have a member of my family who is herself
no bigger than a grain of sand. Imagine
what a slender web she makes, and of that
too, each thread is made of four or five thousand
threads that have passed out of her four
bags through four or five thousand little holes.
Would you drop her too, crying out about
your delicacy? A pretty thing indeed for you
to plume yourselves on delicacy and scream
at us." Having made such a speech, we may
suppose that the indignant creature fastens
a rope round one of the rough points in the
lady's hand and lets herself down lightly
to the floor. Coming down stairs is noisy,
clumsy work, compared with such a way of
locomotion.

The creeping things we scorn, are miracles
of beauty. They are more delicate than any
ormolu clock or any lady's watch made, for
pleasure's sake, no bigger than a shilling.
Lyonnet counted four thousand and forty-one
muscles in a single caterpillar, and these are
a small part only of its works. Hooke found
fourteen thousand mirrors in the eye of a
bluebottle, and there are thirteen thousand
three hundred separate bits, that go to provide
for nothing but the act of breathing, in a carp.

Then, there are wonders of locomotion in
the world greater than any steam engine can
furnish. When the hart seeks the waterbrooks,
how many things are set in action!
Eyes to see where the water is, muscles to
move the feet, nerves to stir the muscles, and
a will—no man knows how—to stir the
nerves. There are swift creatures who depend
for self protection on their legs, as hares
and horses. Others less quick of movement
commonly have weapons, as the bull or the
rhinoceros. Birds living in marshes have
long legs, as Frenchmen living in marshes, in
the department of the Landes, make for themselves
long legs by using stilts. Marsh birds
have stilts born with them. The legs of animals
are proportioned always to their bulk
and to their habits. The huge body of the
elephant stands upon four thick pillars, the
stag has supports of a lighter and nimbler
quality. Animals that get some of their living
in the water, as beavers, otters, swans,
ducks, and geese, are born with paddles on
their feet. The mole, again, is born with
spades on his fore legs; and the camel is
born with his feet carefully padded, with his
head lifted high above the sand waves, and
his eyes carefully protected from glare and
dust. One might think through a volume,
to good purpose, about legs. Every creature
has the legs it wants. A traveller in Africa
relates how his baggage mule stumbled and
fell, and could retain no footing over ground
covered with fresh traces of the hippopotamus.
The hippopotamus was born with
clouts, and had the right feet for his own
country; the mule was on a soil for which it
had not been created.

Let us watch the movement of a little
thing. How does a butterfly escape a bird?
By tacking. It flies, when pursued, with a
sharp zig-zag motion. Let us compare
strength with strength. The commonest of
beetles is in proportion six times stronger
than the horse. Linnaeus said of the elephant
that if it were as strong for its size as a
stagbeetle, it would be able to tear up the stoutest
trees and knock down mountains.

The movements of birds upon the wing
furnish a familiar world of wonders: some fly
like arrows, some describe circles in the sky,
and others take a waving undulating course.
There are birds everywhere, and they are
capable of almost anything; what one bird
cannot do another can. There are birds of the
earth, birds of the water, and birds of the air.
There are birds that scream at sea among the
tempests, birds that sing at home of a calm
evening in the tree shading the cottage-door.
There are birds that nest upon the soil in
open plains, and there are birds that live in
caverns: birds of the wood, birds of the
mountain, birds that love towns and houses, birds
living alone in deserts.

We have heard of the singing of swans. It
is not quite a fable. During the winter nights,
flocks of swans traverse the frozen plains of
Iceland, filling the air with harmonies like
murmurs of the lyre. There is perfect time
kept at the concert which they give. The
ablest bird opens the chaunt, a second
follows, then a third, and finally the whole choir
fills the sky with melody. The air is full of
modulated utterances and responses, which
the Icelander in his warm cabin is glad to
hear; for he knows then that the spring
weather is at hand.

There are more harmonies in nature than
mere sounds afford. The world about us is
all harmony, of which we can perceive only
a part. The Cephisus that watered the
gardens of the Academy, has disappeared with
the woods of Mount Hymettus. The old
Scamander has disappeared with the cedars of
Mount Ida, under which it had its source.
The climate of Italy was milder than it is, less
relentless in its heat, before the destruction
of the forests of the Tyrol. He who cuts
down a tree, destroys a colony of insects, a
home or haunt of many birds, a source of
food to quadrupeds perhaps, or even to man.
The plantain tree, that shades a fountain or
hangs over the marshy borders of a stream, is
a beautiful object. Between the river and the
tree there is a harmony. The Persians were
scourged with pestilential maladies from their
marsh-bordered rivers, until they called the
plaintain trees to their aid. "There has been
no epidemic at Ispahan," says Chardin, "since
the Persians adorned with such trees their
river sides and gardens."

We may consider, too, the harmony of
colours. Raffaelle was not more choice about
his painting than we find the sun to be. As
winter departs, the modest violet first
blossoms beneath a veil of leaves. The modesty
means need of shelter. Protecting leaves