early in July, while the light was sufficiently strong that a printable picture could be had by intensifying the plate, and one good time exposure as a Celeus, with half-folded wings, clambered over a hollyhock, possibly hunting a spot on which to deposit an egg or two.  The hollyhock painting of this chapter is from this study.  The flowers were easy but it required a second trial to do justice to the complicated markings of the moth.

This evening lover and strong flyer, with its swallow-like sweep of wing, comes into the colour schemes of nature with the otter, that at rare times thrusts a sleek grey head from the river, with the grey-brown cotton-tails that bound across the stubble, and the coots that herald dawn in the marshes.  Exactly the shades, and almost the markings ofits wings can be found on very old rail fences.  This lint shows lighter colour, and even grey when used in the house building of wasps and orioles, but I know places in the country where I could carve an almost perfectly shaded Celeus wing from a weather-beaten old snake fence rail.

Celeus visits many flowers, almost all of the trumpet-shaped ones, in fact, but if I were an artist I scarcely would think it right to paint a hollyhock without putting King Celeus somewhere in the picture, poised on his throne of air before a perfect bloom as he feasts on pollen and honey.  The holly-hock is a kingly flower, with its regally lifted heads of bright bloom, and that the king of moths should show his preference for it seems eminently fitting, so we of the Cabin named him King of the Hollyhocks.

CHAPTER VIII Hera of the Corn:  Hyperchira Io

At the same time he gave me the Eacles Imperialis moths, Mr. Eisen presented me with a pair of Hyperchiria Io.  They were nicely mounted on the black velvet lining of a large case in my room, but I did not care for them in the least.  A picture I would use could not be made from dead, dried specimens, and history learned from books is not worth knowing, in comparison with going afield and threshing it out for yourself in your own way.  Because the Io was yellow, I wanted it—­ more than several specimens I had not found as yet, for yellow, be it on the face of a flower, on the breast of a bird, or in the gold of sunshine, always warms the depths of my heart.

One night in June, sitting with a party of friends in the library, a shadow seemed to sweep across a large window in front.  I glanced up, and arose with a cry that must have made those present doubt my sanity.  A perfect and beautiful Io was walking leisurely across the glass.

“A moth!” I cried.  “I have none like it!  Deacon, get the net!”

I caught a hat from the couch, and ran to the veranda.  The Deacon followed with the net.

“I was afraid to wait,” I explained.  “Please bring a piece of pasteboard, the size of this brim.’