THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 257 
reaching out in front for whatever long-armed 
beetles most desire. And his song, as he climbed 
over me, was squeaky and sawlike, and as he 
walked he doddered, head trembling as an old 
man’s shakes in final acquiescence in the futility 
of life. 
But in this great-armed beetle it was a nod- 
ding of necessity, a doddering of desire, the 
drawing of the bow across the strings in a hymn 
of hope which had begun in past time with the 
first stridulation of ancient insects. To-day the 
fiddling vibrations, the Song of the Beetle, 
reached out in all directions. To the majority 
‘of jungle ears it was only another note in the 
day’s chorus: I saw it attract a flycatcher’s at- 
tention, hold it a moment, and then lose it. To 
me it came as a vitally interesting tone of deep 
significance, for whatever emotions it might 
arouse in casual ears, its goal was another Great- 
armed Beetle, who might or might not come 
within its radius. With unquestioning search 
the fiddler clambered on and on, over me and 
over flowers and rocks, skirting the ripples and 
vanishing into a maelstrom of waving grass. 
Long after the last awkward lurch, there came 
back zizzing squeaks of perfect faith, and I 
