A SUMMER'S DAY. 353 



concerning my own brain and my nervous acts ; and if I still 

 refuse to regard myself as a " conscious automaton," I will 

 not forget some truths which the acts of the frog, minus the 

 head, were the means of conveying. 



What a glorious harvest of wild-flower life blossoms 

 around our nook ! Look at the duckweed leaves which 

 float placidly on the surface of the stream, and which wave 

 gently up and down with the rippling movement of the water. 

 Each leaf is a haven of rest for wearied insects, and repre- 

 sents the beauteous symmetry of living nature, in which no 

 hard and fast straight line is to be found. Whoever main- 

 tained that the " line of beauty's curved," must have drawn 

 inspiration from the living part of nature. It is typically in 

 animals and plants that we see forms bounded by curved 

 lines. You will not find a single straight line in the duck- 

 weed leaf, nor will you discover any of its surfaces to be 

 absolutely plane. And so with the outline of the fish, or 

 with the symmetry of any group of living things you may 

 observe. Each outline is made up of curves, each surface 

 bulges out or curves inwards, but is never rigidly flattened 

 as in the domain of the dead and lifeless. 



Plenty of waterweeds grow by the margin of the stream. 

 Look at the water-crowfoot, which tints with golden patches 

 the river-bank ; or at " ragged-robin," which variegates the 

 scene with its pink hues. Yonder is a little patch of brook- 

 lime, radiant in its blue colour ; and the forget-me-nots are 

 lending their turquoise in return for the grateful shade and 

 for the moisture of the stream. The butterwort gleams 

 purple and pink from the banks, and the white umbels of 

 the water-parsnips, despite their commonness, harmonise 

 with the brighter tints around. There is the sweet sedge, 

 with its sweet-smelling spadix or cluster of flowers which 

 protrudes horn-like from its leaves, fringing the margin of 

 the river; and we should sadly miss the purple comfrey, 

 with its purple hue and its drooping flowers. "The harvest 

 of a quiet eye,'' in truth, may be gathered in all the fulness 

 of colour and beauty here ; and methinks that the very dis- 



2 A 



