THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES 265 
there gently arose the scent of thyme, and of 
rose petals long pressed between the leaves of 
old, old books—a scent memorable of days an- 
cient to us, which in past lives of sedges would 
count but a moment. In an instant it passed, 
drowned in the following smell of bruised stem. 
out I hae surpr.sed the odor of this age-old 
growth, as evanescent as the faint sound of the 
breeze sifting through the cluster of leafless 
stalks. I felt certain that Eryops, although liv- 
ing among horserushes and ancient sedges, never 
smelled or listened to them, and a glow of satis- 
faction came over me at the thought that per- 
haps I represented an advance on this funny old 
forebear of mine; but then I thought of the little 
bees, drawn from afar by the scent, and I re- 
turned to my usual sense of human futility, 
which is always dominant in the presence of in- 
sect activities. 
I leaned back, crowding into a crevice of rock, 
and strove to realize more deeply the kinship of 
these fine earth neighbors. Bone of my bone in- 
deed they were, but their quiet dignity, their 
calmness in storm and sun, their poise, their dis- 
regard of all small, petty things, whether of me- 
chanics, whether chemical or emotional—these 
