The President's Address. By Dr. C. T. Hudson. 
15 
soften the hard features of modern science, and seem as if they would 
some day lift a little, and give glimpses of possible replies to the three 
eternal questions : “ Where did we come from ?” “Why are we here ?” 
“ Whither are we going ? ” Here, too, could I please myself with 
thoughts that rose unbidden as I reflected on what I had seen in the 
world beneath the waters. What happiness reigns there ! What ease, 
grace, beauty, leisure and content ! Watch these living specks as 
they glide through their forests of algae ; all “ without hurry and 
care,” as if their “ span-long lives ” really could endure for the 
thousand years that the old catch pines for. Here is no greedy jostling 
at the banquet that Nature has spread for them ; no dread ot each 
other ; but a leisurely inspection of the field, that shows neither the 
pressure of hunger nor the dread of an enemy. 
“ To labour and to be content” (that “sweet life” of the son of 
Sirach) — to be equally ready for an enemy or a friend — to trust in 
themselves alone — to show a brave unconcern for the morrow — all 
these are the admirable points of a character almost universal among 
animals, and one that would lighten many a heart were it more 
common among men. That character is the direct result of the 
golden law, “ If one will not work, neither let him eat a law whose 
stern kindness, unflinchingly applied, has produced whole nations of 
living creatures, without a pauper in their ranks, flushed with health, 
alert, resolute, self-reliant, and singularly happy. 
Another thing that has struck me greatly is that “ the struggle 
for existence ” leaves them so much leisure, and such famous spirits. 
Even the Swift can find time to play. From early morning late into 
the twilight, it rushes through the air, crushing into a summer’s 
day the emotions of a season’s fox-hunting ; and then, having “ pro- 
vided for those of its own house,” it takes its ease in darting from 
sky to earth, at eighty miles an hour, shrieking with delight in a 
mad game of “ catch-who-catch can.” 
During the late hard frost, all the hills where I live, were alive 
with toboganners — an unwonted sight in the south-west ; but the 
rooks invented the game long ago. I have often watched them at 
Ilfracombe in the evening (when a strong north-wester was blowing) 
flying low above the town, from the Manor House trees, to the land- 
ward slopes above the tunnels. There, closing their ranks and 
sheltered by the slope, they rose, almost brushing the grass, till, at 
the very edge of the cliff they were caught by the wind, and hurled, 
in a whirl of wings, back to their rookery; whence after much 
fluttering and cawing, they again set out for the cliffs. 
The slow toilsome approach, the mad return, the intoxication of 
headlong flight, and the spice of possible danger, are the same in 
both games ; but the birds have the best of it ; for no policeman ever 
wishes to interfere with their sport ; and they can enjoy it if they 
please, nearly all the year round. 
The Rotifera occasionally play ; at least I think so. You may 
