144 THE entomologist's record. 



upper story a schoolroom, and on the other a bedroom. My loud 

 shouts being quite useless, I returned to the bar and mixed refreshing 

 drinks for my companion and myself. Gaining strength, like giants 

 refreshed with lemon squash, we now shouted afresh, and managed to 

 attract the attention of the school marm and the school marm's father, 

 who had been somewhere in the maquis near at hand, and who now 

 did their best to make us feel at home. After feeding, I struck up 

 into the hills rising behind the house, and very much troubled some 

 peasants who followed me to assure me that it was impossible to get 

 through the maquis and over the rocks. All I managed to net in this 

 wild spot were a dozen Folyf/onia c-albiun and two Codonia piipillaria 

 of a brick-red colour. Returning to my schoolhouse inn I rejoined my 

 companion, and decided to take the automobile that runs into Bonifacio 

 every day since some six months ago. We waited patiently and long 

 for the said motor, which ultimately turned up three-quarters of an 

 hour late, as it had been retarded by a bandit, who unfortunately 

 happened to be an enemy of progress, and had held up this forerunner 

 of civilisation, its two conductors, and a round dozen of tourists, com- 

 mercial travellers, and in-the-movement-Corsicans, ordering them from 

 behind his well-directed gun to go back, and go back they had been 

 obliged to, till this very conservative gentleman had gone on his way 

 elsewhere. Well, we got safely into Bonifacio, which is just as dirty, 

 picturesque, and fourteenth century-like as it was seven years ago, in 

 spite of the wonderful motor-car service a political intrigue has endowed 

 it with. We visited the fort, where we had spent an hour before one 

 of the French piou-pious (Tommies) noticed that I had brought my 

 camera in with me and had innocently used it. Next day we left on 

 foot, and made our way to Pianattoli (thirteen miles), the only new 

 butterfly I took on the way being an example of Ipkkiides podaliriiis. 

 I was attracted to Pianattoli by the memory that on my last visit to 

 Corsica I found many Papilio hospiton flying on a little hill there, but 

 alas the weather, which had been perfect, changed, and after lunch we 

 found that the sky was clouded over and no butterflies flew at all. 

 A single P. hospiton was all that my little hill gave me for my trouble, 

 and not even a single commoner was bagged. While waiting for 

 dinner and the motor to come, I watched from the hotel (?) window a 

 nuiBber of children playing in the road, and threw some sous to a 

 number of little ragged boys who were larking about in the dust; they 

 at first picked up the sous, then put them back on the ground just 

 where I had thrown them, and an hour later, when I left, I found the 

 poor despised coppers where I had thrown them. 



Starting from Pianattoli after nightfall, we had a pleasant ride to 

 Sartene in the motor-bus, only stopping on our way to remove a log of 

 wood that had been carefully laid across the road by some playful 

 objector to indiscriminate innovations. Sartene is charming, but 

 there is really too much talk about politics going on in it for the man 

 in the street. We visited Sartene next day, and then did a goodly 

 walk on to Bicchisano, 24 miles nearer Ajaccio, stopping at the little 

 port of Propriano and the charming little eagle's nest called Olmeto on 

 the way. The only new thing seen on the way, was one pupa of 

 Chara.vefi jadna, the only representative of the butterfly I came across 

 in Corsica, though I hunted several hundred Arbutus unedo bushes 

 through and through, and glanced casually at several thousand. 



