A butterfly collector finds out what its like.
|Arthur collected butterflies. His collection had led him to the deepest jungles of South America. To the torrid heat of South East Asia, To Europe; to the Slavic Nations; anywhere a new species of butterfly may exist. His collection was one of the finest in the world, insured for millions of dollars.
Rarity excited him. The more near extinction a butterfly or moth faced, the more he longed for it.
With his tweezers, kill bottle containing a wad of cotton soaked in lighter fluid, his fisherman's creel which he found to be perfect for carrying the jars and his net over his shoulder he would leave his house and wander through the nearby woods in search of his prey.
He always came home with something worthy. Today it was the most delicate blue butterfly. Its wings flapped furiously as he added it to the jar. Slowly the struggle stopped as the butterfly succumbed to its fate.
At home, he pierced its thorax with a tiny blue headed pin. He lay the insect in a piece of cotton in a small box. Covering it with the see through top, once again he was reminded of a sterling piece of jewelry.
Although he had hundreds of this type and color, the thrill of the hunt superseded any remorse he felt for the small creature he now placed in his crowded display case.
"Gotta get a new case. I'm all outta room. "
The afternoon was a success. He sat back in his arm chair and surveyed the room. Ceiling to floor, and in a multitude of display cases, the carcasses of the dead insects lined his studio.
Arthur was well satisfied.