272 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
On and on came the water, and soon I was 
forced to move, and the hundreds of butterflies 
in front of me. When the last one had left I 
went away, returning two hours later. It was 
then that I witnessed the most significant hap- 
pening in the Bay of Butterflies—one which 
shook to the bottom the theory of my lepidopter- 
ist friend, together with my thoughtless use of 
the word normal. Over two feet of restless 
brown water covered the sand patches and rocked 
the scouring rushes. A few feet farther up the 
little bay the remaining sand was still exposed. 
Here were damp sand, sand dotted with rushes, 
and sand dry and white in the sun. About a 
hundred butterflies were in sight, some continu- 
ally leaving, and others arriving. Individuals 
still dashed into sight and swooped downward. 
But not one attempted to alight on the exposed 
sand. There was fine, dry sand, warm to a but- 
terfly’s feet, or wet sand soaked with draughts 
of good Mazaruni water. But they passed this 
unheeding, and circled and fluttered in two 
swarms, as low as they dared, close to the surface 
of the water, exactly over the two patches of 
sand which had so drawn and held them or their 
brethren two hours before. Whatever the ulti- 
