shelf from which I remove a two-quart kitchen 

 preserving jar containing what to the ordinary eye 

 might appear to be a mass of potted tripe, but 

 what in fact are the pickled remains of a dissected 

 squid. With a long forceps, I dip into the solution 

 and fish out one by one all the fragments and lay 

 them in a certain semblance of orderly relationship 

 one to another upon the work-bench. Passing a 

 large hand-lens in a swift survey over the various 

 details of organs and of general structure, I make 

 a mental review of those examples of their coor- 

 dination in the living animal, which are now up- 

 permost in my mind . . . Yes, my previous 

 findings are confirmed. Loligo is without any trace 

 of any organ that maintains it in hydrostatic 

 equilibrium with the water. And, although sooner 

 than I had reason to suspect, I think that I am 

 actually nearing the truth. 



Presently, indeed, the mystery clears away — at 

 least as much of it as logic and applied common 

 sense are able to dispel. I smile at my simplicity. 

 Loligo leaves the water unwillingly and at night- 

 time because in the darkness it cannot see. Other 

 rapidly moving swimming creatures possessing an 

 air bladder are thereby equipped with an organ 



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