ation by the eye, and that attraction which fire is well known to
possess for many creatures. Shelley sings of

"The desire of the moth for the star,"

as if it were a romantic passion for that which is bright and beautiful.
This is, of course, a poet's aspect; the insect-collector, who wants to
fill his cabinet--"my friend the weaver," who nightly pursues his
"untaxed and undisputed game"--well knows that the glare of his
bull's-eye lamp will attract the moths by thousands on a damp night in
June. The little flitting atoms pass and repass across the field of
light, suddenly flashing into full radiance, and in an instant relapsing
into the darkness, unless his gauze net is too rapid for them. I have
often sat reading late at night with a candle in the window, and
observed with interest how many insects of all orders will soon
congregate on the outside; now and then some large moth coming up with a
dull _thud_, or a great mailed beetle dashing against the glass with a
crash that makes one look sharply up to see whether he has not cracked
the pane. In Jamaica I have taken many valuable beetles and other
insects around the candle-shades at an open window, which were not met
with in any other way.

So in Alabama, where it is customary in balmy autumn evenings for the
family to sit in the yard under the broad sheltering trees, by the
flickering light of the yard-fire. This fire is lighted at dusk on an
iron tripod breast-high, and kept up till bed-time. It is the duty of a
negro urchin to keep it constantly bright with splints of pine, so as to
maintain a perpetual blaze, as the object is to illuminate the yard and
its contiguous offices. The little "nigger" nods, of course, but the
loud scolding voice of master, mistress, or overseer, or any one else,
rates him, and rouses him to duty, as soon as the flame falls. It is
pleasant to sit and watch the effect of the light, either transmitted
through or reflected from the quivering leaves of the surrounding trees,
the blaze now rising brightly and playing in tongue-like flickering
spires, now sinking and dying to a ruddy glow, then suddenly reviving
under the frightened watchfulness of the sable minister, who plays the
part of vestal virgin at this altar.

Large insects often play around this fire. Beetles "wheel their drony
flight" in buzzing circles round for a few turns, and are gone; and
moths come fluttering about, and often scorch their plumy wings. I have
taken