THE DRAGON FROM THE POND 199 



uses its old stem, as a stepping-stone to higher things. But 

 the flight is what we are concerned with. The crowning 

 marvel is the growing of the wings. You see growth. A damp, 

 crumpled thing, like tissue paper crumpled up, not only 

 unfolds and loses its crinkles, but actually grows ; and when 

 it is grown it sets into diaphanous crystal, like our breath on 

 the window, taking the most delicate shape and the most 

 effective. Within twenty minutes the pinions are waved a 

 little, gently stroke the air as if the insect were half afraid 

 that the wing was the weaker and might be abraded by 

 the invisible gases. But the test is enough. After a 

 moment's brooding an ecstatic spring is made. Your 

 eyes must be sharp to follow the green shape between the 

 glint of silver from invisible wings. Perhaps with the 

 wisdom, certainly in the manner of the monoplane, the line 

 of flight becomes at once high and bold ; and the quickest 

 sight loses the creature somewhere over the boughs of elm 

 or oak. 



The miracle is brought home by contrast. The emergence 

 is not a certainty. Among the grubs that crawl to the surface 

 some are either a little wounded or bruised, or the process of 

 growth has been arrested in some way. The wings are 

 caught in the sheath or not smoothly disengaged, and the 

 creature waits for the marvel of the perfect wing in vain. 

 It struggles for the flight, but either tumbles or blunders on 

 broken wing to the grass. The miracle has not happened 

 as Ibsen says of a mental state. 



This flying dragon is a dragon indeed, as terrible as any 

 in the fairy stories. Some of these perfect winged insects of 

 spring and summer live a life as nearly as may be ethereal 

 and unmaterial. The Mayfly does not feed at all. The mouth 

 exists, but is not developed to the point of use. Though 

 some butterflies, more gorgeous than the dragon-fly, descend 



