CHAP. vi. MOTH-HUNTING. 101 



ning in the open air, his joints became a little more 

 flexible ; and, shortly after, he returned home. 



Edward had frequent mishaps when he went out 

 on these nocturnal expeditions. One summer evening 

 he went out moth-hunting. The weather was mild 

 and fair ; and it gave promise of an abundant " take " 

 of moths. He had with him his collecting-box under 

 his arm, and a phial of chloroform in his pocket. His 

 beat lay in a woody dale, close by the river's side. 

 He paced the narrow footpath backward and forward, 

 snapping at his prey as he walked along the path. 



The sun went down. The mellow thrush, which 

 had been pouring forth his requiem to the parting 

 day, was now silent. The lark flew to its mossy bed, 

 the swallow to its nest. The wood-pigeon had uttered 

 his last coo before settling down for the night. The 

 hum of the bee was no longer heard. The grass- 

 hopper had sounded his last chirp ; and all seemed 

 to have sunk to sleep. Yet Nature is never at rest. 

 The owl began to utter his doleful and melancholy 

 wail ; the night-jar (Caprimulgus Europceus) was still 

 out with his spinning-wheel-like birr, birr; and the 

 lightsome roe, the pride of the lowland woods, was 

 emitting his favourite night bark. 



The moths continued to appear long after the 

 butterflies had gone to rest. They crowded out from 

 their sylvan homes into the moth-catcher's beat. 

 These he continued to secure. A little drop of the 

 drowsy liquid, and the insect dropped into his box, as 



