io8 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 



