on the soft earth under the log. It climbed up the wood, its stout legs
dragging a big pursy body, while it wildly flapped tiny wings the size
of a man's thumb-nail. Elnora gave one look and a cry which brought
Philip.

"That's the rarest moth in America!" he announced. "Mrs. Comstock,
you've gone up head. You can put that in a box with a screen cover
to-night, and attract half a dozen, possibly."

"Is it rare, Elnora?" inquired Mrs. Comstock, as if no one else knew.

"It surely is," answered Elnora. "If we can find it a mate to-night,
it will lay from two hundred and fifty to three hundred eggs to-morrow.
With any luck at all I can raise two hundred caterpillars from them. I
did once before. And they are worth a dollar apiece."

"Was the one I killed like that?"

"No. That was a different moth, but its life processes were the same as
this. The Bird Woman calls this the King of the Poets."

"Why does she?"

"Because it is named for Citheron who was a poet, and regalis refers
to a king. You mustn't touch it or you may stunt wing development. You
watch and don't let that moth out of sight, or anything touch it. When
the wings are expanded and hardened we will put it in a box."

"I am afraid it will race itself to death," objected Mrs. Comstock.