WHEN NIGHT COMES TO WATER 



rated and established is inconceivable, yet it 

 proved to be one of the commonest phenomena of 

 the ensuing nights about my sunken light. 



The jelly is the one known as Tamoya haplonema 

 and has no common name, and we know nothing 

 of its life-history. The fish is the well known 

 Bumper or Chloroscomhrus chrysurus. Night after 

 night, the little balloons with their strange cargo 

 would come and go. These jellies were made of 

 well-knit stuff, four-sided, so that I called them 

 the Quads, and they had four sets of six eyes — if 

 that name is deserved by a series of convex lens 

 which do little more than sort out light from 

 darkness. Their creamy -white forms sailed along 

 singly, or in twos and threes. On rare nights 

 twenty would be in sight together, and about one 

 in every four had fish for passengers. The size 

 of these was very accurately adapted to their jelly 

 transport, — small Quads had half-inchers, while 

 big, four-inch jellies might carry a few two-inch 

 fish, or as many as twelve of the smaller size. 

 Twisting and wriggling about in the wake of the 

 jellyfish were four, slender, pink tentacles, ready 

 at a touch to shoot one's hand full of nettles. It 

 was exciting to see the fish manoeuvre for a few 

 seconds before they dashed in to safety between 

 the tentacles. It was like running into an open 

 door before which was suspended a cluster of 

 swaying, twisting live wires. I saw four of these 

 fish which were killed by the nettle lariats, three 

 of them already drawn well inside the mouth. 



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