what you think—you think I’m screwed—some of you! Rotten observation—low visibility—that ’s what you’re suffering from. You didn’t catch me staggering, did you? I fell like a tree—like a hero! I was rehearsing, that ’s what I was doing—the fall of man! The fall of man! There ’s a picture for yer . Ah, you little flowers—you didn’t think I was drunk, did you? You’ve too much respect for me! I’m a man, that ’s what I am—a lord of creation! A great thing to be, I tell yer ‘Now then, pass along there, my man!’ That ’s what they say to me. It ’s wonderful! ‘Clear up that rubbish heap, my man, and I’ll give you a tanner, my man.’ It ’s a fine thing to be a man. (He succeeds in getting his balance.)
Enter the Lepidopterist, r.
Lepidopterist. Two,—splendid Nymphalidae!
Tramp. No offence, mister, but why’jer catch them when they’re all so ’appy playing?
Lepidopterist. Playing, you call it. I’m afraid you haven’t the scientific mind, my friend. It ’s the overture to the natural system by which Nature keeps up the balance of the population—that ’s what you call ‘playing’. The male pursues the female; the female allures, avoids—selects—the eternal round of sex!
Tramp. What will you do with them when you catch them?
Lepidopterist. What shall I do? Well, each insect must be identified, recorded and assigned a place in my collection. The butterfly must be carefully killed, and then carefully pinned, and properly dried, and care must be taken that the
