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first resting- places after the fatigues of the night. On Staten 

 Island my early rising was rewarded by many captures at 

 the hour when the Cat Bird sings and betrays, to none but 

 chosen ears, her relationship to the many-tuned Mocking 

 Bird of the South. Later in the day she utters but the 

 peevish cry which has suggested the common name. On one 

 such occasion I discovered, resting on a wild vine, which 

 grew on the South Beach near the sand and the waters of 

 the Bay, a pair of of the Great Green vine Hawk, Philani- 

 pclux jHutdonix. One, I took, but the other escaped me, 

 flying directly over the Bay and out to sea. So far as I 

 could watch its arrowy flight, over the smooth expanse of 

 ocean, it kept its course towards the Atlantic, cleaving the 

 saffron colored air, now turning golden under the rays of the 

 rising sun. These are tinier ///<7/W//>////V/r than the Sea 

 Swallows. But the sea gathers in all such wanderers, with 

 other, larger prey. They go gaily for a time but the wave 

 beneath is endless and receives them at last. However, chan- 

 nels, rivers and bays are safely crossed by our Butterflies 

 and Moths. Farther up towards the hills, on the rocky 

 bed of a brooklet, I found specimens of that moth-like butter- 

 fly Feniseca Tarqttiinn*, abroad early but yet sleepy, still 

 carrying into the New World the memory of the rapacious 

 Roman of the Old, no doubt with miniature sins of its own 

 to answer for. My specimens from the Middle States led 

 me afterwards to unite PorxanHt of Scudder as not different 

 and a certain odd impression, that we had to do with a 

 masquerading moth, to study its structure and make the 

 new genus for it and take it out of the company among 

 which Boisduval had scientifically classed it. Thus certain 

 hours and places, lanes, along which the green tiger-beetle 

 flew up ever and anon before my boy's feet, marshalling the 

 way that I should go, come back to me again out of 

 the years of my early studies, intoxicating my memory. 

 Poe says that joy is not gathered twice in a life, as 

 the roses of Paestum twice in a year. But I gathered 

 then so much that it lasts until now, when world-griefs 

 hold me fast. 



