Rarely in the throng came that
scarlet and black, which makes the gaudy, flaunting hibiscus envious of
its colour; but the little yellow "wanderers," ever busy and active,
came low over the water, weary with the long journey, and sometimes
ready to rest--shifty flecks of gold--on the white sail.
There was no end to the flight. The air was too full. One wearied of the
ceaseless panorama of the gay bejewelled insects. They were the
possessors of the prime of that glorious morning. Beautiful and frail,
and inconsequent as they were, you envied them. They flitted on without
guide or leader, venturing the dangers of water and air, flying up in
the full blaze of the sun--eager, joyous, unconcerned. In the boat we
were compelled to loll about between heaven and the cool coral groves,
and compare enforced inactivity with the blithesome freedom of the
weakest butterfly.
Occasionally a turtle would bob up from its pastures below, and catching
sight of the sail, with a bubbling gulp, disappear, the white splash
creating concentric rings of ripples. But the breeze came not, and the
disorderly procession of butterflies, miles broad, passed on.
"Some flew light as a laugh of glee;
Some flew soft as a low, long sigh,
All to the haven where each would be.
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