SLICKING FOR FLYINGFISHES 



a second, and the corpuscles are stained with 

 orange. 



Then the whole egg takes on the color of rust, 

 and the microscope shows the blood quite red. Our 

 flyingfish is getting restless and now and then gives 

 a convulsive leap — sufficient, we should say, to de- 

 stroy all the delicate membranes in the egg. But 

 the special god of infant flyingfish knows his job, 

 and early one morning we see a pair of perfectly 

 good fins waving in mid-egg. The tail flicks about 

 and the small fish actually revolves in its egg case 

 — the yolk always growing less and the body of the 

 fish larger. The wing fins flap alternately, first one 

 and then the other. Even the jaws open and close 

 slightly, and the eye has begun to function and a 

 sudden flash of the light from the microscope mirror 

 will cause the fish to flinch and often turn com- 

 pletely around. 



Before it hatches, the fish has become greenish 

 or yellowish orange, and the head has grown up to 

 match the size of the eyes. The gills show regular 

 breathing movements, and the embryo fits so tightly 

 within the egg that the fins can no longer do more 

 than wriggle at the base. Finally a supreme convul- 

 sive squirm breaks the barrier and the infant fish 

 slips out into what to me is a watch glass on my 

 microscope stage — to him it is his ancestral ocean. 

 He stretches out his cramped body to full length — 

 four milhmeters, or a sixth of an inch. For a while 

 he lies inert, borne down, if not by the realization 

 of being at liberty on the face of our planet, then at 



71 



