272 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



On and on came the water, and soon I was 

 forced to move, and the hundreds of butterflies 

 in front of me. When the last one had left I 

 went away, returning two hours later. It was 

 then that I witnessed the most significant hap- 

 pening in the Bay of Butterflies — one which 

 shook to the bottom the theory of my lepidopter- 

 ist friend, together with my thoughtless use of 

 the word normal. Over two feet of restless 

 brown water covered the sand patches and rocked 

 the scouring rushes. A few feet farther up the 

 little bay the remaining sand was still exposed. 

 Here were damp sand, sand dotted with rushes, 

 and sand dry and white in the sun. About a 

 hundred butterflies were in sight, some continu- 

 ally leaving, and others arriving. Individuals 

 still dashed into sight and swooped downward. 

 But not one attempted to alight on the exposed 

 sand. There was fine, dry sand, warm to a but- 

 terfly's feet, or wet sand soaked with draughts 

 of good Mazaruni water. But they passed this 

 unheeding, and circled and fluttered in two 

 swarms, as low as they dared, close to the surface 

 of the water, exactly over the two patches of 

 sand which had so drawn and held them or their 

 brethren two hours before. Whatever the ulti- 



