the caterpillars on the cabbage, eating up the good things; or like the butterflies, showing themselves off but making no honey. i cannot be angry with these people somehow, for i pity them when i think of the stupid rules of fashion which they are forced to mind, and the vanity in which they drag out their days. i'd sooner by half bend my back double with hard work than be a jack-a-dandy, with nothing to do but to look in the mirror and see in it a fellow who never put a single potato into the nation's pot but took a good many out. let me drop on these 