THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 253 
is a murmur in Iceland may very well be a song 
in Guiana. At any rate, my pen would have to 
do only with words of singing catfish; yet from 
butterflies to rock, to fish, all was logical looping 
—mental giant-swings which came as relaxation 
after hours of observation of unrelated sheer 
facts. 
The singing cats, so my pen consented to write, 
had serenaded me while I crossed the Cuyuni in 
a canoe. There arose deep, liquid, vibrating 
sounds, such as those I now heard, deep and 
penetrating, as if from some submarine gong—a 
gong which could not be thought of as wet, for it 
had never been dry. As I stopped paddling the 
sound became absolute vibration, the canoe itself 
seemed to tremble, the paddle tingled in my 
hands. It was wholly detached; it came from 
whatever direction the ear sought it. ‘Then, with- 
out dying out, it was reinforced by another 
sound, rhythmical, abrupt, twanging, filling the 
water and air with a slow measure on four notes. 
The water swirled beside the canoe, and a face 
appeared—a monstrous, complacent face, such 
as Boécklin would love—a face inhuman in pos- 
sessing the quality of supreme contentment. 
Framed in the brown waters, the head of the 
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