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.
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