FOR reasons of my own, I excused myself from accompanying my stepmotherto a dinner-party given in our neighborhood. In my present humor, Ipreferred being alone—and, as a means of getting through my idle time, Iwas quite content to be occupied in catching insects.
Provided with a brush and a mixture of rum and treacle, I went intoFordwitch Wood to set the snare, familiar to hunters of moths, which wecall sugaring the trees.
The summer evening was hot and still; the time was between dusk and dark.After ten years of absence in foreign parts, I perceived changes in theoutskirts of the wood, which warned me not to enter it too confidentlywhen I might find a difficulty in seeing my way. Remaining among theoutermost trees, I painted the trunks with my treacherous mixture—whichallured the insects of the night, and stupefied them when they settled onits rank surface. The snare being set, I waited to see the intoxicationof the moths.
A time passed, dull and dreary. The mysterious assemblage of trees wasblacker than the blackening sky. Of millions of leaves over my head, nonepleased my ear, in the airless calm, with their rustling summer song.
The first flying creatures, dimly visible by moments under the gloomysky, were enemies whom I well knew by experience. Many a fine insectspecimen have I lost, when the bats were near me in search of theirevening meal.
What had happened before, in other woods, happened now. The first moththat I had snared was a large one, and a specimen well worth securing. AsI stretched out my hand to take it, the apparition of a flying shadowpassed, swift and noiseless, between me and the tree. In less than aninstant the insect was snatched away, when my fingers were within an inchof it. The bat had begun his suppe