IN AN OLD GARDEN 213 



all events beaksome, morsels. These are, just now, 

 the crimson cherries, purple and yellow plums, 

 currants, red, white, and black — ^and sun-painted 

 peaches, asking in their luscious ripeness for a 

 mouth to melt in, that fascinate finch and fly-catcher 

 alike, and make the starlings smack their homy lips 

 with a sound like a loving kiss. 



Not that I care, or esteem birds for what they eat 

 or do not eat. With all these creatures that are at 

 strife among themselves, and that birds prey upon, 

 I am at peace, even to the smallest that are visible 

 — ^the red spider which is no spider ; and the minute 

 gossamer spider clinging to the fine silvery hairs of 

 the flying summer ; and the coccus that fall from the 

 fruit trees to float on their buoyant cottony down — 

 a summer snow. Fils de la vierge are these, and sacred. 

 The man who can needlessly set his foot on a worm 

 is as strange to my soul as De Quincey's imaginary 

 Malay, or even his " damned crocodile." The 

 worm that one sees lying bruised and incapable on 

 the gravel walk has fallen among thieves. These 

 little lives do me good and not harm. I smell the 

 acid ants to strengthen my memory. I know that if I 

 set an overturned cockchafer on his legs three sins 

 will be forgiven me ; that if I am kindly tolerant 

 of the spider that drops accidentally on my hand or 

 face, my purse shall be mysteriously replenished. 

 At the same time, one has to remember that such 



