140 OUTDOOR STUDIES 
I think that, if required, on pain of death, to 
name instantly the most perfect thing in the 
universe, I should risk my fate on a bird’s egg. 
There is, first, its exquisite fragility of material, 
strong only by the mathematical precision of 
that form so daintily moulded. There is its 
absolute purity from external stain, since that 
thin barrier remains impassable until the whole 
is in ruins, —a purity recognized in the house- 
hold proverb of “ An apple, an egg, and a nut.” 
Then, its range of tints, so varied, so subdued, 
and so beautiful, — whether of pure white, like 
the Martin’s, or pure green, like the Robin’s, 
or dotted and mottled into the loveliest of 
browns, like the Red Thrush’s, or aquamarine, 
with stains of moss-agate, like the Chipping 
Sparrow’s, or blotched with long, weird ink 
marks on a pale ground, like the Oriole’s, as if 
it bore inscribed some magic clue to the bird’s 
darting flight and pensile nest. Above all, the 
associations and predictions of this little won- 
der, — that one may bear home between his 
fingers all that winged splendor, all that celes- 
tial melody, coiled in mystery within these tiny 
walls! Even the chrysalis is less amazing, for 
its form always preserves some trace, however 
fantastic, of the perfect insect, and it is but 
moulting a skin; but this egg appears to the 
eye like a separate unit from some other kingdom 
