29 
once I had the honour of drawing first blood (figuratively speaking)— 
as a rule Mr. May gets the lion’s share of the luck on our joint expedi¬ 
tions. The first stem I cut yielded a nice lively pupa of a clear 
brown complexion, and of a distinctly Nonagriid appearance, and 
before lunch time arrived we had secured a dozen each. Possibly a 
word or two as to how to work for this pupa will he useful to those 
who have not yet taken it. All that is required for the search is a 
knife and perseverance ; thus equipped, look out for a clump of lyme 
grass and search low down among the stems for a short withered stump 
that looks like last year’s dead growth, and has all the leaves tightly 
wrapped round the stem. Having found this, dig the knife into the 
sand and cut it as far below the surface as possible, as the larva often 
pupates below the level of the sand, or perhaps the sand drifts against 
the plant and thus brings about the same result. Pull the leaves off 
carefully until the stalk is reached, once full of juicy pith but now 
hollow and dry. Split this down very cautiously, and the odds are all 
in favour of your finding the pupa snugly ensconced therein in a neat 
cocoon. Although while searching for this pupa Mr. May and I found 
several imagines, neither of us ever saw one actually at rest; when 
we caught sight of them they were either running over the sand 
among the roots or else walking up the stems. Is its resting 
place known ? Its colour leads one to think that it rests on the 
sand. 
That night (Sunday, June 24) my diary records as “ too wet to 
sugar.” It was not a night for strolling over sandhills. The rain 
came down in torrents, and the wind blew lustily from the south-west. 
So we borrowed novels from our landlady and read till we were tired; 
then, the rain having abated, we put an acetylene gas lamp at the 
window—nothing came except more rain, and we went to bed dis¬ 
gusted. Concerning the next evening (June 25th), my diary vouch¬ 
safes the information “ too .... wet for sugaring.” The 
space may be filled according to individual tastes and capabilities. To 
relieve the monotony, the wind came from the north-east. As a matter 
of fact, I don’t think the wind stayed in the same quarter for six 
consecutive hours during our sojourn at Hunstanton. We awoke on 
Tuesday to find the house rocking in a north-next gale, and frequent 
splashes of rain beating against the windows. We had had more 
than enough of staying indoors, so, clothed in macintoshes, we 
spent the morning tying up the grass into bunches on the sands 
beyond the lighthouse. Anyone who can tie up wet grass, hampered 
by a clinging, clammy macintosh, with the string perpetually getting 
into knots, and a keen wind driving the stinging rain into his face, 
and keep his temper during the process is, I think, too good for this 
world. We (Mr. May and 1) are not, and I fear the language was 
“ frequent and free.” However, we managed to make up about thirty 
neat and substantial bunches, and on the way home cheered our¬ 
selves with the thought that probably someone would come along 
and pull our work to pieces again. We never had more than two or 
three destroyed (many were still standing in August), and I soon dis¬ 
covered the reason of their immunity when I essayed to retie one of 
them. As soon as I had touched it, my hands felt as though they 
had been dipped in a glue-pot. Before long, the stickiness spread to 
my shirt cuffs and up my sleeves, and ere an hour had elapsed my one 
