THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 255 
moved back and forth the stridulation troubled 
all the water, and the air, too, with the muffled, 
twanging, rip, rip, rip, rip. The two spines were 
tuned separately, the right being a full tone 
lower, and the backward drawing of the bow 
gave a higher note than its forward reach. So, 
alternately, at a full second tempo, the four tones 
rose and fell, carrying out some strange Silurian 
theme: a muffled cadence of undertones, which, 
thrilled with the mystery of their author and 
cause, yet merged smoothly with the cosmic or- 
chestra of wind and ripples and distant rain. 
So the great, smooth, arching lift of granite 
rocks at our bungalow’s shore, where the giant 
catfish sang, was ever afterward Boom-boom 
Point. And now I sat close by on the sand and 
‘strove to think anew of my butterflies, for they 
were the reason of my being there that brilliant 
October afternoon. But still my pen refused, 
hovering about the thing of ultimate interest as 
one leaves the most desired book to the last. For 
again the ear claimed dominance, and I listened 
to a new little refrain over my shoulder. I pic- 
tured a tiny sawhorse, and a midget who labored 
with might and main to cut through a never-end- 
ing stint of twigs. I chose to keep my image to 
