SPONGES 



died out, and the sponge itself was as innocuous 

 as a mushroom. Before we disturbed it I saw 

 that two fish called it home. First, an elegant, 

 scarlet-banded squirrel-fish which now and then 

 peered out from the deep hollow beneath the body 

 of the sponge. Its great eyes were darkened like 

 those of a Spanish dancer, and the red on the gill- 

 covers came and went with the blush rhythm of 

 its emotions. And secondly, a pugnacious little 

 demoiselle, clad m sombre brown, picked out with 

 azure stars, had taken possession of the open center 

 of the sponge itself, and relinquished its tenancy 

 of this round, living patio only when the sponge 

 began to rock on its very foundations. When the 

 floors of some old house have been torn up, I have 

 seen a crowd of little boys run in and excitedly 

 search the ruins for any lost things of old — coins or 

 buttons or baubles — which might be brought to 

 light. In the case of the sponge, hardly had the 

 great organism been rolled over, when a score or 

 more of greedy wrasse rushed in and gleaned 

 among the debris. 



I hoped for parasites and for tenants but not 

 until I began to pull the sponge apart, did I realize 

 the multitude of pulsating lives in these hidden 

 catacombs. After a few experiments I found the 

 best way was to cut off slices, cake-like, from the 

 sponge, and tap them gently into dishes. From 

 each slice, about four by four, by one inch thick, 

 I secured an average of twenty shrimps, with 

 rarely now and then a crab. There was no dim- 



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