THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 257 



reaching out in front for whatever long-armed 

 beetles most desire. And his song, as he climbed 

 over me, was squeaky and sawlike, and as he 

 walked he doddered, head trembling as an old 

 man's shakes in final acquiescence in the futility 

 of life. 



But in this great-armed beetle it was a nod- 

 ding of necessity, a doddering of desire, the 

 drawing of the bow across the strings in a hymn 

 of hope which had begun in past time with the 

 first stridulation of ancient insects. To-day the 

 fiddling vibrations, the Song of the Beetle, 

 reached out in all directions. To the majority 

 of jungle ears it was only another note in the 

 day's chorus: I saw it attract a flycatcher's at- 

 tention, hold it a moment, and then lose it. To 

 me it came as a vitally interesting tone of deep 

 significance, for whatever emotions it might 

 arouse in casual ears, its goal was another Great- 

 armed Beetle, who might or might not come 

 within its radius. With unquestioning search 

 the fiddler clambered on and on, over me and 

 over flowers and rocks, skirting the ripples and 

 vanishing into a maelstrom of waving grass. 

 Long after the last awkward lurch, there came 

 back zizzing squeaks of perfect faith, and I 



