing skies, and in the succession of
serene days. Moreover there has been no off-hand, untimely destruction
of the nectariferous blossoms of millions of trees and shrubs. Frail as
some flowers are, others linger long if unmolested by profane winds,
offering a protracted feast of honey, pure and full-flavoured. The light
sprinklings of rain have served to freshen the air and moisten the soil
without diluting the syrupy richness of floral distillations. All the
generous output has been over-proof.

Gaudy insects, intoxicated and sensuous, have feasted and flirted
throughout the hours of daylight, and certain prim moths, sonorous of
flight, find subtly scented blossoms keeping open house for them the
livelong night.

Let others vex their souls and mutter the oddest sorts of imprecations
because the fruit-fly cradles its pampered young in the juiciest of their
oranges. Me it shall content to watch butterflies sip the nerve-shaking
nectar of the paper-barks, and in their rowdy flight cut delirious scrolls
against the unsullied sky.

Shall not I, too, glory in the superb season, and its scented
tranquillity? Even though but casual glances are bestowed on the dainty
settings of the pages on which Nature illustrates her brief but brilliant
histories, understanding little, if aught, of her deeper mysteries, but
thankful for the frankness and unaffectedness of their presentation--shall
not I find abundance of sumptuous colour and grace of form for my
enjoyment, and for my pondering texts without number?

What more fantastic scene than the love-making of the great green and
gold and black Cassandra--that gem among Queensland butterflies-when four