Distinctions of that nature are almost every-day matters with her. How many species already bear her name she has never told me. I suspect they are so numerous and so frequent that she herself can hardly keep track of them. Think of the pleasure of walking about the earth and being able to say, as an insect chirps, “Listen! that is one of my species,--named after me, you know.” Such _specific_ honors, I say, are common in her case,--common almost to satiety. But to have a _genus_ named for her,--that was glory of a different rank, glory that can never fall to the same person but once; for generic names are unique. Once given, they are patented, as it were. They can never be used again--for genera, that is--in any branch of natural science. To our Franconia entomologist this honor came, by what seemed a poetic justice, in the Lepidoptera, the order in which she began her researches. Hers is a genus of moths. I trust they are not of the kind that “corrupt.” Thinking how above measure I should be exalted in such circumstances, I am surprised that she wears her laurels so meekly. Not that she affects to conceal her gratification; she is as happy over her genus, perhaps, as over the new _édition de luxe_ of her most famous story; for an entomologist may be also a novelist, if she has a _mind_ to be, as Charles Lamb would have said; but she knows how to carry it off lightly. She and the botanist of the party, my “walking mate,” who, I am proud to say, is similarly distinguished, often laugh together about their generic namesakes (his is of the large and noble Compositæ family); and then, sometimes, the lady will turn to me. “It is too bad _you_ can never have a genus,” she will say in her bantering tone; “the name is already taken up, you know.” “Yes, indeed, I know it,” I answer her. An older member of the family, a --th cousin, carried off the prize many years ago, and the rest of us are left to get on as best we can, without the hope of such dignities. When I was in Florida I took pains to see the tree,--the family evergreen, we may call it. Though it is said to have an ill smell, it is handsome, and we count it an honor. “But then, perhaps you would never have had a genus named for you, anyhow,” the entomologist continues, still bent upon mischief. And there we leave the matter. Let the shoemaker stick to his last. Some of us were not born to shine at badinage, or as collectors of beetles. For myself, in this bright September weather I have no ambitions. It is enough, I think, to be a follower of the road, breathing the breath of life and seeing the beauty of the world. * * * * *