So they approached with much care.
"There is something, anyway!" cried Ammon, who was leading the way.
"There are moths! I can see them!" exulted Elnora.
"Those you see are fast enough. It's the ones for which you must search that will get away. The grasses are dripping, and I have boots, so you look along the path while I take the outside," suggested Ammon.
Mrs. Comstock wanted to hunt moths, but she was timid about making a wrong movement, so she wisely sat on a log and watched Ammon and Elnora to learn how they proceeded. Back in the deep woods a hermit thrush was singing his chant to the rising sun. Orioles were sowing the pure, sweet air with notes of gold, poured out while on wing. The robins were only chirping now, for their morning songs had awakened all the other birds an hour ago. Scolding red-wings tilted on half the bushes. Excepting late species of haws, tree bloom was almost gone, but wild flowers made the path border and all the wood floor a riot of colour. Elnora, born among such scenes, worked eagerly, but to the city man, shortly from a hospital, they seemed too good to miss. He frequently stooped to examine a flower face, paused to listen intently to the thrush or lifted his head to see the gold flash which accompanied the oriole's trailing notes. So Elnora uttered the first cry, as she softly lifted branches and peered among the grasses.
"My find!" she called. "Bring the box, mother!"
Ammon came hurrying also. When they reached her
