light when, like a comet crossing the phosphoric 

 drift of the Milky Way, it sweeps past in the night 

 shining with its own luminescence — who knows 

 Aurelia, in short, as it really is. 



For my part, I know that I shall always hold for 

 it an unbounded admiration; nay, a deep affection. 

 It was one of the animals that first enticed me to 

 attend and to interpret the drama beneath the 

 waves. 



And I fain would fondly indulge in the pleas- 

 ing memories of those wondrous hours, watch- 

 ing with sheer sustained excitement the subtle 

 changes of the moon-jelly's eggs and the transfor- 

 mation of the larvae; fondly would I linger, too, 

 over the recollection of innumerable golden days 

 afloat when first I beheld the Scyphomedusan 

 myriads moving with the silent tide. 



As these lines are composed, it is in the dead of 

 winter. I pause in my writing to look around the 

 room. It is not yet dawn; others are still asleep. 

 But the tank-laden tables, the littered bench, the 

 collection-filled shelves, my dog, my drowsy 

 macaw and mischievous crow are utterly lost for 

 the nonce to my unseeing eyes. My attention is 

 riveted to the past; my thoughts are of other times 



[355] 



