I had captured what I afterward learned was an Asterias, that seemed slightly different from any previous specimen, and a yellow swallow-tail, my first Papilio Turnus.  The yellow one was the largest, most beautiful butterfly I ever had seen.  I was carrying them, one between each thumb and forefinger, and running with all possible speed to reach the screen before my touch could soil the down on their exquisite wings.  I stumbled, and fell, so suddenly, there was no time to release them.  The black one sailed away with a ragged wing, and the yellow was crushed into a shapeless mass in my hand.  I was accustomed to falling off fences, from trees, and into the creek, and because my mother was an invalid I had learned to doctor my own bruises and uncomplainingly go my way.  My reputation was that of a very brave little girl; but when I opened my hand and saw that broken butterfly, and my down-painted fingers, I was never more afraid in my life.  I screamed aloud in panic, and ran for my mother with all my might.  Heartbroken, I could not control my voice to explain as I threw myself on her couch, and before I knew what they were doing, I was surrounded by sisters and the cook with hot water, bandages and camphor.

My mother clasped me in her arms, and rocked me on her breast.  “There, there, my poor child,” she said, “I know it hurts dreadfully!’ And to the cook she commanded, “Pour on camphor quickly!  She is half killed, or she never would come to me like this.”  I found my voice.  “Camphor won’t do any good,” I wailed.  “It was the most beautiful butterfly, and I’ve broken it all to pieces.  It must have taken God hours studying how to make it different from all the others, and I know He never will forgive me!’ I began sobbing worse than ever.  The cook on her knees before me sat on her heels suddenly.  “Great Heavens!  She’s screechin’ about breakin’ a butterfly, and not her poor fut, at all!” Then I looked down and discovered that I had stubbed my toe in falling, and had left a bloody trail behind me.  “Of course I am! " I sobbed indignantly.  “Couldn’t I wash off a little blood in the creek, and tie up my toe with a dock leaf and some grass?  I’ve killed the most beautiful butterfly, and I know I won’t be forgiven!”

I opened my tightly clenched hand and showed it to prove my words.  The sight was so terrible to me that I jerked my foot from the cook, and thrust my hand into the water, screaming, “Wash it!  Wash it!  Wash the velvet from my hand!  Oh! make it white again!” Before the cook bathed and bandaged my foot, she washed and dried my hand; and my mother whispered, “God knows you never meant to do it, and He is sorry as mother is.”  So my mother and the cook comforted me.  The remainder scattered suddenly.  It was years before I knew why, and I was a Shakespearean student before I caught the point to their frequently calling me `Little Lady Macbeth!’ After such an experience,