THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 259° 
These are thoughts which come at first-snow, 
thoughts humanly narrow and personal com- 
pared to the later delights of snow itself—crys- 
tals and tracks, the strangeness of freezing and 
the mystery of melting. And they recurred now 
because for days past I had idly watched scat- 
tered flurries of lemon-yellow and of orange but- 
terflies drift past Kartabo. Down the two great 
Guiana rivers they came, steadily progressing, 
yet never hurrying; with zigzag flickering flight 
they barely cleared the trees and shrubs, and then 
skimmed the surface, vanishing when ripples 
caught the light, redoubled by reflection when 
the water lay quiet and polished. For month 
after month they passed, sometimes absent for 
days or weeks, but soon to be counted at earliest 
sunup, always arousing renewed curiosity, al- 
ways bringing to mind the first flurry of winter. 
We watch the autumn passing of birds with 
regret, but when the bluebirds warble their way 
southward we are cheered with the hope and the 
knowledge that some, at least, will return. Here, 
vast stretches of country, perhaps all Guiana, 
and how much of Brazil and Venezuela no one 
knows, poured forth a steady stream of yellow 
and orange butterflies. They were very beauti- 
