VOL. I. |. Mexican Notes. 103 
that came the endless tideflats again; sometimes wide and level, 
then again narrow and steeper, sometimes muddy and again sandy, 
seemingly made on purpose to suit Cicindelidz, but still no beetles; 
no use evidently to go any further on that line. So I turned back, 
and late in the afternoon came again to the sewer, finding there a 
few more of the same species, so that I got about twenty examples 
of that one species for the day’s work. Not much to be sure, but 
then the collector must take things as he finds them, the bad days 
with the good, together. Some boys were near by flying their kites, 
and, like boys with fairer skins, they soon became interested in my 
efforts, and at once were anxious to help, being so eager that they 
would pounce upon the net as soon asa beetle was caught, and 
generally crush it in their haste; being therefore deprived of that 
amusement they pushed on ahead, trying to find others, and so 
alarming the insects that I heartily wished them at home and in bed, 
only that these boys have no beds to get into. But it was getting 
late and growing cool, and the beetles became scarcer, so that I 
gave it up and went home. The Cicindelidz caught this day-were 
all of this one species, without variation. No other place anywhere 
about the city, either in damp places or in dry, had any of these in- 
sects at all, although some of the warm, dry roads and sandy 
reaches offered apparently the finest possible places for them, so that 
I saw no more tiger beetles till I reached the highlands of the inte- 
rior, where I found C. Sommer, a lovely red-marked species, as will 
be hereafter related. 
The next day opened cloudy, threatening rain, but the sun half 
shone a part of the time, and I went out hunting on general princi- 
ples, taking my gun for birds, and plant press along. On reaching the 
outskirts of the city, a large yellow and black bird was yelling in 
the coffee bushes; it was a flycatcher; it was also very wary, and led 
me along half a mile, till at last I shot it in the mangrove swamp. 
Now, right here I will remark that wherever I went in Mexico, at 
my elbow was sure to be a native man, woman or child. So at the 
moment when my yellow and black flycatcher dropped into the 
water of the swamp, up jumped a smart youngster close behind me 
who, crying ‘‘bueno!” with great emphasis, ran out into the mud 
with his bare feet and legs to get my bird. He evidently thought it 
a capital shot, for he kept jabbering away so rapidly that I could not 
begin to understand him. Then eagerly he pointed out another bird - 
