4 86 



RECREATION 



grown the Indian and the tree. Father 

 asked him if he knew him, and the 

 Indian replied, "Wake"— No. "You 

 don't know me," asked the white man, 

 "Wake." "Did you ever see me be- 

 fore?" "Wake." The Indian and the 

 white man stood meditating, while the 

 other old pioneers laughed. Finally 

 the merchant's brother spoke and said, 

 "I am John Davenport's brother. At 

 this, the old Molally Chief trembled and 

 shook. A nervous chill seemed to come 

 over him. His knees almost gave way. 

 The old Indian reached for the white 

 man's hand, and when he grasped it, 

 he turned and looked off over the hills 

 toward the darker timber in the direc- 



tion of the Upper Molally. For some 

 minutes the red man maintained si- 

 lent, while tears coursed down his deep 

 furrowed face. Then with broken voice 

 he asked, "Oh Ka John?" meaning 

 " Where is John?" "Si-ah, Portland," 

 said the man. At which the old Chief 

 had nothing to say. "Shian," asked the 

 white man, "what made Indians like 

 John Davenport, and John Davenport 

 like Indians ?" The old Indian turned, 

 wiping some of the tears out of his 

 eyes, and talked to the white men 

 some moments in his own language, a 

 translation of which was, "Cause John 

 Davenport never told an Indian a 

 lie!' 



BUTTERFLY FARMING FOR PROFIT 



<By CHARLES QUINCY TURNER 



With illustrations by the writer 



# 



BUTTERFLY 

 farm !" How odd 

 the words look in 

 cold print. There is 

 almost a smile of 

 incredulity in them : 

 as if one had given 

 reins to the imagi- 

 nation, whereas, it is not imagination 

 at all which suggests them to me, but 

 remembrance, and very joyous remem- 

 brances too, redolent of some of the 

 happiest of my youth in the country, 



" When I smelt the wild white rose, 

 Smelt the woodbine and the May, 

 Marked upon a sunny day, 

 Sated, from their blossoms rise. 

 Honey bees and butterflies." 



which I chased heedlessly, to their un- 

 doing and mine; for I had not got be- 

 yond the use of the clumsy net. I was 

 green and in my salad days I had 

 not learned to "still hunt" them. The 

 net is always risky and often fatal to 

 the beauty and perfection of specimens 



*I wanted pocket-money of my own in the worst 

 way possible when, as a boy, I first started my 

 Butterfly Farm.— C.Q.T. 



for the cabinet. To obtain the highest 

 possible results you must learn the art 

 and mystery of butterfly farming. 



Any clown-boy can pursue the rarest 

 specimens "round the trem'lous mea- 

 dow's buttercups," a man who does not 

 know a swallow-tail from a flying 

 grasshopper, can do that, and spoil it 

 in the catching; but it takes a past- 

 master naturalist to go a bird's-nesting 

 for butterfly's eggs and chrysalids and 

 know where to go to find them, and 

 what to provide, so that their evolution 

 may be fully accomplished, their little 

 lives rounded out in glory. 



All boys start but enthusiastically to 

 make a collection, and most of them 

 start wrong. I did ! I shall not soon 

 forget the zest with which I entered up- 

 on my midsummer carnival of butter- 

 flies and moths, "round the wide com- 

 pass of the Eyrie coast," as dear, quaint 

 old Spenser puts it. I knew the haunt 

 of "the painted lady," and where the 

 swallow-tails "basked in my path, his 

 radiant wings unfolded," and where 

 the puddle swarmed. I knew the dells 

 where the "little blues" danced in and 



