ft, for the scales are like little sacs, and many of
them contain grains of color called pigment--red, yellow, or brown. You
have all seen the rainbow of colors on a soap-bubble? Well, the
brilliant colors of the wing are made in just the same way as the colors
on a bubble: by the light striking the little ridges on the overlapping
scales."

"It is not only we who are fearfully and wonderfully made," said Mrs.
Reece, "but even the tiniest creatures God has created, and all with a
purpose, all with a place."

The guide nodded his head. "The more you study, the more you see how
every least thing is part of a great mysterious whole. If you look at a
butterfly's wing from which the scales have been rubbed you will see
plan and purpose in the placing of even those scales; for the little
pits into which the stems of the scale fit are turned all one way,
toward the base of the wing."

"They are so beautiful!" exclaimed Betty. "Are they always pretty?"

"That depends," replied the old man, "whether in their caterpillar youth
you think them pretty. They have a bad name, then, for being homely, and
do a good deal of damage."

"Oh, I hate caterpillars!" cried Hope.

"Fuzzy caterpillars hump so and crawl," said Betty.

"You mean woolly bears?"

"Woolly bears!" exclaimed the children.

"Yes; not Teddy bears. They have to play somehow, so they wiggle for
joy, and this takes them along very fast--that is, fast for a
caterpillar. Sometimes they spin a long thread by which they take a
flying short cut and land--on your back."

Jimmie dropped a tiny twig down Betty's back, which made her scream.

"But they don't harm us," said Ben Gile. "They are so fussy about what
they eat for dinner that they wouldn't think of biting even the sweetest
little boy or girl. They prefer something far more tender. Ah, you
wouldn't like Isabella!" The old man shook his head sadly.

"Isabella! Who is Isabella?" questioned the children.

"Isabella is always in a hurry," said the guide--"always. She is brown
in the middle, and black on the head and tail end, Isabella is, and she
walks rapidly, as if she had a great deal to do before she could take
time to be made over into a tiger-moth. She stops every once in a while
to make sure she is on the right road; then she hurries along in a
nervous, fidgety way, looking for a nice, comfortable stone under which
to have a winter home, for Isabella is in such haste that she could
never think of taking t