wings of softest velvet down, and as for butterflies, it was not necessary to go afield for them; they came to me.  I could pick a Papilio Aj ax, that some of my friends were years in securing, from the pinks in my garden.  A pair of Antiopas spent a night, and waited to be pictured in the morning, among the leaves of my passion vine.  Painted Beauties swayed along my flowered walks, and in September a Viceroy reigned in state on every chrysanthemum, and a Monarch was enthroned on every sunbeam.  No luck was too good for me, no butterfly or moth too rare, except forever and always the coveted Cecropia, and by this time I had learned to my disgust that it was one of the commonest of all.

Then one summer, late in June, a small boy, having an earnest, eager little face, came to me tugging a large box.  He said he had something for me.  He said “they called it a butterfly, but he was sure it never was.”  He was eminently correct.  He had a splendid big Cecropia.  I was delighted.  Of course to have found one myself would have filled my cup to overflowing, but to secure a perfect, living specimen was good enough.  For the first time my childish loss seemed in a measure compensated.  Then, I only could study a moth to my satisfaction and set it free; now, I could make reproductions so perfect that every antler of its antennae could be counted with the naked eye, and copy its colours accurately, before giving back its liberty.

I asked him whether he wanted money or a picture of it, and as I expected, he said `money,’ so he was paid.  An hour later he came back and said he wanted the picture.  On being questioned as to his change of heart, he said “mamma told him to say he wanted the picture, and she would give him the money.”  My sympathy was with her.  I wanted the studies I intended to make of that Cecropia myself, and I wanted them very badly.

I opened the box to examine the moth, and found it so numb with the cold over night, and so worn and helpless, that it could not cling to a leaf or twig.  I tried repeatedly, and fearing that it had been subjected to rough treatment, and soon would be lifeless, for these moths live only a short time, I hastily set up a camera focusing on a branch.  Then I tried posing my specimen.  Until the third time it fell, but the fourth it clung, and crept down a twig, settling at last in a position that far, surpassed any posing that I could do.  I was very pleased, and yet it made a complication.  It had gone so far that it might be off the plate and from focus.  It seemed so stupid and helpless that I decided to risk a peep at the glass, and hastily removing the plate and changing the shutter, a slight but most essential alteration was made, everything replaced, and the bulb caught up.  There was only a breath of sound as I turned, and then I stood horrified, for my Cecropia was sailing over a large elm tree in a corner of the orchard, and for a block my gaze followed it skyward, flying like a bird before it vanished in the distance, so quickly had it recovered in fresh air and sunshine.