Chapter 2
My parents didn't buy me any fancy equipment, so I had to store my collection in old, crumpled cardboard boxes.
I stuck round corks cut from bottle stoppers to the bottom and fastened them with pins.
Inside the crumpled walls of these boxes, I hid my treasures.
At first, I was delighted and often showed off my collection to my peers, but everyone else had wooden boxes with glass lids, vivariums lined with green gauze, and other luxuries, so I couldn't brag about my rudimentary equipment.
In fact, I got into the habit of keeping any significant, publicity-generating finds or catches secret, showing them only to my younger sisters.
Once, I caught a blue Purple Beautyberry, a rare find among us.
After spreading it out and letting it dry, I was so proud that I felt I had to at least show it to the kid next door.
The boy was the son of the teacher who lived across the courtyard.
This boy had the vice of impeccability.
It was a quality two or three times more eerie for a child.
His collection was small and meager, but its neatness and precise care made it like a jewel.
He also had the rare skill of repairing damaged or broken butterfly wings using glue.
In any case, he was a model boy in every way.
For this, I was jealous, admired, and yet hated him.
I showed the boy a Purple Beautyberry.
He appraised it with expert skill, acknowledging its rarity and estimating its cash value at around 20 pfennigs.
But then he began to find fault with it, saying that the wings were not spread properly, that the right antennae was bent, and the left antennae was elongated, and he also discovered a legitimate defect: two legs were missing.
I didn't think the flaws were that serious, but the harsh critic did much to mar my enjoyment of my catch.
So I never showed him my catch again.
