Il8 The Turtle 



The four flippers fling themselves as they did on the 

 passage, the sand flies around in a dense shower, almost 

 like a fog, until the central toiler is hidden from view. 

 When at last the smother subsides she is down in a pit 

 of her own digging and the work of egg-laying has begun. 

 It lasts for two days, and then carefully clambering out 

 of that sandy hole where snugly lie one hundred and 

 fifty round white eggs, the weary mother devotes her 

 remaining energies to filling in the pit, burying her 

 treasures beneath a foot of loose sand. This completed 

 she lumbers painfully down to the sea and launches 

 herself into sublime peace on the bosom of the universal 

 mother, her task well done, her rest well won. 



Day by day the great sun sheds his life-giving beams 

 upon that spot where, covered in beneath undistinguish- 

 able sand, lie the family of the Turtle Does she wonder 

 what has become of them ? Do the fish who shed their 

 roe in uncountable millions ever feel a pang of maternal 

 care ? Wlio can tell ? The mystery of motherhood 

 is so profound that one does not care to speculate. 

 For instance, I have a hen who has just hatched a brood 

 of ducklings. As best I can I have isolated her in a 

 spacious wire-fenced run from the many enterprising 

 chicks which are running loosely, about a hundred of 

 them. In spite of all my care these chicks do get in 

 with the ducklings and the mother-hen, generous 

 creature, forbids them not, allows them to share her 

 food, and when I drive them out, sets up an outcry as if 

 they were her very own. But one day last week one of 

 the ducklings got out, how, I cannot imagine. I went 

 at once to put it back, but, oh, the agony of the parent- 

 hen ! With widespread wings and gaping mouth she 

 hurled herself at the wire fencing where I was picking up 

 the squeaking flat-footed alien she had been cajoled 

 into nursing. Had she been free. I know she would 



