THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 259 



These are thoughts which come at first-snow, 

 thoughts humanly narrow and personal com- 

 pared to the later delights of snow itself — crys- 

 tals and tracks, the strangeness of freezing and 

 the mystery of melting. And they recurred now 

 because for days past I had idly watched scat- 

 tered flurries of lemon-yellow and of orange but- 

 terflies drift past Kartabo. Down the two great 

 Guiana rivers they came, steadily progressing, 

 yet never hurrying; with zigzag flickering flight 

 they barely cleared the trees and shrubs, and then 

 skimmed the surface, vanishing when ripples 

 caught the light, redoubled by reflection when 

 the water lay quiet and polished. For month 

 after month they passed, sometimes absent for 

 days or weeks, but soon to be counted at earliest 

 sunup, always arousing renewed curiosity, al- 

 ways bringing to mind the first flurry of winter. 



We watch the autumn passing of birds with 

 regret, but when the bluebirds warble their way 

 southward we are cheered with the hope and the 

 knowledge that some, at least, will return. Here, 

 vast stretches of country, perhaps all Guiana, 

 and how much of Brazil and Venezuela no one 

 knows, poured forth a steady stream of yellow 

 and orange butterflies. They were very beauti- 



