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     With your leave, ladies and gentlemen, I will describe the first Texas Linnaean Expedition of this centenary year. The expedition took place, truth to tell, in anticipation of the centenary celebrations, if you will pardon my Latinate phrasing, here, namely, on a date before the Ides of September, 1980. We wanted to be heralds, not stragglers. So it was that we set out, on a glowing September afternoon, almost one year ago, with some refreshingly light equipment.

     Participants were Mr. David Wevill, the encyclopaedist extraordinary of our province; his wife Sharon, whose long legs promised a tireless march; Luke, a Black Labrador and very devoted dog (canis fidelis carissimus); furthermore, myself, a keen student, as some may have known, of Kassner’s Physiognomik, and secret editor of certain unknown fascicles from a vault beneath Paestum, letters by the Elder Pliny! Our equipment was light indeed: for we proposed to swim across the river on whose western shores we live, and to reconnoitre the eastern shoreline, upon which we had hitherto only gazed, when sitting upon our wooden dock (natatura natatorius), by day in the sun, or by night under the moon.

     Around my neck I tied a string, and fastened to the far end of the string, floating across the ripples as I swam, level with the Wevills, was a red ice chest (frigidor rubeus rigidus). The chest contained three bottles of beer (cervisia vulgaris), a small bag of ice cubes, a Laguiole Besset pocket knife with a deerhorn handle, and a magnifying glass (of the lupa philatelica variety). So we crossed the river.

     Soon, having ascertained that there were no snakes waiting on the far shore, we were crawling up the tilted rock that stands among the trees 20 degrees north of a line from our dock to the eastern shore. I pulled in the ice chest, and Luke showered us all with pleasant drops of aqua pura from his pelt. Having placed the chest in the only spot of shade to be found, we set off, the knife and magnifying glass, ready for anything, being distributed between Mr. Wevill and myself.

     Our path, vestigial as it was, took us northward along the shore, under throngs of mesquite (prosopis glandulosa) and oak trees (quercus vivus); also there were some stunted cypress (aquiferus). Soon I noticed no longer the footsteps of the others. I pressed on, nevertheless, alone, for I was eager to be making observations. Avoiding the poison ivy (hedera venesosa vulgarissima, vel Rhus toxidendron) that was sprinkled over the slopes to my right and patchwise across the narrow path, I forged on, listening and sniffing. A lizard scuttled among dry twigs in the bush before me. On rocks in the river I saw the common turtles (Chelys turgidus) basking. Thorned vines, now and then, traced curious designs upon my biceps (lacertus levidensis) and calves. Behind me, the silence, into which, once only, I called. O silentium nemorosum deliciosum! But where were the long legs of Mrs. Wevill, where were Mr. Wevill’s encyclopaedic brains and shoulders? Where was Luke? It was too late to be troubled, I forged on and on, and soon I estimated that I was a good 205 metres ahead. With the magnifying glass I studied a pretty fern, but a large black beetle (scarabaeus niger magnus fatuus) escaped from me.

     Such profusion Nature manifests! How I longed for a distinct snake!

     Eventually I arrived at our objective, a large white rock that slopes from above the shore into the river waters. There I sat, having climbed aloft, but saw not a single fish; I heard, however, distinctly now the grinding of the cicadas, and smelled hot rock, for on it now, like me, the sun was resting. At my back, towering up, was the great scree, with its layered limestone, beset with countless trees, growing and toppled, fresh and rotten, its hollows and protuberances. Myself, too, I observed, inspecting through the glass a red line cut by a bramble (brambulus scatulosus) in my right forearm. And soon Mr. and Mrs. Wevill, they too were observable; and Luke likewise, - a family, at last! What name should this family have now? I knitted my brows over the problem, the resolution of which was not, however, far off: Wevilli viatores absconditi. And Luke? - Lucus a non lucendo, to be sure. For several moments we sat on the rock together, and compared our experiences. It was bliss.

     But soon we were wondering what might befall us on our return journey. Doubtless by now the rattlesnakes had been alerted, and squadrons of immense clawed centipedes (centipedachilopodanon-desiderata) would be gathering to assault us. There would be countless blue trumpet flowers (tecoma glaucus mirabilis dilatus) to observe and classify, uncommon trees, shrubs abstruse, and savage red birds (cardinalis, aut tanagridus), not to mention jocund wrens (troglodytes Carolinus, aut tr. canionicus cachinnans regaliolus) would flank our path between the jaws of cratolus atrox and the claws. What smells we would discover, issuing from the holes of armadillos (tolypeutes tricinctus triumphans), from the nests of turtles, and from the buds of cactus, whose thorns were bound to lodge in our toes. We might even find some poke (phytolacca decandra). So we took heart and set off.

     Arriving without incident at our original camp. we opened the ice chest and helped ourselves to the beers. There is, indeed, nothing quite like what they call hereabouts an astrum solum bonum frigidum (sc. cervicia vulgaris texana, sive “Longum Collum”) - a nice cold Lone Star.

     These preparations made, we were ready for the last leg of our return journey. I slipped around my neck the string noose, as I stood up to my knees in the water. A red hot needle suddenly pierced my neck, close to the jugular. It was an ant, which had, as it were, danced along the string, in search of the other end of it. My magnifying glass was back in the chest, so I was unable to observe the crushed remnants between my thumb and forefinger, or else I might have known whether or not my suspicion as to its being a formix igneus might be correct, unless, let it be said, the remnants were not those of an ant at all.

     So where was I? Ah yes, in the water, and off we swam. Hauling the ice chest was not, as it had been, a painless task. I even wondered if the ant had bitten his way into my neck and was preparing to colonize the rest of my body, so piercing was the pain, so pervasive.

     We reached our western shore without mishap, Luke once more shook from his pelt the drops of aqua pura, and we sat upon the dock, comparing our experiences.

     That, in effect, was the end of the First Texas Linnaean Expedition. It only remained for me to scuttle home, into the nearest mound, where I introduced myself to the others, all hard at work, as usual, carrying little objects, such as leaves and seeds, in their mandibles, and storing them in the usual holes and on the usual shelves (formica formica formica), listening for the signals that announce earthquake or rain, always alert, always busy, always agitating their legs and mandibles, whether in the mound or moving in their files along the usual trails.

     So be it, I told myself, and having bid a quick farewell to my friends (it was too late for a longer and fonder one), scuttle indeed I did, into the nearest mound, whence, one full year later, I have been extracted, with sane little silver sugartongs, by a Swedish poet, whose forethought has made it possible for me to speak to you, as I hope I have done, tonight.