What a sunset when we reached an elevation of three thousand feet above the paddy-fields which stretch across the Kwanto to the Gulf of Yeddo! What a furious thunder-storm came on just as night closed in! Then at half-past nine the moon struggled out from behind the clouds, and we pushed on up over the muddy roads, until at last a cold breath of night air sweeping from the west began to fan our faces, and we realized that we were at the top of the pass, and before us in the dim moonlight loomed the huge form of Asama-yama, that furious volcano, which more than once has laid the land waste for leagues around, and compared with which Vesuvius is a pygmy. We slept on Japanese mats, and in the morning, the drops glittering on every leaf, we started out to walk through the fields to Oiwake, our baggage going forward, we intending to loiter all day amid the charms of nature. Seven species of lilies bloomed about us in the hedges and the fields; a hundred plants, graceful and beautiful in blossom, scented the air with their aroma, and everywhere were butterflies and bees. Above us hung in the sky a banner, the great cloud which by day and by night issues from the crater of Asama-yama. Five species of fritillaries flashed their silvery wings by copse and stream; great black papilios soared across the meadows; blue lycænas, bright chrysophani, and a dozen species of wood-nymphs gamboled over the low herbage and among the grass. Torosan, my chief collector, was in his element. "Dana-san" (_my lord_, or _my master_), "this kind Yokohama no have got." "Dana-san, this kind me no catchee Tokyo side." And so we wandered down the mountain-slope, taking species new alike to American and Japanese, until the sun was sinking in the west. The cloud-banner had grown crimson and purple in the sunset when we wandered into the hospitable doorway of the wayside inn at Oiwake. There we made our headquarters for the week, and thence we carried away a thousand butterflies and moths and two thousand beetles as the guerdon of our chase. Genus PHYCIODES, Doubleday (The Crescent-spots) "Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring. 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver Lightly settle, and sleepily swing." JEAN INGELOW.