270 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



but veered at once, heading upbreeze. Along 

 the riverside of markets of tropical cities I have 

 sten fleets of fishing boats crowded close to- 

 gether, their gay sails drying, while great ebony 

 Neptunes brought ashore baskets of angel fish. 

 This came to mind as I watched my flotillas of 

 butterflies. 



I leaned forward until my face was hardly a 

 foot from the outliers, and these I learned to 

 know as individuals. One sulphur had lost a bit 

 of hind wing, and three times he flew away and 

 returned to the same spot. Like most cripples, 

 he was unamiable, and resented a close approach, 

 pushing at the trespasser with a foreleg in a most 

 unbutterfly-like way. Although I watched 

 closely, I did not see a single tongue uncoiled 

 for drinking. Only when a dense group became 

 uneasy and pushed one another about were the 

 tongue springs slightly loosened. Even the nerv- 

 ous antennae were quiet after the insects had set- 

 tled. They seemed to have achieved a Rhopa- 

 loceran Nirvana, content to rest motionless un- 

 til caught up in the temporary whirlwinds of 

 restlessness which now and then possessed them. 



They came from all directions, swirling over 

 the rocks, twisting through near-by brambles, 



