“Not so fast—not so fast,” cried Mr Inglis; but it was of no use, for Philip darted up to the bank, and as he did so the little blue butterfly gently rose in the air, and disappeared over the hedge into the next field.
“Here, Fred,” said Mr Inglis, handing his nephew a small bag net fitted to a joint of a fishing-rod; “now try what you can do, and see if you cannot creep up quietly without all that rush and fuss your cousins make. Now, then, there goes another sulphur butterfly.”
Fred started off, and followed the insect all along one side of the field by the wood, and then partly along the other, when the game gently rose and went over to the other side. But there was a gap in the hedge, and Fred crept through; but on reaching the other side no butterfly could he see for a minute, when all at once it rose from a flower close beside him, and began flitting down the hedge-side again. At last it alighted upon a bunch of Mayflower, quite low down, a late cluster that ought to have been out in bloom a month earlier; and now Fred crept up closer and closer till he stood within reach, when he dashed the net down and just missed the insect, which began to rise, when, recovering his net, Fred made another flying dash, and to his great delight he saw that the yellow treasure was fluttering about inside.
Just then his uncle and the boys came through the gap, and the butterfly, which Mr Inglis said was a very fine specimen, was secured and placed in one of the large pill-boxes.
The captures now made became frequent: at one time it was a gorgeous peacock admiral, with the splendid eyes upon its wings; then one of the pretty tortoiseshell butterflies, or a red admiral, with its lovely lace-edged wings; then again, one of the curious dusky-veined, or an orange-tipped, with its under wings so beautifully traced with green. Down by the pond side, too, they captured some of the fierce libellulae, the gauzy-winged dragon-flies, that darted about with such a powerful flight over the water, and then hovered apparently motionless, as though looking at their beautiful bodies reflected on the bright surface. On one bank, too, a bright little green lizard was captured, and carefully secured, to place in one of the fern cases; besides which there were rose beetles, watchmen, spiders, and tiny flies, that Fred considered were neither curious nor pretty, but which Mr Inglis said were quite the contrary, being both curious and pretty, or, rather, beautiful, as he would show Master Fred when they reached home. There were plenty of specimens, too, to have been obtained from the water; but this was not a water expedition, so they contented themselves with the productions of the air, and rich indeed was this part of the country in insect wonders. Fred at first only looked upon the gaily-painted butterflies, and bright rose beetles, as being beautiful, till he heard some of the explanations from Mr Inglis, when he found that in some of the smallest insects they captured there were ten times the beauties and wonders that were to be found in their larger companions. There were numberless things that he would have passed over because they were not striking at the first glance, but which the eye of the naturalist had sought out, and made known to those who had not chosen insect life for their study. Fred never before saw such plumes of feathers as some little gnats wore on their heads, nor knew of such a wondrous or dangerous instrument as the sting of a bee, so fine and so sharp; and yet fine as it was, able to contain a channel by which the minute portion of poison was injected into the tiny wound to rankle and create such great pain.
“But come,” said Mr Inglis, “we must talk about these things when we get back to-night, and have the microscope out. We must have some more specimens yet. Try after those great cabbage butterflies, boys’—those we have are getting very shabby in appearance.”
Away started Harry and Philip, forgetting in a moment all the advice they had received, and dashing off after the inserts in a wild chase, that ended, of course, in the butterflies soaring up out of reach, and the boys coming back hot and out of breath to be laughed at by their father and Fred.
At last they reached Mr Benson’s farm, where they were most cordially received by the farmer’s happy-faced dame, who seemed delighted to see her belated friends again, and soon had them into the house to feast upon fresh-gathered strawberries and some of the thick yellow cream that she skimmed morning and night from the pans in her snowy dairy; and when they had finished, and Mr Inglis was having a quiet chat with Farmer Benson about crops, and markets, and similar matters, which Harry classed together as “all bother,” Mrs Benson showed the boys her famous dairy, which I was quite right in calling “snowy,” for it was in everything of the whitest and coldest. For Mrs Benson’s dairy was famous for the butter and cream it produced, and was well known at all the markets round, for from nowhere else was there such sweet golden-looking butter to be obtained.
After Fred had been initiated in the mysteries of churning and cheese pressing, they all went into the orchard, and saw what a goodly promise of apples there was, and then and there Mrs Benson promised them a basketful, which she said she would send to them at the school. Then into the garden, which seemed to be overflowing with fruit and vegetables; and then into the farm-yard to see the fowls, cows, and calves, and have a peep in at the great brindle bull, whose low thundering bellow made the door vibrate and rattle upon its hinges, and who turned round his great heavy, stupid-looking face to the full length of his bright chain, and stared at his visitors as much as to say, “Did you ever see such a great bull-headed thing before in all your life?” He seemed to be anything but the great savage, roaring beast that Fred had expected to see. But for all his dull look, this very bull could fly into a passion sometimes when he was out in the fields, and stamp and bellow and tear up the ground, making the sods fly in all directions. He once charged at the cowman who was going to drive the cows all up for milking, and as soon as the man saw him coming away he ran for the gate, and after him came the bull, full tear. The more the cowman ran the more the bull ran, till at last the gate was reached, and over it went the poor fellow, in a half jump, half tumble sort of fashion, and then away again on the other side; while the bull, evidently considering the gate as unworthy of his notice, disdained to try and leap, but went rush at it like a small railway train at a crossing where the gates have been accidentally left open.
“Crash” went the gate, and “Bellow” went the bull, for it really hurt him, as was testified by one of his horns being broken short off, making the poor beast stop short, and stamp and bellow louder than ever; and, giving up all thought of chasing the cowman, run tearing round the field in a great clumsy gallop, frightening the cows till they all did the same, with tails sticking straight up, and having plenty of difficulty to get out of the poor bull’s way, I say “poor” bull, for the animal must have been suffering intense pain, though he deserved very little pity, for there is no knowing what might have been the cowman’s fate if it had not been for the gate.