no better hunting grounds for birds, moths, and flowers. The
fine roads are a convenience, and settled farms a protection,
to be taken into consideration, when bewailing its dismantling.

It is quite true that "One man's meat is another's poison."
When poor Limber, lost and starving in the fastnesses of the
swamp, gave to it a name, afterward to be on the lips of millions;
to him it was deadly poison. To me it has been of unspeakable
interest, unceasing work of joyous nature, and meat in full measure,
with occasional sweetbreads by way of a treat.

Primarily, I went to the swamp to study and reproduce the birds.
I never thought they could have a rival in my heart. But these
fragile night wanderers, these moonflowers of June's darkness,
literally "thrust themselves upon me." When my cameras were
placed before the home of a pair of birds, the bushes parted to
admit light, and clinging to them I found a creature, often having
the bird's sweep of wing, of colour pale green with decorations
of lavender and yellow or running the gamut from palest tans
darkest browns, with markings, of pink or dozens of other
irresistible combinations of colour, the feathered folk found a
competitor that often outdistanced them in my affections, for
I am captivated easily by colour, and beauty of form.

At first, these moths made studies of exquisite beauty, I merely
stopped a few seconds to reproduce them, before proceeding
with my work. Soon I found myself filling the waiting time,
when birds were slow in coming before the cameras, when clouds
obscured the light too much for fast exposures, or on grey days,
by searching for moths. Then in collecting abandoned nests,