106 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



After a thousand hours all the surroundings 

 had changed. New leaves had sprouted, flowers 

 faded and turned to fruit, the moon had twice 

 attained her full brightness, our earth and sun 

 and the whole solar system had swept headlong 

 a full two-score million miles on the endless swing 

 toward Vega. Only the roots and the crane- 

 flies remained. A thousand hours had appar- 

 ently made no difference to them. The roots 

 might have been the granite near by, fashioned 

 by primeval earth-flame, and the flies but vibrat- 

 ing atoms within the granite, made visible by 

 some alchemy of elements in this weird Rim of 

 the World. 



And so a new memory is mine; and when one 

 of these insects comes to my lamp in whatever 

 part of the world, fluttering weakly, legs break- 

 ing off at the slightest touch, I shall cease to 

 worry about the scientific problems that loom too 

 great for my brain, or about the imperfection 

 of whatever I am doing, and shall welcome the 

 crane-fly and strive to free him from this fatal 

 passion for flame, directing him again into the 

 night; for he may be looking for a dark pocket 

 in a root, a pocket on the Edge of the World, 

 where crane-flies may vibrate with their fellows 



