PROLOGUE
The Tramp is discovered, stretched out in sleep; a bottle at his side. Butterflies flutter across the scene.
Enter a Lepitopterist with a net.
Lepidopterist. There they go, there they go! Fine specimens! Apatura Iris—Apatura Clythia—light-blue butterflies and the Painted Lady. Wait a minute—I’ll get you! That ’s just it—they won’t wait, the silly creatures. Off again . . . Hullo—somebody here. They’re settling on him. Now! Carefully. Slowly. Tiptoe! One, two, three!
[A butterfly settles on the tip of the Tramp’s nose. The Lepidopterist makes a dab with his net.
Tramp. ’Ulo! What yer doin’? Ketchin’ butterflies?
Lepidopterist. Don’t move! Careful now! They’re settling again. Funny creatures—they’ll settle on mud, on any sort of garbage, and now they’re settling on you.
Tramp. Let ’em go. They’re ’appy.
Lepidopterist. Idiot! I’ve lost them, confound you! There they go, there they go!
Tramp. It ’s a shime—it is, reely.
[The Lepidopterist rushes out, r. The Tramp stretches his arms, takes a pull at the emptied bottle, yawns, staggers to his feet and drops down again.
(Speaking to the audience) All right—all right! Don’t you worry. I ’aven’t ’urt myself! I know
