Alas, poor butterfly. I knew him well.

It was my fault, really. I spotted the butterfly just standing there on our back patio. I called the girls over to see it. They came on tiptoes. Then they sat in awe and spoke in hushed tones, not wishing to disturb it or scare it away.

Attempts to get them to eat breakfast were thwarted by the mystique of the orange, black, and white. Soon sketch pads came out and whole pages were being devoted to the majesty of the monarch.

Suddenly the silence was broken as one girl called out to me a curt but anguished, “Mom!” I rushed to the scene, sensing the distress in her voice.

The butterfly was now lying on its side, motionless.

“Hey, girls, now you have a new angle to draw!”

Still beautiful, even in death. Nature has even provided it with flowers at its passing. We shall name him Henry Horatius Henderson the Third, R.I.P. Funeral information to follow.