THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 265 



there gently arose the scent of thyme, and of 

 rose petals long pressed between the leaves of 

 old, old books — a scent memorable of days an- 

 cient to us, which in past lives of sedges would 

 count but a moment. In an instant it passed, 

 drowned in the following smell of bruised stem. 

 But I had surprised the odor of this age-old 

 growth, as evanescent as the faint sound of the 

 breeze silting through the cluster of leafless 

 stalks. I felt certain that Eryops, although liv- 

 ing among horserushes and ancient sedges, never 

 smelled or listened to them, and a glow of satis- 

 faction came over me at the thought that per- 

 haps I represented an advance on this funny old 

 forebear of mine ; but then I thought of the little 

 bees, drawn from afar by the scent, and I re- 

 turned to my usual sense of human futility, 

 which is always dominant in the presence of in- 

 sect activities. 



I leaned back, crowding into a crevice of rock, 

 and strove to realize more deeply the kinship of 

 these fine earth neighbors. Bone of my bone in- 

 deed they were, but their quiet dignity, their 

 calmness in storm and sun, their poise, their dis- 

 regard of all small, petty things, whether of me- 

 chanics, whether chemical or emotional — these 



