And this reaction was brought about by a dis- 

 covery made in circumstances wholly unrelated to 

 the direct object of research. It occurred, in fact, 

 during a period of relief from the exactions of 

 my work. I presume that I am capable of experi- 

 encing to the fullest measure all the joys of crea- 

 tive work and of those employments of the nat- 

 uralist which might aptly be termed the routine 

 labors of love. There come, notwithstanding, times 

 when after prolonged and intensive application, 

 both mind and body yearn for a respite, when the 

 reek of reagents, the smell of paint, the stink of 

 ink begin to pall. My usual recreational recourse 

 at such a turn is to lose myself in the solitude of 

 a neighboring swamp or woodland and become 

 buried in a favorite book; or else it may be that I 

 will take the Hippocampus for a short run out into 

 the harbor where with the engine stilled I drift 

 idly about, while sprawled out in languorous ease 

 on the forecastle deck I am carried away on the 

 magic carpet of the cabin radio. 



Behold me then on an August night, at the 

 close of a sweltering day in the studio-laboratory, 

 aboard my boat, supine, staring into the spangled 

 space above, and thrilling, not to the sight of the 



[344] 



