BUTTERFLY FARMING FOR PROFIT 



487 



out among the poppies in the wheat, 

 and I knew the lures that brought the 

 night-flying moth to the willows on the 

 river bank; but, try as I would, I never 

 could produce the results which young 

 Farreni did. 



How he did it mightily puzzled me. 

 His success hurt my pride, and it hurt 

 my pocket too ; for even boys soon find 

 out that there is a value in the market 

 to such an insignificant thing as a but- 

 terfly, and that the price rises or falls 

 in proportion as the specimen is per- 

 fect or otherwise. The difference is 

 quite as great, proportionally, in them 

 as it is in rare editions of books. Those 

 with the slightest defect sell far below 

 the rarer perfect ones. Collectors of all 

 kinds want the best, and are willing to 

 pay for them. Now, Farreni could 



ter of a paddock surrounded by poplar 

 trees and a privet hedge, which effec- 

 tually cut off the sight of the path. 

 There was nobody about the old- 

 fashioned garden, which was nearly 

 all hardy herbaceous, and we walked 

 straight up to the front door and 

 knocked. The elder Farreni came to 

 the door of a long lean-to glass-house, 

 built up to an old red brick wall at the 

 back, and reaching nearly down to the 

 ground in front, and called us to join 

 him. I had been in the dwelling house 

 several times, but never into this lean- 

 too. 



In his exuberant welcome of the be- 

 spectacled visitor, whom he had evi- 

 dently expected, I was overlooked, and 

 the two cronies became absorbed in a 

 common pleasure. So, too, did I ; for 



CHEAP BOX BREEDING CAGE 



A — Pan of earth for the grub to hibernate 



B — Bottle containing water and the caterpiller's food plant 



C — Gauze or mosquito-netting lid 



always get tip top prices ; and the in- 

 jury to my pocketbook was added to 

 the hurt to my pride. These things lay 

 heavy on my young spirits, a mystery 

 unfathomable. 



One day, when I was about fourteen 

 years old, fortune aided me to solve 

 it. A gray haired, bespectacled old gen- 

 tleman, who evidently was not sure of 

 his way, asked me to direct him to 

 Farreni's father, and I took him along. 

 The Farrenis lived in an old farmhouse, 

 a little distance off the road, in the cen- 



here was the cat out of the bag — "The 

 Butterfly Farm" ! 



The revelation came to me in a flash : 

 for all along the benches (between 

 which they walked, and stopped, and 

 examined and I lagged, like Shakes- 

 peare's school boy), were tubs, and 

 pots, and pans, and water jugs, full of 

 nettles, parsley, privet and fennel, 

 grasses, weeds, timothy, and clover, all 

 covered in with thin netting stretched 

 over hoops ; and in the more formal 

 cases were scores of other vegetable 



