Then, when they fly,
the lower wings flash out and they are red and black, or gold and black,
or pink and black, or dozens of bright, beautiful colours combined with
black. No one ever has classified all of them and written their complete
history, unless the Bird Woman is doing it now. She wants everything she
can get about them."
"I remember," said Mrs. Comstock. "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.
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