108 A BIRD COLLECTOR’S MEDLEY. 
turned out to be a bad one; in fact, it soon degenerated into a species of 
quagmire, such as even in fenland is only dignified by the name of a drove. 
Through this we struggled steadily and slowly, the monotony of our journey 
being relieved on two occasions: first, when D——, who was quietly dozing 
on the back seat, slipped off and partially disappeared in one of the ruts; 
secondly, when, on turning a sharp corner, we found ourselves without 
warning in a farmyard, mixed up with a drove of cows. On arriving soon 
afterwards at an inn, which rejoiced in the quaint name of ‘“ Five Miles from 
Anywhere,” we left our steed to recruit his flagging energies, and proceeded 
to the Fen on foot. 
The first view was, it must be confessed, a trifle disappointing. Standing 
on higher ground, we could see right across it, a brown and monotonous 
but apparently insignificant expanse, which looked as if it could be traversed 
from end to end by fifteen minutes’ hard walking. On the far side, however, 
a charming little hamlet, with churchyard and orchards, lay nestling in a 
fair-sized belt of trees, and on the outskirts of this village two or three 
windmills, thoroughly characteristic of the neighbourhood, were slowly 
revolving before the sluggish impetus of a summer’s breeze. 
After a short survey we once more started forward, and, though we soon 
began to find that distances in this flat country are deceptive, at last one 
field only, a rough uncultivated waste, remained to be negotiated. We had, 
when starting, discussed, though not seriously, the probability of meeting 
with that typical Fen butterfly, the Swallowtail; and scarcely had we passed 
through the gate when one darted by right under my nose. ‘There was no 
mistaking, even on the wing, the pale yellow ground colour, with its dull 
black markings, and in a moment I was in hot pursuit, making up my net 
as I ran. The chase led straight across the field towards a high and 
impenetrable hedge on the opposite side, and, owing to the rugged nature 
of the ground, the odds seemed distinctly on the butterfly. It slackened 
off, however, as we neared the barrier, perhaps from fancied security, and 
I was enabled to get almost within striking distance. Five seconds more, 
and a well-directed sweep would have landed Papilio in the toils, when crash, 
smash, and I lay stretched out on the ground, a half-stunned heap of 
impotency, just able to get a glimpse of my quarry as it cleared the hedge 
in triumph. I had at the critical moment caught my foot in a rabbit-hole, 
introduced a spacious ventilator into the knee of my trousers, and for the 
time being utterly dislocated the net. 
It was no use continuing the pursuit, which would have entailed a 
detour of half a mile, so we proceeded through a narrow belt of bushes to 
