stock. "They are mighty pretty things. I've
started up slews of them from the vines covering the logs, all my life.
I must be cautious and catch them after this, but they seem powerful
spry. I might get hold of something rare." She thought intently and
added, "And wouldn't know it if I did. It would just be my luck. I've
had the rarest thing on earth in reach this many a day and only had the
wit to cinch it just as it was going. I'll bet I don't let anything else
escape me."

Next morning Philip came early, and he and Elnora went at once to the
fields and woods. Mrs. Comstock had come to believe so implicitly in him
that she now stayed at home to complete the work before she joined them,
and when she did she often sat sewing, leaving them wandering hours at
a time. It was noon before she finished, and then she packed a basket
of lunch. She found Elnora and Philip near the violet patch, which was
still in its prime. They all lunched together in the shade of a wild
crab thicket, with flowers spread at their feet, and the gold orioles
streaking the air with flashes of light and trailing ecstasy behind
them, while the red-wings, as always, asked the most impertinent
questions. Then Mrs. Comstock carried the basket back to the cabin,
and Philip and Elnora sat on a log, resting a few minutes. They had
unexpected luck, and both were eager to continue the search.

"Do you remember your promise about these violets?" asked he. "To-morrow
is Edith's birthday, and if I'd put them special delivery on the morning
train, she'd get them in the late afternoon. They ought to keep that
long. She leaves for the North next day."

"Of course, you may have them," said Elnora. "We will quit long enough
before supper to gather a large bunch. They can be packed so they will
carry all right. They should be perfectly fresh, especially if we gather
them this evening and let them drink all night."

Then they went back to hunt Catocalae. It was a long and a happy search.
It led them into new, unexplored nooks of the woods, past a red-poll
nest, and where goldfinches prospected for thistledown for the cradles
they would line a little later. It led them into real forest, where
deep, dark pools lay, where the hermit thrush and the wood robin
extracted the essence from all other bird melody, and poured it out in
their pure bell-tone notes. It seemed as if every old gray tree-trunk,
slab of loose bark, and prostrate log yielded the flashing gray
treas