But perhaps I might risk this to the extent of getting all their heads the same way up.  Yes, on one of these fine days (or wet nights) I shall take my library seriously in hand.  There are still one or two books which are the wrong way round.  I shall put them the right way round.

The Chase

The fact, as revealed in a recent lawsuit, that there is a gentleman in this country who spends œ10,000 a year upon his butterfly collection would have disturbed me more in the early nineties than it does to-day.  I can bear it calmly now, but twenty-five years ago the knowledge would have spoilt my pride in my own collection, upon which I was already spending the best part of threepence a week pocket-money.  Perhaps, though, I should have consoled myself with the thought that I was the truer enthusiast of the two; for when my rival hears of a rare butterfly in Brazil, he sends a man out to Brazil to capture it, whereas I, when I heard that there was a Clouded Yellow in the garden, took good care that nobody but myself encompassed its death.  Our aims also were different.  I purposely left Brazil out of it.

Whether butterfly-hunting is good or bad for the character I cannot undertake to decide.  No doubt it can be justified as clearly as fox- hunting.  If the fox eats chickens, the butterfly’s child eats vegetables; if fox-hunting improves the breed of horses, butterfly-hunting improves the health of boys.  But at least, we never told ourselves that butterflies liked being pursued, as (I understand) foxes like being hunted.  We were moderately honest about it.  And we comforted ourselves in the end with the assurance of many eminent naturalists that “insects don’t feel pain.”

I have often wondered how naturalists dare to speak with such authority.  Do they never have dreams at night of an after-life in some other world, wherein they are pursued by giant insects eager to increase their “naturalist collection”—­insects who assure each other carelessly that “naturalists don’t feel pain”?  Perhaps they do so dream.  But we, at any rate, slept well, for we had never dogmatized about a butterfly’s feelings.  We only quoted the wise men.

But if there might be doubt about the sensitiveness of a butterfly, there could be no doubt about his distinguishing marks.  It was amazing to us how many grown-up and (presumably) educated men and women did not know that a butterfly had knobs on the end of his antennae, and that the moth had none.  Where had they been all these years to be so ignorant?  Well-meaning but misguided aunts, with mysterious promises of a new butterfly for our collection, would produce some common Yellow Underwing from an envelope, innocent (for which they may be forgiven) that only a personal capture had any value to us, but unforgivably ignorant that a Yellow Underwing was a moth.  We did not collect moths; there were too many of them.  And moths are nocturnal creatures.  A hunter whose bed-time depends upon the whim of another is handicapped for the night-chase.