200 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



the parents. They dwell in little pits or burrows 

 in the sandy pathways, their heads resting just 

 at the mouth of the pit- with jaws spread apart 

 like those of a steel trap waiting, eve? waiting 

 for any crawling tidbit which may come along 

 and touch the trigger. Voracious and blood- 

 thirsty, carnivorous and perhaps even cannibals, 

 they and their kind serve well their purpose in 

 the great scheme of nature by helping to keep 

 within bounds many an insect which otherwise 

 would devastate the harvest fields of man. 



Wednesday, July 12. As I step forth from 

 my tent this morn the sun is just arising. I 

 cannot look it in the face for its halo is too 

 great. But one of countless myriads of living 

 things am I which owe to it the highest alle- 

 giance, for without it no form of plant or animal 

 life could be. If it gives me life, power to grow, 

 power to act, power to reason and to think, why 

 should not I at times do unto it the homage, 

 poor though it may be, which my inmost soul 

 can express. Why should not I, as did the Tol- 

 tecs and Incas of old, bow to it the knee in most 

 reverent worship. Even the day is its creature, 

 and when below the western horizon it disap- 

 pears the earth despairs and over her face draws 

 a curtain of darkness. ''What a fine day!" we 

 exclaim, when the sun 's rays fall unimpeded and 

 glorify us all. * ' What a dull, drear day ! ' ' when 



