286 EDGE OP THE JUNGLE 



where the little weaver of rainbows had found 

 board and lodging. We may call him toad- 

 hopper or spittle-bug, or as Fabre says," Con- 

 tentons-nous de Cicadelle, qui respecte le tym- 

 pan" Like all of its kindred, the Bubble Bug 

 finds Nirvana in a sappy green stem. It has 

 neither strong flight, nor sticky wax, thorny 

 armature nor gas barrage, so it proceeds to 

 fashion an armor of bubbles, a cuirass of liquid 

 film. This, in brief, was the rainbow which 

 caught my eye when I broke open the stump. 

 Up to that moment no rainbow had existed, only 

 a little light sifting through from the vine-clad 

 side. But now a ray of sun shattered itself on 

 the pile of bubbles, and sprayed itself out into a 

 curved glory. 



Bubble Bugs blow their froth only when imma- 

 ture, and their bodies are a distillery or home- 

 brew of sorts. No matter what the color, or 

 viscosity or chemical properties of sap, regard- 

 less of whether it flows in liana, shrub, or vine, 

 yet the Bug's artesian product is clear, tasteless 

 and wholly without the possibility of being blown 

 into bubbles. When a large drop has collected, 

 the tip of the abdomen encloses a retort of air, 

 inserts this in the drop and forces it out. In 



