MEMOIR OF THE LATE FREDERICK BOND. 403 
the Bittern boomed, and the Sedgebird—not content with its own 
sweet song—mocked the notes of all the birds around: while 
high overhead hung, motionless, Hawk beyond Hawk, Buzzard 
beyond Buzzard, Kite beyond Kite, as far as eye could see. Far 
off upon the silver mere would rise a puff of smoke from a punt 
invisible from its flatness and white paint. Then down the wind 
came the boom of the great staunchion-gun; and after that 
another sound, louder as it neared ; a cry as of all the bells of 
Cambridge and all the hounds of Cottesmore; and overhead 
rushed and whirled the skein of terrified Wildfowl, screaming, 
piping, clacking, croaking, filling the air with the hoarse rattle 
of their wings, while clear above all sounded the wild whistle of 
the Curlew, and the trumpet-note of the great Wild Swan. They 
are all gone now! No longer do the Ruffs trample the sedge into 
a hard floor in their fighting-rings, while the sober Reeves stand 
round, admiring the tournament of their lovers, gay with ruffs 
and tippets, no two of them alike. Gone are Ruffs and Reeves, 
Spoonbills, Bitterns, Avocets ; the very Snipe one hears disdains 
to breed. Gone, too, not only from the Fens, but from the 
entire country, is that most exquisite of butterflies, Lycena 
dispar, the Great Copper, and many a curious insect more.” * 
It may well be imagined that a man with his taste for out-of- 
door life, with leisure to indulge it, and with such happy hunting 
and collecting grounds as those above described, must have en- 
joyed exceptional opportunities for the study of Natural History. 
-His whole life was devoted to outdoor observation, and to the 
formation of what came to be one of the best collections of 
British Lepidoptera, Birds, and Birds’ Eggs. In the formation 
of these collections the knowledge which he acquired often 
astonished the younger men who were following in his footsteps. 
It is much to be regretted that he kept no journals, for there 
can be no doubt that, had it not been for a natural disinclination 
to sit indoors and write, he might, if he had been so minded, 
have produced a volume (aye, many volumes) which would have 
rivalled in interest the delightful productions of Charles St. John, 
the author whom, perhaps, of all others he most resembled in 
his tastes, and whom he most admired. All that he accomplished 
in the way of publication was confined to the brief notes which 


= Prose Idylls,’ pp. 95, 96, 
212 
