SUMMER. 85 



ing, tliere is mucli quiet luxury in sitting still, breathing 

 the fragrance from birch trees and blossoms, and listening 

 to the birds as, one by one, they cease their evening song, 

 till at last the thrush alone is left, nightingale-like, to sing 

 on till dusky twilight soothes even him to sleep. Now, 

 however, begins one of the great pleasures of a garden to 

 those who are lovers of natural history, even if as yet they 

 scruple to arrogate the title of entomologists, and humbly 

 call themselves collectors only. The watching for and 

 capturing moths is the pleasure I allude to, and I fear- 

 lessly appeal to any who have tried it whether it is not a 

 most fascinating occupation. Like angling, the charm of 

 this does not lie alone in success, for night after night the 

 hope of making some wonderful capture leads one on, 

 and the patience of the angler is equalled, if not excelled, 

 by the moth-hunter, as he watches and paces about for 

 hours, forceps in hand, ready to entrap his prey. The 

 pleasure of capturing a new specimen is great, so is that of 

 getting hold of an insect newly out of the chrysalis, fresh 

 and feathery ; and, however grateful one feels to kind 

 friends who give duplicates, and however pleasant it is to 

 place such specimens in the blank space left for them in 

 the cabinet, it is nothing compared to the delight of first 

 securing a rare insect ourselves, or even of seeing one flying 

 about that we have only known hitherto in collections. I 

 can recall yet the feeling of pleasure experienced at the 

 mere sight of the peacock butterfly hovering over and 

 basking upon the flowers of the China aster; it is rare near 

 Edinburgh, and yet, even to secure an undoubted Scotch 



