BUTTERFLIES OF THE CENTRAL PROVINCES. 27 



and then the Melaniies come out and dance beneath the shade of 

 lofty trees like so many elves. They flit about and have aerial 

 duels, or perhaps the movement gone through may best be likened 

 to that in the "Sir Roger de Coverley," when the couples come out 

 and manoeuvre singly and together. The other Melaniies sit by on 

 the lower bushes, and watch each couple or trio enjoying themselves. 

 They are so engrossed in this amusement, that by gently walking 

 into their midst one's presence does not disturb them, and they 

 will come and settle on one's head, shoulders, and outstretched 

 hands. I, too, as noted by Mr. Aitkin, have seen many of them go 

 straight up into the sky and clean out of sight. I have noticed 

 this in the early morning as well as in the evening. I suppose 

 the reason is that they have so long been snugly lying hidden 

 under the bushes that they love to get some of the freshness high 

 up in the air. By searching closely and waving one's net gently 

 over the surface of the rocks, the dusk-loving "skippers" are put 

 up. Watch where they settle, and go gently up to the spot. Drop 

 the net, extended by being held at the bottom, quietly over the 

 place, and the " skipper" rushes out only to be captured. 



The shades of evening are now falling, and we must hasten back 

 to our camp, otherwise we might meet a panther or even a tiger just 

 about to commence his nightly prowl. The jackals are already 

 beginning to wake the echoes with their unearthly howls, and the 

 ghastly chuckle of the horned owl comes from out the depths of 

 those dark old trees. The Night-jar repeats monotonously his 

 notes like the sound of a stone sent skipping along the ice, and the 

 air is filled with the whirr and buzz of beetles and the chirp and 

 tinkle, as of tiny bells, of innumerable crickets and grasshoppers. As 

 we climb to the top of the ravine, and look back over it and away to 

 the west, toward the setting sun, our eyes and hearts are gladdened 

 by the' sight of a lovely, soft, yet exquisitely beautiful and radiant glow 

 like unto the colour of an amethyst — a glory which fills the air and 

 floods hill and forest. Above in the sky the glow is red like rubies, 

 fading away into carmine, and higher up, into the clear pale blue 

 of an Indian evening sky. Below in the valleys the shades are purpling 

 and deepening into the grey of night, and the mists are rising and 

 strike cold and ghost-like. 'Tis a scene of enchantment from which 



