THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 



do not move. They shine steadily, sitting upon 

 jagged points turned toward light openings. 

 Their appearance and disappearance is due to 

 ourselves. If we bring our head between the 

 light of day and the cave flames they suddenly 

 ^o out; our own shadow appears to destroy 

 them. We turn our head and there they are 

 again. It can not be any spontaneous force of 

 light, but a reflected glow. Something glitters 

 beneath in the faint twilight, but marvelous! 

 The cave wails themselves reflect nothing; they 

 are all dark. Something must be hanging there 

 that has the peculiar gift of seizing the scanty 

 light and reflecting it back clearly. There must 

 be a green body sharing in the process. It can 

 not possibly be merely glittering drops of water. 

 We climb up a little space and grasp at the spot. 

 On the jutting point of stones there lies wet, 

 sticky earth. Fine threads are spun through it. 

 We recognize them as a primitive form of moss. 

 Our magnifying apparatus soon uncovers the 

 marvel. These little moss plants bear, like fruit 

 on a twig, a number of peculiar cells. These 

 cells do not confine themselves to the simple col- 

 ors of customary fruit. They glitter like the 

 artificial glass fruit of the Christmas tree. Each 

 one of them is indeed very much like a tiny glass 

 balloon, so transparent is its fine living cell 

 stuffs. They break up the soft light that falls 

 upon them, turn it aside and focus it upon the 

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