ANOTHER IVOR ZD. 
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cry. What a mercy it would be if we could put human 
infants under water, not always, but just sometimes, when 
they wax too — - — . But I am writing like a sf ameful old 
bachelor. Let us return to our mother porpoise. 
Has she a cosy bed of seaweeds down in some hollow 
of the deep, where sharks will not find it ? Is she terrible 
at such times with those grim teeth of hers ? Whalers say 
that maternal affection is very strong in all these warm- 
blooded denizens of the sea. Moving among cold fishes 
and eels and brainless cuttlefish and jellies, they nurse 
their young and love them and show that they belong to a 
higher order of beings. 
Thinking of these things, one comes to realize that that 
blue surface, rippling with silvery waves, separates two 
worlds. We sail over it and are conscious of one world 
only, the beautiful world of sunshine and green hills : the 
blue waves seem to be a part of it. But down beneath 
the blue waves are there not hills too and valleys, smooth 
slopes waving with soft sea- weed, coral-capped mountains 
on which the sunbeams play through the restless water in 
hyaline tints, dark ravines which no ray ever reaches, 
black precipices, oozy flats ? No winds are there, but 
currents blow. There is no landscape, no distant view, 
