44 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
On the same leaf were casually blown specks 
of dust, larger than the quartette of eggs. To 
the plant the cluster weighed nothing, meant 
nothing more than the dust. Yet a moment be- 
fore they contained the latent power of great 
harm to the future growth of the weed—four 
lusty caterpillars would work from leaf to leaf 
with a rapidity and destructiveness which might, 
even at the last, have sapped the maturing seeds. 
Now, on a smaller scale, but still within the realm 
of insect life, all was changed—the plant was safe 
once more and no caterpillars would emerge. 
For the wasp went from sphere to sphere and 
inoculated every one with the promise of its kind. 
The plant bent slightly in a breath of wind, and 
knew nothing; the butterfly was far away to my 
left, deep-drinking in a cluster of yellow cassia; 
the wasp had already forgotten its achievement, 
and I alone—an outsider, an interloper—ob- 
served, correlated, realized, appreciated, and—at 
the last—remained as completely ignorant as the 
actors themselves of the real driving force, of the 
certain beginning, of the inevitable end. Only a 
momentary cross-section was vouchsafed, and a 
wonder and a desire to know fanned a little hot- 
ter. 
