SLICKING FOR FLYINGFISHES 



to make it wise to wriggle away from scientists with 

 nets in motorboats, or any other dangers which fate 

 might have in store. His wings were speckled with 

 black and a third as long as his entire body. Fish 

 No. 3 was almost a third of an inch in length, with 

 jet-black wings, measuring 35 per cent of his whole 

 length, and he could rise and skim the surface for 

 a foot at a time — differing in degree only from the 

 volant ability of his parents. 



I watched their method of swimming and found 

 that progress through the water was by violent vi- 

 bration of the tail, and, to my surprise, with equally 

 rapid movements of the pectorals as well, both fins 

 moving simultaneously. The ventrals were left 

 spread but quite motionless. So here was our catch 

 — little amber-hued beings, speckled with black, 

 with enormous eyes and wing fins that we could al- 

 most watch grow. 



Thus I studied for a while in the laboratory and 

 under the microscope my agile little fish, and then 

 I became very unscientific and unreasonably en- 

 thusiastic. As many thousand times in my life be- 

 fore, and I hope at least another thousand times to 

 come, my mind was simply satiated with the joy of 

 perfect adaptation of form, pattern, color and 

 movement to splendidly necessary ends. And I 

 promptly walked to the south porch, climbed the 

 railing and looked out at the lanes upon lanes of 

 successive slicks from Gurnet to the horizon and 

 thought of the myriads of infant flyingfish carrying 

 on their new Jives, hedged by instinct, guarded by 



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