Might I not, legitimately, have expected the Carnegie Educational Medal for all this? I have never received it. I say this without indignation--even without sorrow. I merely make the statement. Yet, my system was really a very beautiful system; a tiny batch of eggs would arrive from Ceylon, or Sumatra, or Africa; when taken from cold storage and placed in the herbarium they would presently hatch; the caterpillars were fed with their accustomed food-plant--a few leaves being taken from cold storage every day for them--they would pass through their three or four moulting periods, cease feeding in due time, transform into the chrysalis stage, and finally appear in all the splendour and magnificence of butterfly or moth. The great glass flying-cage was now alive with superb moths and butterflies, flitting, darting, fluttering among the flowering bushes or feeding along the sandy banks of the brook which flowed through the flying-cage, bordered by thickets of scented flowers. And it was like looking at a meteoric shower of winged jewels, where the huge metallic-blue _Morphos_ from South America flapped and sailed, and the orange and gold and green _Ornithoptera_ from Borneo pursued their majestic, bird-like flight--where big, glittering _Papilios_ flashed through the bushes or alighted nervously to feed for a few moments on jasmine and phlox, and where the slowly flopping _Heliconians_ winged their way amid the denser tangles of tropical vegetation. Nothing like this flying-cage had ever before been seen in New York; thousands and thousands of men, women, and children thronged the lawn about the flying-cage all day long. By night, also, the effect was wonderful; the electric lights among the foliage broke out; the great downy-winged moths, which had been asleep all day while the butterflies flitted through the sunshine, now came out to display their crimson or peacock-spotted wings, and the butterflies folded their wings and went to bed for the night. The public was enchanted, the authorities of the Bronx proud and delighted; all apparently was happiness and harmony. Except that nobody offered me the Carnegie medal. I was sitting one morning in my office, which, as I have said, separated the offices of Dr. Quint and Professor Boomly, when there came a loud rapping on my door, and, at my invitation, Dr. Quint bustled in--a little, meagre, excitable, near-sighted man with pointed mustaches and a fleck of an imperial smudging his lower lip. "Last week," he began angrily, "young Jones arrived from Singapore bringing me the eggs of _Erebia astarte_, the great Silver Moon butterfly. Attempts to destroy them have been made. Last night I left them in a breeding-cage on my desk. Has anybody been in there?" "I don't know," I said. "What has happened?"