NONSUCH 



tentatively, an eye glinted in the portico and out 

 came the owner. His ancestors, like mine, unques- 

 tionably came from the sea, but his scientific god- 

 fathers for once have christened him reasonably 

 and he is Littorina litorea — alliteratively and re- 

 doubled — a Shore of the Shore creature. 



The little helix was now gliding across my table- 

 top — a wisp of twisted lime and a pinch of soft 

 flesh, typifying all the strange personality of his 

 race. He was a young periwinkle — not fully adult, 

 and, like myself, representative of the last, the most 

 recent generation. 



Shortening the level of my outlook to his, little 

 by little I began to see existence from the eye of a 

 snail. I forgot the common bonds between our phyla 

 — gastronomic, utilitarian, financial, even artistic, 

 and took sheer joy in watching him, trying to pry 

 as deep as I possibly could into his molluscan soul. 



Life seemed full of purpose to him — a life that, 

 without interruption extended back to the first snail. 

 This is a truism, applicable to all other living or- 

 ganisms, and far back in the dim early ages of earth 

 life, there lived some creature which, today, snail 

 and I can call our ancestor. But the changes which 

 intervened in the meantime are immeasurably di- 

 vergent. As my line stretches back my brain con- 

 tracts, my muscles expand, I drop down on all 

 fours, sprout a tail, develop long ears and snout, 

 my teeth simplify and insects satisfy my hunger; 

 reptilian characters accrue, my ribs increase ; I slip 

 into the water, and looking for the last time upon 



206 



