BUTTERFLIES OP MONTANA. 109 



Collecting Butterflies in Montana. 



July 22, 1903, was a hot day. For several days the sun had been 

 warm. We were camped on the bank of Bigfork or Swan river at its 

 outlet to Flathead Lake. Our little laboratory, constructed escpecially 

 for out door work, had been a scene of activity within, but no one could 

 stand it long in the swamps or woods on account of the mosquitoes. For 

 two days the little fellows had been especially persistent and villainous. 

 This was taken to be a sign that they would soon go, as they were starv- 

 ing. The sun dries up the ponds and they cannot drink nor lay eggs. 

 Vegetation becomes dry and parched, and does not supply nourishment. 

 A few hot days, followed by a wind, and it was predicted they would go. 

 This had come. Donning my coat containing papers, vials, corks, gloves, 

 and other necessary material, and accompanied by my dog, I started for 

 butterflies. 



Two or three Arygnnids had been seen, which were very much wanted. 

 Half a dozen other species were on the wing, but all species were doubt- 

 ful, i. e. could not be named from seeing the specimen flying. 



The field sought was the tamarack forest. The beautiful and stately 

 trees filled the slope of the lake near the laboratory. An occasional 

 Douglas spruce or yellow pine added to the charm of the tamarck forest 

 A wagon road wound through the timber, affording a sunny opening in 

 which the insects love to sport. On either side the tall conifers towered 

 heavenward. A breeze was blowing. The murmur of the pines as they 

 swayed gently at their tops was music to the ear. The timber was not 

 dense. The sun filtered through the leaves and between the treetops, 

 making alternate patches of light and shade. In the forest, therefore, 

 it was thought the airy creatures would sport, where the sun's rays were 

 tempered by the shadow of trees, where the breeze would be less likely 

 to blow against their delicate wings, and where they would be un- 

 molested. 



The delicate blue bells nodded in the underbrush. Mariposa lilies 

 were on the wane, but an occasional late one showed its delicate cream 

 colored perianth here and there. The twin flower was in bloom, making 

 a carpet where other vegetation was lacking. Service berries were ripe, 

 the blue-black berries hanging in clusters from every bush. Spiraea was 

 gorgeous, just coming into full bloom. A fringe of rock maple, dogwood, 

 spiraea and service berry lined the road, while through the timber they 

 were scattered in great profusion. 



It was a day for birds. The brilliant plumage of the Louisiana tan- 

 ager flashed in the sunshine as he flew from tree to tree. The call of the 

 western Phebe was heard on every side. The long-tailed chichadee 

 cheerily sang from the bushes by the roadside. Upon an old bole a flicker 

 was calling to his mate, and alternately with his call drumming loudly 

 on the dead tree. While sitting on a log and drinking in the sweetness 

 of the bird music mingling with the sighing of the pines the loud call of 



