AS THE BEE FLIES 163 



He examined my neck and hair with unneces 

 sary thoroughness, flew away, returned to 

 begin all over again, flew away and returned 

 once more; but at last even he gave up the 

 matter and went off about his business. 



Butterflies came fluttering past me: big, 

 rust-colored ones pointed in black; pale russet 

 and silver ones; dancing little yellow ones; 

 big black ones with blue-green spots, rather 

 shabby and languid, as at the end of a gay 

 season. Darning-needles darted back and 

 forth, with their javelin-like flight, or mounted 

 high by sudden steps, or lighted near me, with 

 that absolute rigidity that is the positive 

 negation of movement. A flying grasshopper 

 creeping along through the tangle at my feet 

 rose and hung flutteringly over one spot, for 

 no apparent reason, and then, for no better 

 reason, dropped suddenly and was still. A big 

 cicada with green head and rustling wings 

 worked his way clumsily among a pile of last 

 year s goldenrod stalks, freed himself, and 

 whirred away with the harsh, strident buzz 

 that dominates every other sound while it 

 lasts, and when it ceases makes the world 

 seem wonderfully quiet. 



