THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 255 



moved back and forth the stridulation troubled 

 all the water, and the air, too, with the muffled, 

 twanging, rtp, rip, rip, rip. The two spines were 

 tuned separately, the right being a full tone 

 lower, and the backward drawing of the bow 

 gave a higher note than its forward reach. So, 

 alternately, at a full second tempo, the four tones 

 rose and fell, carrying out some strange Silurian 

 theme: a muffled cadence of undertones, which, 

 thrilled with the mystery of their author and 

 cause, yet merged smoothly with the cosmic or- 

 chestra of wind and ripples and distant rain. 



So the great, smooth, arching lift of granite 

 rocks at our bungalow's shore, where the giant 

 catfish sang, was ever afterward Boom-boom 

 Point. And now I sat close by on the sand and 

 strove to think anew of my butterflies, for they 

 were the reason of my being there that brilhant 

 October afternoon. But still my pen refused, 

 hovering about the thing of ultimate interest as 

 one leaves the most desired book to the last. For 

 again the ear claimed dominance, and I listened 

 to a new little refrain over my shoulder. I pic- 

 tured a tiny sawhorse, and a midget who labored 

 with might and main to cut through a never-end- 

 ing stint of twigs. I chose to keep my image to 



