O^ COLLOQUIA ENTOMOLOGICA. 



Rusticus ! — but it is impossible. Every moment of a iine 

 spring morning is a chapter in the book of nature ; every act 

 of nature is a homily. The little lark, which long before the 

 blush of morning tinges the sunward edges of the fleecy clouds 

 — shakes the dew-drops from his spotted and guileless breast; 

 and, with a voice, at first inward and low — rises on hovering 

 wing, up, up into the heavens ; and, as he mounts higher and 

 higher, swells his notes, singing and soaring, — sing-ing and 

 soar-ing, quiver, quiver, quiver, qua-ver — till lost to sight in 

 the dusky twilight, his voice falls like enchantment on the ear, 

 so melodious, so clear, so distinct is every — even its slightest 

 modulation. Does not, I ask, that sweet bird, thus pouring 

 forth 



Ent. — his earliest hymn, his morning soul, his first joyous 

 warbhng to his Maker, — Does not, I ask, that sweet bird offer 

 a lesson to the man who can read it ? — Does not he pass a 

 sentence of bitter, bitter condemnation — the more bitter, 

 because unintentional, on the man who will not read it ; 

 on all who refuse to listen to him, and to those who tell of 

 him— and refusing, harden their hearts against the voice of 

 Nature, and the voice of Nature's God ? 



Rus. Not unbeautiful ; but what right have you to hoist me 

 out of my say in that way ? — you should have let me come to 

 an anchor out of common politeness. 



Ent. It was unintentional, I assure you, Doctor; it escaped 

 me unawares. 



Rus. You are for all the world like the young cuckow, that 

 balances the featherless and blind eggling of the hedge-sparrow 

 on his shoulders, and, clambering up the side of the nest, 

 chucks him off by a jerk, out of his own warm, snug, cozy, 

 comfortable habitation, and keeps it for himself. 



Erro. No, no ; rather like the milk-tree of Venezuela, 

 so full of riches, that at the least excitement, at a mere scratch, 

 it overflows. 



Ent. No, no, neither ; it was unintentional ; I hardly 

 knew I spoke ; — so will a straggling and unbidden thought 

 now and then escape from its most secret sanctuary, and, wan- 

 dering to the cheek of beauty, reveal itself in a blush ; I pray 

 you, pardon me. 



Rus. We are metaphorical; — metaphors thrown in with 

 judgment are ornamental ; and the writer or speaker who 



