many kinds of slugs, distinguished by their colours: some are white, some are grey, some black or brown. Did you never see one of those great black slugs with their skin wrinkled, crawling upon the old wall, or in the garden? Their skin is as tough as leather, they do not require a shell to keep them from being hurt. All snails leave a slimy mark behind them whereever they crawl-when the slime is dry, it looks white and silvery. You would not like to have a snail crawling upon your hand, it feels so cold and clammy. Snails do a great deal of mischief in gardens, they destroy the finest fruit, and eat off the plants, that are coming up. We must not let them eat our seeds when they come up; we must put lime or soot round them. Snails do not like either lime or soot, and will not so readily crawl over them. Since you wish so much for an empty snail shell, Caroline, I will take you to a bank where we shall find plenty, some day when we are walking in the fields."

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Oh, I shall like that very much, mamma; shall we go now?"

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No, my love, not now; I am going to be

very busy writing, so you must go and play with Catherine in the nursery."

"Pray, mamma, let me stay in the parlour, I will be very good and quiet, and will not disturb you."

"No, my love, I had rather you went up stairs; besides, your little sister will be awake now, and will want you to play with her."

"Pray, mamma, do let me stay down with you."

"Caroline, when good children are told to do any thing by their papa or mamma, they do it directly, without saying a word.”

“Then I will be a good child, mamma, and go directly, only give me one kiss first."

“That I will willingly, now you do as I bid you :-there, run away, and be very kind to your little sister."

39

CONVERSATION III.

"COME, my dear Caroline, put on your bonnet, and call your sister. We will go and take a walk in the pleasant fields;-take your little baskets, we will fill them with pretty flowers. Hark! how sweetly the birds are singing amongst the trees; and see how the little lambs are playing and skipping about their mothers. Ah! there is a little butterfly too; poor little thing, I am afraid it has wakened from its long sleep too soon; it is only March now-we shall have cold bleak winds to kill it yet, I fear."

"What do you mean by its long sleep, mamma? I did not know that butterflies slept in the winter, I thought they all died before the cold weather began."

"So they 'most of them do, my love; but a few, which turn late in the autumn, find some sheltered place, and sleep there through

out the winter. In the spring, the warm beams of the sun awaken them; and it often happens, if we have two or three warm days early in the year, that they come out of their places of rest before there are flowers enough to feed them, and before the weather is settled and warm, as this poor little thing has done. Then the rain and wind come, and frosty nights, and the pretty butterfly droops and dies."

"O mamma, I hope this poor little one will not die. Let me catch it, and take it into our garden; there are a few snow-drops and crocusses there, and I will take it into the house at night."

"I am afraid that plan will not do, Caroline: in the first place, I do not think you could catch it; and if you could, and was to put it into the garden, it would not stay there, for you to find it at night, and take it into the house. I believe we must leave it to take care of itself; and as the garden is so near, perhaps it will find its own way there."

"What do you mean by the butterfly's turning, mamma?"

"I will tell you all about it another day, my love, it is too cold to stand still to talk now; besides, we want to look for flowers. But see, this butterfly has alighted upon a daisy, and is sucking the honey out of it; come and look at its bright colours. Can you tell me any thing which is of the same colour, Caroline?"

"I think it is like a lemon, mamma."

"It is a good deal the same colour, but this fly is brighter.—Can you tell me any thing that is like it, Catherine ?"

"It is like a primrose, mamma."

"It is a great deal brighter than a primrose, my dear; do you think again, Caroline."

"O, now I know, mamma; it is just like that yellow powder which papa put between bread and butter, and gave to poor Ranger when he was ill the other day. I think you called it brimstone, did you not, mamma ?”

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Yes, it was brimstone; and this butterfly is called the brimstone butterfly, because it is the same colour. Is it all one colour, my love?" "No, mamma, it has got darker lines, and some spots of orange upon the wings."