Natural Telepathy 



quietly; the next they are gone and the great 

 hillside is lifeless. The thrill of that silent, mov- 

 ing drama has more wisdom in it, yes, and more 

 pleasure, than the crash of your barbarous rifle 

 or the convulsive kicking of a stricken beast that 

 knows not why you should kill him. 



Such is the experience, known to almost every 

 elk-hunter who has learned that life is more inter- 

 esting than death; and I know nothing of deer 

 nature to explain it save this that the whole herd 

 has suddenly felt and understood the silent impulse 

 to go, and has obeyed it without a question, as the 

 young wolf or fox cub obeys the silent return call 

 of his watchful mother. 



Such impulses seem to be more common and 

 more dependable among the whales, which have 

 rudimentary or imperfect sense-organs, but which 

 are nevertheless delicately sensitive to external 

 impressions, to the approach of unseen danger, to 

 the movements of the tiny creatures on which they 

 feed, to changes of wind or tide and to a falling 

 barometer, as if nature had given them a first- 

 class feeling apparatus of some kind to make up 

 for their poor eyes and ears. Repeatedly have 

 I been struck by this extraordinary sensitiveness 

 when watching the monstrous creatures feeding 

 with the tide in one of the great bays of the New- 

 foundland or the Labrador coast. If I lowered a 



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