leaped on a boulder beside the road, and pointed back.
"Here's my favorite view," he said. "The little gray Summit House away up there at the end of the white road, against the sky, the white road running the other way down toward the valley world, and all off there to the west, just space and sunset!"
It was pretty fine. The sun was now descending into the western cloud bank, and turning the clouds to rose and gold. It looked hundreds of miles away.
"Do those clouds mean rain?" asked Art.
"Nary a drop," said the man. "Hello!—here's an Argynnis atlantis!"
He made a mad dive with his hat, put it quickly over a low plant, and drew from under a beautiful butterfly, all gold and silver, with a black border around the wings.
"The small mountain fritillary," he said. "Often comes up here, but shouldn't be here with the wind so strong. What I'm looking for really is an Oeneis semidea, an arctic butterfly which they say is found only on Mount Washington. He's gray, like the rocks. Looks like a two inch piece of lichen. Haven't found one yet, though. You watch this fritillary follow the road down the mountain, now."
He let the butterfly go, and sure enough, it started down the road, flying not more than three feet above
