40 NATURE-STUDY REVIEW 



resupinata) . Two seasons later, in the same spot I discovered the 

 pigmy Humped Bladderwort {Utricularia Gihha), the long- 

 leaved Sundew, the Yellow-eyed Grass and the Bog Club Moss. 



But after all, the Park in my judgment is a Paradise for the 

 Naturalist as free-lance amateur rather than specialist. No 

 doubt everyone with a hobby would make some discovery of his 

 own in Algonquin, but when you reflect how late in the summer 

 one's camping begins, how short the season and how northerly 

 the latitude, you are forced by sheer logic to accept this conclusion. 



Often, I admit, the specialist rose rampant and insisted on 

 having his fling. Again and again, for instance, I buried the 

 entomologist in me, and just when I thought I had laid his ghost, 

 some rare beetle would visit the camp, Leptura bifon's at the 

 boathouse window. Pogonochaerus penicellaius on the rustic 

 bench, or (deadliest lure of all) an unknown Longhorn in flight 

 across the clearing. I reckon I must have buried that entomolo- 

 gist alive; irtdeed I strongly suspect him of having shammed 

 dead and assisted at his own obsequies ; like an actor on the stage 

 when there's a hitch in the drop of the curtain, he was just a 

 shade too quick in his resurrection. It didn't matter what I 

 was doing, reading in the hammock, writing in the boathouse, or 

 splitting wood by the tent, there would be a lightning change, and 

 the entomologist would be seen in the full glare occupying the 

 centre of the stage, with cyanide bottle or insect net, even bare- 

 handed, but prompt at the cue and always ready to play his 

 part. 



Once, for instance, in a backward season, I found a number of 

 flowering plants still at the height of their bloom, and reaped a 

 rich harvest of anthophilous insects; especially on an open 

 stretch of stream by Hilliard Lake, where clumps of spiraea lined 

 the banks. Here I captured some 12 species of Longhorn, in- 

 cluding Leptura plebeta, a prize in itself. — I came by this collector's 

 paradise last August; and the scene was changed. The whole 

 space was a riot of Spotted Touch-me-not dangling its golden 

 jewels in rich profusion; in place of Longhorns were a score or 

 more of Ruby throats hovering at the blossoms or darting about 

 in the air, often fiercely driving intruders away from, their chosen 

 booths in this gay bazaar. 



Sometimes it was the botanist in me that rose to the surface 

 with a gasp as from a long submergence. But something, some- 



