XIV 
THE SERPENT’S TONGUE 
“Bur now,” says Ruskin, “here’s the first thing, 
it seems to me, we've got to ask the scientific 
people what use a serpent has for its tongue, since 
it neither works it to talk with, or taste with, or 
hiss with, nor, as far as I know, to lick with, and, 
least of all, to sting with—and yet, for people who 
do not: know the creature, the little vibrating 
forked thread, flicked out of its mouth and back 
again, as quick as lightning, is the most striking 
part of the beast; but what is the use of it? 
Nearly every creature but a snake can do some sort 
of mischief with its tongue. A woman worries with 
it, a chameleon catches flies with it, a cat steals 
milk with it, a pholas digs holes in the rock with 
it, and a gnat digs holes in ws with it; but the 
poor snake cannot do any manner of harm with it 
whatsoever; and what is his tongue forked for?” 
The writer’s manner in this paragraph, and the 
unexpectedness of the mocking question that leaps 
out at the end, suggests the idea that there are, in 
man, two sorts of forked tongues, and that one 
sort is not worked for mischief. Certainly few of 
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