As my friend Professor Poulton of Oxford had kindly bestowed upon me a small net and a "killing bottle," I resolved to collect some butterflies and insects for the University Museum, and made frequent excursions outside Wad Hamed camp for the purpose. But ill-luck pursued my untrained efforts at practical entomology. The only thing the bottle came within measurable distance of killing was myself, for it got broken almost at the start, and my cook, thinking the strong-smelling concoction at the bottom was some form of curry powder or seasoning, had carefully annexed the _débris_ of the bottle, and was proceeding to use it for culinary purposes, when I seized the stuff and hurled it into the river. The butterfly net also fell upon evil days, for the donkey which carried it began to roll one evening before its load was removed, and the apparatus was utterly smashed. The stick and brasswork I reluctantly left on the field, but the green gauze served to protect one's eyes and complexion when sandstorms swept through the air. In consequence of these disasters my entomology had to be carried out with ruder implements--to wit, a bath towel and a thick stick. If a butterfly settled on the ground I stalked it carefully, and then fell upon it with the towel; but I often rose from the earth with no butterfly, and nothing in my hands except half a dozen mimosa thorns. Incensed at failure, one struck at the gaudy insects as they fluttered past, and sometimes succeeded in braining a few; but as I gathered up the scattered remains I trembled to think of the Professor's sarcasms upon the condition of my Sudanese specimens. The natives used to gaze upon my pursuit of butterflies with looks of amusement and surprise. What could the Englishman want with these worthless insects? Were they his totems or fetiches? did he collect them for gastronomic purposes, or as material for magical rites? I sometimes offered some trifling _bakshish_ for butterflies, but the Arabs could never be brought to realise that I wanted variety and quality as well as quantity. On one occasion a struggling mass of fifteen or twenty common white butterflies in a matchbox--all exactly the same--was triumphantly brought me by a small boy. I liberated the unhappy prisoners, and rewarded the boy with one penny and a severe lecture.[1] As to the other insects in my collection, many of these were so appallingly ugly and malignant in appearance that one had to pull oneself together to attempt their capture. A soda-water bottle had been filled with whisky amid the protests of Cross, who thought this a waste of good liquor, and when some grisly insect with a striped body, projecting eyes, and aggressive antennæ appeared inside the tent, something like this conversation used to take place:-- E. N. B.--"Do you mind catching that harmless lepidopt, Cross, while I hold the bottle?" H. C.--"I think, somehow, that you're better at catching those beasts than I am; give me the bottle."