anatomy? Wherefore has Nature, who
does nothing without a motive, so liberally
garnished the velocipede with meat? Why
has she endowed that tender viand with so
remarkable an easiness of digestion and so
exquisite and inviting a flavour? Does Nature,
by these signs intend to insinuate that the
providential destiny of the runner is to be
snared or shot and then roasted and eaten?

The fact, alas! is only too probable, the
language too clear, the oracle too certain.
Yes! Everything leads to the belief that
Nature has destined the order of velocipedes
to serve as food for flesh-eating creatures in
every kingdom of the animated world. Yes!
These unhappy races merit, in the same degree
as the ruminants, the appellation of the
victim order. [Victim, from the Latin victus,
conquered, from which the word victuals is also
derived, in consequence of the ancient practice
of conquerors making a meal off their
conqueree's sirloin.] Yes! Of what use is it to
mince the matter ? Amongst birds, the
velocipedes are, to man, what the ruminants
are among the mammifers—an order, every
species of which is charged with the mission
of furnishing us with composite pleasure.
The analogy must be very evident; since,
before we came to enlighten the world, it had
already struck a number of savants. There
are, in fact, velocipedes of the sands, and
velocipedes of the steppes —of the meadows,
the rocks, and the precipices —exactly as there
are ruminants for every one of those special
localities. There is the ostrich, as there is
the camel; the bustard, as the antelope; the
hen, as the cow; the partridge and the
pheasant, as the gazelle and the roe;
the bartavelle, the grouse, and the ptarmigan,
as the moufflon, the bouquetin, and the
chamois.

Further, the velocipedes are all true
ruminants, living, like them, on grass and
grain.  They have several stomachs, with a
preparatory crop fulfilling exactly the same
office as the paunch of the quadruped.  Now,
all meats produced from grass are of delicate
taste and easy digestion. Analogically and
algebraically speaking, the hen is to the cow
as the partridge is to the roe. The hen gives
us her eggs and her chickens, just as the cow
does her milk and her calf.  We ought, besides,
to remark that, in either order, the flesh of
the female is superior to that of the male.  The
fact moveover, is universal, that nature has
endowed the female world with more delicate
aromas that the male; with more fleshy
tissues and shorter muscles.

To this proposition will be made the
objection that the flesh of the ox, nevertheless,
is preferable to that of the cow.  There is no
denying it.  Only, it may be observed, the ox
is not the contrary of the cow, but is simply
the uncle of the calf.  Put the cow in the
same condition as the ox, and she will bear
the palm; exactly as the poularde is far
preferable to the capon,  The poularde is
merely the chicken's aunt. The profound
study of the above analogies has led M.
Toussenel to the unexpected discovery of the
following magnificent law of passional movement:
God has delivered up animals to man,
by means of the virtues of the female and
the vices of the males.

Take all our domestic animals one after
the other—the list is not a very long one—
conscientiously analyse the dispositions of
both sexes, and you will inevitably find the
foregoing conclusion lurking at the bottom
of your comparisons. You will be convinced
of the innocence, gentleness, and docility of
the females, and of the pride, mischievousness,
and insubordination of the males.  Now for
a few individual portraits.

The great bustard is the swiftest of our
runners. Per contra, flight is severe exercise,
and is only undertaken, with visible repugnance,
when danger is knocking loud at the
door. The slightest damage to its wings
exposes it to serious disasters. One morning
before daybreak, when some Champagne
peasants were proceeding from Suippe to
Chalons-sur-Marne, they perceived a herd of
creatures at a certain distance from the road
making unavailing efforts to rise from the
ground. On approaching to inspect the
phenomenon more closely, they ascertained
that the crippled birds were great bustards,
whose wings were so completely locked up
by the hoar-frost as to be useless, either for
flight or running. The barbarous travellers,
as we should have done in their place,
naturally took advantage of the circumstance.
They knocked the unhappy fowls on the head;
and the market of Châlons, the capital of
Bustardland, was abundantly supplied on
that occasion. A gunshot which tells upon a
bustard, at the lowest figure is always worth
twenty francs on the spot. Champagne,
which, in the time of Belon, was so rich in
bustards, and so poor in vegetables, is still
the only province of France where these
birds feel comfortable, and consent to breed.
But two facts are sufficient to give you an
idea of the present variety of the species.
Many sportsmen, M. Toussenel included, have
shot for years in the Champenoise desert,
without burning powder over a single
bustard. And for many seasons past, Chevet,
the illustrious game-dealer of the Palais
Royal, has not received more than half-a-
dozen specimens. The great bustard has
passed into the state of a myth in Artois,
Vendee, Brenne, and even in the stony plains
of the south, where it formerly took up its
winter quarters. Its apparition in those
credulous districts is now considered as the
forerunner of extraordinary political events—
although it seldom really does more than
announce the very near approach of frosty
weather.

The physiognomy of the plovers is not
happy. Their head is much too voluminous,
their eye too large, their bill too short,