ON THE WAY TO THE RIVER FOR reasons of my own, I excused myself from accompanying my stepmother to a dinner-party given in our neighborhood.

In my present humor, I preferred being alone--and, as a means of getting through my idle time, I was quite content to be occupied in catching insects.
Provided with a brush and a mixture of rum and treacle, I went into Fordwitch Wood to set the snare, familiar to hunters of moths, which we call sugaring the trees.
The summer evening was hot and still; the time was between dusk and dark.
After ten years of absence in foreign parts, I perceived changes in the outskirts of the wood, which warned me not to enter it too confidently when I might find a difficulty in seeing my way.

Remaining among the outermost trees, I painted the trunks with my treacherous mixture--which allured the insects of the night, and stupefied them when they settled on its rank surface.

The snare being set, I waited to see the intoxication of the moths.
A time passed, dull and dreary.

The mysterious assemblage of trees was blacker than the blackening sky.