ISLANDS 63 



of its pale hue had fallen upon their wings 

 and bodies. Here were tiny, grayish-white 

 crabs, here were spiders, which, until they 

 moved, were not spiders but sand. And when 

 they did move, recognition usually came too 

 late to some fly, which had trespassed on this 

 littoral hunting ground. Tiger-beetles drifted 

 about like sand-grain wraiths, whose life wan- 

 derings lay between low tide and the highest 

 dune; veriest ghosts of their brilliant green 

 brethren farther inland. Ashen wasps buzzed 

 past, with compass and maps in their heads, 

 enabling them to circle about once or twice, 

 alight, take a step or two and, kicking down 

 their diminutive front door, to enter the slant- 

 ing sandy tube which for them fulfilled all the 

 requirements of home. 



From an aeroplane, Barbados would appear 

 like a circular expanse of patchwork, or a wild 

 futurist painting set in deepest ultramarine; a 

 maze of rectangles or squares of sugar-cane, 

 with a scattering of sweet potatoes and sea 

 island cotton. I got a hint of this when I 

 motored to the highest point of land, and then 

 climbed the steeple of the loftiest church. At 

 my feet was the Atlantic with great breakers, 



