44 BIRDS AND POETS 
these seas, and rivers, and oceans, and atmospheric 
currents, as necessary to the life of the ants and 
worms we tread under foot as to our own? And 
does the sun shine for me any more than for yon 
butterfly? What I mean to say is, we cannot put 
our finger upon this or that and say, Here is the end 
of Nature. The Infinite cannot be measured. The 
plan of Nature is so immense — but she has no plan, 
no scheme, but to go on and on forever. What is 
size, what is time, distance, etc., to the Infinite? 
Nothing. The Infinite knows no time, no space, 
no great, no small, no beginning, no end. 
I sometimes think that the earth and the worlds 
are a kind of nervous ganglia in an organization of 
which we can form no conception, or less even 
than that. If one of the globules of blood that cir- 
culate in our veins were magnified enough million 
times, we might see a globe teeming with life and 
power. Such is this earth of ours, coursing in the 
veins of the Infinite. Size is only relative, and the 
imagination finds no end to the series either way. 
III 
Looking out of the car window one day, I saw 
the pretty and unusual sight of an eagle sitting 
upon the ice in the river, surrounded by half a 
dozen or more crows. The crows appeared as if 
looking up to the noble bird and attending his move- 
ments. ‘Are those its young?” asked a gentleman 
by my side. How much did that man know — not 
about eagles, but about Nature? If he had been 
