144 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
Guinevere still danced in stately cadence, with 
the other Redfins at a distance going about their 
several businesses. She danced alone—a dance 
of change, of happenings of tremendous import, 
of symbolism as majestic as it was age-old. Here 
in this little glass aquarium the tadpole Guine- 
vere had just freed her arms—she, with waving 
scarlet fins, watching me with lidless white and 
staring eyes, still with fish-like, fin-bound body. 
She danced upright, with new-born arms folded 
across her breast, tail-tip flagellating frenziedly, 
stretching long fingers with disks like cym- 
bals, reaching out for the land she had never 
trod, limbs flexed for leaps she had never 
made. 
A few days before and Guinevere had been a 
fish, then a helpless biped, and now suddenly, 
somewhere between my salad and coffee, she be- 
came an aquatic quadruped. Strangest of all, 
her hands were mobile, her feet useless; and when 
the dance was at an end, and she sank slowly to 
the bottom, she came to rest on the very tips of 
her two longest fingers; her legs and toes still 
drifting high and useless. Just before she 
ceased, her arms stretched out right froggily, 
her weird eyes rolled about, and she gulped a 
