The Greenbottles 



wherein focuses of life are condensed even as 

 suns are condensed in the nebulae of the 

 heavens. I should have admired the nascent 

 creature that turns, slowly turns in the orb of 

 its egg and describes a volute, the draft, per- 

 haps, of the future shell. No planet circles 

 round its centre of attraction with greater 

 geometrical accuracy. 



I should have brought back a few ideas 

 from my frequent visits to the pond. Fate 

 decided otherwise: I was not to have my sheet 

 of water. I have tried the artificial pond, be- 

 tween four panes of glass. A poor shift! 

 Our laboratory aquariums are not even equal 

 to the print left in the mud by a mule's hoof, 

 when once a shower has filled the humble 

 basin and life has stocked it with its marvels. 



In spring, with the hawthorn in flower and 

 the Crickets at their concerts, a second wish 

 often came to me. Along the road, I light 

 upon a dead Mole, a Snake killed with a 

 stone, victims both of human foLly. The 

 Mole was draining the soil and purging it of 

 its vermin. Finding him under his spade, the 

 labourer broke his back for him and flung 

 him over the hedge. The Snake, roused from 

 her slumber by the soft warmth of April, was 



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