1 88 The Book of Bugs. 



Well, it's hard to stop, but I suppose I must. There is 

 so much to tell. A gently sad wistf ulness comes over 

 one to think how much there is that never can be told 

 unless the human race shall some day rise, as it has risen 

 from the plane of insect life, to an intellectual plane as 

 high above our present one as that is high above the ants. 

 It has been a pleasure to me to write about these wonderful 

 little creatures ; I trust it has been a pleasure to you to 

 read about them. And yet, if that were all, I should sigh 

 as any other mountebank sighs when he wipes off the 

 grease paint and changes to his street clothes. I had 

 hoped that through my fooling you might have seen how 

 earnestly I felt that in this universe man does not stand 

 alone, the only thinking being, but that the lowliest form 

 of life, yes, every grain of inorganic matter, throbs with 

 intelligence. We are kin to every living thing. Body 

 and soul we are kin. We are brother to the farthest star, 

 built of the same stuff. Not in humbleness of spirit, but 

 in boasting pride can we say that we are made of the dust 

 of the earth. How magnificent that dust ! 



