THE BUTTERFLY. 



99 



the butterflies are just waking, as the genial warmth of the 

 sun puts life into their fragile little bodies. There are 

 hours before him yet of sport which is in my judgment 

 scarcely second to any. To be a successful butterfly- 

 hunter a man must have a wiry frame and nimble limbs, 

 a good eye, true hand, quick observation, patience, judg- 

 ment, and much practice. A tyro as is easily detected as a 

 sailor on horseback. The very way he pokes his awkward 

 tool at a passing butterfly proclaims him. And he has 

 only one way of proceeding with all kinds, generally a 

 very futile one. The old hunter knows the habits of every 

 family, nay, of every species, and has wiles at hand to cope 

 with each. He will not waste his wind pursuing that 

 marvel of restless activity, the Sarpendon swallow-tail of 

 the hills, as it dances from flower to flower. He will 

 follow it with patience until he finds some flower-head 

 with fifty little florets, and while it is darting its tongue 

 into each of these in turn, there will be time for a rapid 

 but noiseless rush, and a sweep big enough to carry away 

 butterfly, flower, and all. Even then it will need clever 

 fingers to secure the little prisoner before its frantic energy 

 has broken its brittle wings to pieces. But the prize is 

 worth all the trouble it costs. O for some recipe to fix 



