THE DYING YEAR 265 



race. A hundred drones are tended and reared, 

 all but one to die in vain; a thousand seeds are 

 sown to rot or to sprout and wither ; a million lit- 

 tle codfish hatch and begin life hopefully, perhaps 

 all to succumb save one ; a million million shrimp 

 and pteropods paddle themselves here and there 

 in the ocean, and every one is devoured by fish or 

 swept into the whalebone tangle from which none 

 ever return. And if a lucky one which survives 

 does so because it has some little advantage over 

 its fellows, some added quality which gives just 

 the opportunity to escape at the critical moment, 

 then the race will advance to the extent of that 

 trifle and so carry out the precept of evolution. 

 But even though we may owe every character of 

 body and mind to the fulfilment of some such inex- 

 orable law in the past, yet the witnessing of the 

 operation brings ever a feeling of cruelty, of in- 

 justice somewhere. 



How pitiful the weak flight of the last yellow 

 butterfly of the year, as with tattered and bat- 

 tered wings it vainly seeks for a final sip of 

 sweets ! The fallen petals and the hard seeds are 

 black and odourless, the drops of sap are 

 hardened. Little by little the wings weaken, the 

 tiny feet clutch convulsively at a dried weed stalk, 

 and the four golden wings drift quietly down 

 among the yellow leaves, soon to merge into the 

 dark mould beneath. As the butterfly dies, a 

 stiffened Katydid scratches a last requiem on his 



