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A young Swiss student, who in the madness of his passion for beetle-hunting had spent fifteen days in a small châlet at Anzeindaz, sleeping each night on the hay, gave me, some time since, a list of the various foods on which he lived and grew fat. The following is the carte, as he arranged it: Viandes. Vins. Du séret. Du lait de vache. Du caillé. Du lait froid. Du beurre. Du lait de chèvre.
Oddly enough he took no scientific interest in beetles, not even troubling himself to make out their names; his delight lay in the capture of a species which turned out to be rare or new, and still more in finding his name, as captor, recorded in print. Evidently, this beetle-hunting hobby had little to do with science, but was mainly a new phase of the old and undiminished love of sport.
After tea they all set out on a grand beetle-hunting expedition, and so intent were they upon this fascinating pursuit that they did not note the flight of time, till suddenly Mildred, pulling out her watch, gave a pretty cry of alarm. "Do you know what time it is, good people? Half-past six, and the Custances are to dine with us at a quarter-past-seven.
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