^^ AND "^^^ 



JOURNAL OF VARIATION. 



Vol. VII. No. 8. November 1st, 1895. 



Entomological Reminiscences of the Tyrol. 



I, — A Day in the Mendel Pass. 

 By J. W. TUTT. F.E.S. 



The air is redolent with the scent of the newly-mown hay, Avith 

 the fragrance of pine and larch. The harsh cry of the raven is 

 occasionally heard, and the noise of a rushing mountain stream is borne 

 musically on the light breeze that lingers over the hillside on which 

 we stand. Far below us, in the valley, the whetting of the mowers' 

 scythes makes music almost as sweet, whilst, as our eye roams over the 

 scene before us, we note where — 



" The sweeping scythe now rips along. 

 Each sturdy mower emulous and strong. 

 Whose writhing form meridian heat defies. 

 Bends o'er his work and every sinew tries ; 

 Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet " — 

 and, truly, the meridian heat here is not to be despised. 



As we gaze down this branch valley of the great Val di 

 Non, on either side of which steep mountains rise, miles and miles of 

 lovely Tyrolean scenery open out before us. Among the fertile fields 

 lie scattered villages, surrounded with Nature's choicest gifts, forming 

 magnificent pictures, and filling with dreamy old-world impressions the 

 nature-lover's mind. Far from the busy life of towns and cities, the 

 peasantry of these beautiful recesses of nature speak to us of sprites 

 and fays and fairies, of the folk-lore of these retired and lovely nooks. 

 The readers of this magazine are scientific, you say, they don't believe 

 in such nonsense. Don't believe it ? Who can roam the hills and 

 vales, the nooks and corners of the woods, the lone moorland, the 

 misty marsh, or the honey-combed sandhills by the sea-shore, and not 

 be interested in the old legends of these lonely citadels, far from the 

 world's hasty rush ? Who does not say at such times with the poet — 

 "Oh ! Queen of Fancy ! What an empire thine ! 

 What classic loveliness pervades thy shore ! 

 Creations which the bard hath made divine — 

 Idols and gods — all creeds alike adore." 

 But here we are knee-deep among the heather, scabious and hieraciums, 

 which carpet the ground between the larches and pines that are 

 scattered over the hill-slopes. The trees are not closely packed, the 

 sun gets into all the nooks and crannies ; the vegetation is of the most 



