The Collector Tenure

The professor, at that day, was merely handling the young man the necessary tools to collect: the pin, the immaculated white cloth, tightly streched out over the wooden frame. The warmth of the greenhouse was gentle, and the air around was freshened by the vivid green life all around, and the dust of the butterflies' wings could be seen through the sunrays: the young man was concentrated on the task, as if some degree of pride and importance on accomplishing it was on stake. The old man professed important thoughts that were not regarded as they should be: the collector is the first one to get killed: the collector is already dead, you must know.