THE SPORT OF FATE
"A populous solitude of bees and birds
And fairy-formed and many-coloured things."
BYRON.
Was ever a more glorious season for butterflies, and, alas! be it said,
for sand and fruit and other flies of humble bearing but questionable
character?
Light-hearted, purely ornamental insects, sober and industrious, ugly,
mischievous, destructive, all have revelled--and the butterfly brings the
art of inconsequent revelling to the acme of perfection--in the
comparatively dry air, in the glowing skies, and in the succession of
serene days. Moreover there has been no off-hand, untimely destruction
of the nectariferous blossoms of millions of trees and shrubs. Frail as
some flowers are, others linger long if unmolested by profane winds,
offering a protracted feast of honey, pure and full-flavoured. The light
sprinklings of rain have served to freshen the air and moisten the soil
without diluting the syrupy richness of floral distillations. All the
generous output has been over-proof.
Gaudy insects, intoxicated and sensuous, have feasted and flirted
throughout the hours of daylight, and certain prim moths, sonorous of
flight, find subtly scented blossoms keeping open house for them the
livelong night.
Let others vex their souls and mutter the oddest sorts of imprecations
because the fruit-fly cradles its pampered young in the juiciest of their
oranges. Me it shall content to watch butterflies sip the nerve-shaking
nectar of the paper-barks, and in their rowdy flight cut delirious scrolls
against the unsullied sky.
Shall not I, too, glory in the superb season, and its scented
tranquillity? Even though but casual glances are bestowed on the dainty
settings of the pages on which Nature illustrates her brief but brilliant
histories, understanding little, if aught, of her deeper mysteries, but
thankful for the frankness and unaffectedness of their presentation--shall
not I find abundance of sumptuous colour and grace of form for my
enjoyment, and for my pondering texts without number?
What more fantastic scene than the love-making of the great green and
gold and black Cassandra--that gem among Queensland butterflies-when four
saucy gallants dance attendance on one big, buxom, sober-hued damsel of
the species, and weave about her aerial true lovers' knots, living
chains, festoons, and intricate spirals, displaying each his bravest
feathers, and seeking to dazzle the idol of the moment with audacious
agility, and the beauty of complex curves and contours fluid as billows?
The red rays of the Umbrella-tree afford a rich setting to the scene. The
rival lovers twirl and twist and reel as she--the prude--flits with
tremulous wings from red knob to red knob--daintily sampling the spangles
of nectar.
Not of these living jewels in general, but of one in particular, were
these lines intended to refer--the great high-flying Ulysses, first
observed in Australia on this very island over half a century ago. It was
but a passing gleam, for the visiting scientist lamented that it flew so
high over the treetops that he failed to obtain the specimen. True to
name, the Ulysses still flies high, and wide--a lustrous royal blue with
black trimmings and dandified tails to his wings that answer the dual
purpose of use and ornament.
When Ulysses stops in his wanderings for refreshment he hides his
gorgeous colouring, assuming similitude to a brown, weather-beaten leaf,
and then the tails complete the illusion by becoming an idealistic stalk.
He is one of the few, among gaily painted butterflies that certain birds
like and hawk for. When in full flight, by swift swerves and doubles, he
generally manages to evade his enemies, but during moments of
preoccupation is compelled to adopt a protective disguise.
As the boat floated with the current among the bobbing, slender spindles
of the mangroves--youthful plants on a voyage of discovery for new
lands--there appeared a brown mottled leaf on the surface. A second
glance revealed a dead Ulysses--an adventurous creature which had
succumbed to temporary weakness during a more than usually ambitious
maritime excursion. Here was a flawless specimen, for the wings of
butterflies, in common with the fronds of some delicate ferns, have the
property of repelling water, and do not readily become sodden, But as I
essayed to take it up tenderly the wings boldly opened, displaying just
the tone of vivid blue for which the silvery sea was an ideal setting.
It was sad to be weary and to fail; to experience gradual but inevitable
collapse; to flop helplessly to the water to drown; but the lightest
touch of the hand of man was a fate less endurable--too, frightful by far
to submit to without a struggle. So, with a grand effort the great insect
rose; and the sea, reluctant to part with such a rare jewel, retained in
brown, dust-like feathers the pattern of the mottling of the under
surface of the wings. What finicking dilettantism--was ever such "antic,
lisping, affecting fantastico?"--that rough Neptune, who in blind fury
bombards the stubborn beaches with blocks of coral, should be delicately
susceptible to the downy print of a butterfly's wings!
Though languid and weary, the butterfly was resolute in the enjoyment of
the sweetness of life, Its flight, usually bold, free, and aspiring, was
now clumsy, wavering, erratic. Three-quarters of a mile away was an
islet. Some comely instinct guided it thitherwards, sometimes staggering
low over the water, sometimes flitting splendidly high until distance and
the glowing sky absorbed it.
My, course lay past the islet, and I stood in the boat that I might see
the coral patches slipping past beneath, the shoals of tiny fish, and the
swift-flying terns, the broad shield of the sea, and the purple mountains.
Close to the islet what I took to be the tip of a shark's fin appeared.
It seemed to be cutting quick circles, rising and dipping as does the
dorsal fin when a shark is closely following, or actually bolting its
prey. As the boat approached, the insignia of a voracious shark changed
to the spent Ulysses, making forlorn and ineffectual efforts to rise.
Once again, however, the fearsome presence of man inspired a virile
impulse. Ulysses rose, flapping wildly and unsteadily but with gallant
purpose. The islet was barely twenty yards away. Would the brave and
lovely emblem of gaiety reach it and rest? It rose higher and higher in
lurching spirals, and having gained the necessary elevation, swooped
superbly for the sanctuary of the tree-lined beach.
Rest and safety at last! But at that moment ironic Fate--having twice
averted drowning, twice waved off the hand of man--flashed out in the
guise of a twittering wood swallow. In the last stage of exhaustion no
evading swerve was possible.
Two blue wings on the snow-white coral marked where the wanderings of
Ulysses had ended, while at the corner of the little cove a dozen
heedless Cassandras rioted amongst the rays of the umbrella-tree in curves
and swoops of giddy flight.