no WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



individual concern, the mother feeling, holding 

 some of the birds to their duty long after others 

 had taken wing in fright. 



To rob the animals of individuality — to re- 

 duce them to automata, acting mechanically ac- 

 cording to inherited race instincts, is to reduce 

 all life to grass and the grass almost to hay. 



*' Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths, 

 And 'tis my faith that every flower 

 Enjoys the air it breathes." 



And 't is my further faith that every bird and ani- 

 mal and insect enjoys the air it breathes, and loves 

 and hates and woos and fights and suffers, not in 

 the same degree, but somewhat after the manner 

 of humans. 



"To her fair works did Nature link 

 The human soul that through me ran." 



I, too, am an automaton, a wheel in a great race- 

 machine. I do certain things because the race has 

 done them and continues to do them. Perhaps I 

 have never done anything that the race has not 

 done. Perhaps I am my whole race. Perhaps I 

 have been in my development, since I was con- 

 ceived, all the races down to the single-celled 



