X. 



H $it of Sponcte. 



THIS morning, despite the promise of rain over-night, 

 has broken with all the signs and symptoms of a bright 

 July day. The Firth is bathed in sunlight, and the 

 wavelets at full tide, are kissing the strand, making a 

 soft musical ripple as they retire, and as the pebbles 

 run down the sandy slope on the retreat of the waves. 

 Beyond the farthest contact of the tide is a line of 

 seaweed dried and desiccated, mixed up with which, 

 in confusing array, are masses of shells, and such 

 olla podrida of the sea. 



Tossed up at our very feet is a dried fragment of 

 sponge, which, doubtless, the unkind waves tore from 

 its rocky bed. It is not a large portion of sponge 

 this, but its structure is nevertheless to be fairly made 

 out, and some reminiscences of its history gleaned, 

 for the sake of occupying the by no means " bad half- 

 hour " before breakfast. " What is a sponge ? " is a 

 question which you may well ask as a necessary pre- 

 liminary to the understanding of its personality. 



The questionings of childhood and the questionings 

 of science run in precisely similar grooves. " What 

 is it ? " and " How does it live ? " and " Where does 

 it come from ? " are equally the inquiries of childhood, 

 and of the deepest philosophy which seeks to determine 



