very hard to take in perfect condition. The brambles among which they fly, knock their wings to pieces. (A Silver Washed Fritillary is on its upper side a ravishing arrangement in sepia, raw sienna, and black. Beneath, it defies description. It's name is the simplest and best.) Yes, the brambles knocked them about. He evidently resented the creation of brambles. He looked forward to his trip to the New Forest, due in a few weeks. The Silver Washed should be out by then. He had only twenty, and very few varieties. He seemed to lick his lips. Speaking of Fritillaries, last year he took the Duke of Burgundy (this is one of those adorable little butterflies which will presently be worked out). Seventeen he and his friend had in half an hour. And though they returned again and again to the spot, they never saw another. I suppose they were, as far as that place is concerned, worked out.
He complained that the White Admirals were getting scarcer each year. Now God, when He made the underside of the White Admiral, took His colours from the utterly lovely dawn which must have ushered in the sixth day of Creation. And the Little Blue (a tiny bit of the sky, murderers!)—he hadn't seen a Little Blue for three years. The last time he encountered it—rising all round him they were—he took thirty. Thirty