286 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
where the little weaver of rainbows had found 
board and lodging. We may call him toad- 
hopper or spittle-bug, or as Fabre says,” Con- 
tentons-nous de Cicadelle, qui respecte le tym- 
pan.” Like all of its kindred, the Bubble Bug 
finds Nirvana in a sappy green stem. It has 
neither strong flight, nor sticky wax, thorny 
armature nor gas barrage, so it proceeds to 
fashion an armor of bubbles, a cuirass of liquid 
film. This, in brief, was the rainbow which 
caught my eye when I broke open the stump. 
Up to that moment no rainbow had existed, only. 
a little light sifting through from the vine-clad 
side. But now a ray of sun shattered itself on 
the pile of bubbles, and sprayed itself out into a 
curved glory. 
Bubble Bugs blow their froth only when imma- 
ture, and their bodies are a distillery or home- 
brew of sorts. No matter what the color, or 
viscosity or chemical properties of sap, regard- 
less of whether it flows in liana, shrub, or vine, 
yet the Bug’s artesian product is clear, tasteless 
and wholly without the possibility of being blown 
into bubbles. When a large drop has collected, 
the tip of the abdomen encloses a retort of air, 
inserts this in the drop and forces it out. In 
