SNAIL FOLK 



ing pair of shears, on the end of a long mobile han- 

 dle. This is pushed down upon the unfortunate 

 limpet and actually begins to cut and hack it into 

 small pieces. One by one these are sucked upward 

 through the hole, and when the moon-snail packs up 

 its outfit and moves away, it leaves a limpet shell, 

 still ensconced in the rocky form, still a perfect shell 

 except for the tiny round hole — but a shell with- 

 out a limpet. The interior is thoroughly cleaned of 

 every particle of the former owner. 



As we watch the moon-snail glide smoothly on its 

 way we observe that the long tentacles are never 

 still — they forever ply here and there in the path 

 to come. And we look in vain for eyes and suddenly 

 reahze that the moon-snail is blind. It feels its im- 

 mediate way through life by touch, but its victims 

 must be run down — I was going to say by a sense 

 of smell, but in its watery element it is more correct 

 to call it sense of taste. 



My first memory of any snail is of long lines and 

 curves of conch-shells along the walks and around 

 the flower-beds belonging to my grandmother. 

 In the days of the Great Queen that was considered 

 the last word in landscape gardening. And it was a 

 conch which led to my most cruel disillusionment — 

 even worse than the passing of Santa Claus. I used 

 secretly to grub up one of the garden conchs, hold 

 it to my ear and, in spite of the downpour of soil, 

 listen ecstatically to the sound of distant surf in the 

 heart of the shell. The double joy of this was totally 

 destroyed by some practical-minded servant or 



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