THE FIKST FLUTTERINGS OF THE WING. 



95 



Let us pause for a few moments at the solemn passages where 

 life uncei'tain seems still to oscillate, where Nature appears to question 

 herself, to examine her own volition. " Shall I be fish or mammal?" 

 says the creature. It falters, and remains a fish, but warm- 

 blooded ; belongs to the mild race of lamentins and seals. " Shall I 

 be bird or quadruped ?" A gi-eat question ; a perplexed hesitancy — 

 a prolonged and changeful combat. All its various phases are dis- 

 cussed ; the diverse solutions of the problems naively suggested and 

 realized by fantastic beings like the ornithorhynchus, which has 

 nothing of the bird but the beak ; like the poor bat, a tender and 



innocent animal in its family-circle, but whose undefined form makes 

 it grim-looking and unfortunate. You perceive that nature has 



