April, 1917 Bulletin of the Brooklyn Entomological Society 27 



my doings than I ever heard at a lower level. You who have 

 been to that delightful spot know how bleak and rugged is its 

 external appearance and how little suggestion of animal life is 

 there. A butterfly on that peak would seem to the casual ob- 

 server or summer tourist an incongruous thing, a miracle. So 

 each day when the train crept up the mountain, laden with travel- 

 lers, looking, very often for the first time, upon the strange peak 

 covered with pile upon pile of huge rocks I, happily and harm- 

 lessly following my beloved pursuit below the platform, would 

 hear such remarks as these : 



" What in the world is that old woman about ? What's she 

 got in her hand ? " " Oh, it's a butterfly-net ! Did you ever? " 

 " She must be crazy. Just think of a butterfly up here. Why 

 do her folks let her do it ? " " Let's ask in the house about her, 

 they'll know." They did know and much of our good Miss 

 Clarke's valuable time was spent in satisfying the curiosity of the 

 " exertionists," as we call them up there, as to the manners and 

 customs of the queer character they had seen. The " man with 

 the hoe " was not half as well known up there as the " woman 

 with the net." I tell you I know from experience how it feels to 

 be considered " a rare alpine aberration." 



" Come on, Ma," I once heard a sunburned youth say to a 

 plain, homey old woman as I stood on the platform watching the 

 tourists filling up the waiting train soon to start for the base. 

 " Come, the cars is going d'rectly, we must get seats." 



" Le'mme alone, John. Seems's if I hadn't seen all the sights 

 yet. Let's see. I've got 'em writ down here," and she read from 

 a crumpled scrap of paper : " Printin' office, Lizzie Bourne's grave 

 stun, the Tip-over House and — there I ain't seen the old bug 

 woman ! " I did not introduce myself and nobody pointed me 

 out. So the disappointed sight seer was dragged reluctantly to 

 the train, her golden opportunity lost. " Excuse me, madam," 

 said a tall Southerner of the Colonel Carter type, as he swung his 

 hat from his head with an elaborate bow, when he met me at the 

 edge of an orange grove in Florida one April day. " I venture to 

 address you without an introduction as I see you are a taxi- 

 dermist." Then, almost before I could recover my breath, quite 

 lost from the shock of this unjust accusation, he added in a 



