Below, through the woods, myriads of robins were flying about, migrants from the North.
Gray displayed his butterflies; nothing uncommon, except a black and green one seldom found north of Miami--but they all bent over the lovely fragile creatures, admiring the silver-spangled Dione butterflies, the great velvety black Turnus; and Shiela, with the point of a dry pine needle, traced for Hamil the grotesque dog's head on the fore wings of those lemon-tinted butterflies which haunt the Florida flat-woods.
"He'd never win at a bench-show," observed her father, lighting his pipe--an out-of-door luxury he clung to.

"Shiela, you little minx, what makes you look so unusually pretty?
Probably that wild-west rig of yours.

Hamil, I hope you gave her a few points on grassing a bird.

She's altogether too conceited.

Do you know, once, while we were picking up singles, a razor-back boar charged us--or more probably the dogs, which were standing, poor devils.