197 
a last look at our father, the Sun, and then close 
our eyes that we may not see the darkness which 
is said to wrap the world in gloom when he is gone. 
May we never see that wretched day which men 
call night! They say they love it, that it is like 
their sorrows, and that it gives them rest; but we 
know no joy but in sunshine, and care not for the 
moon and stars even of the poets that love us best, 
and sing the sweetest songs to us. 
“When our flowering season is past, we descend 
and let our germs ripen in the water. ‘ Under our 
shade expatiates the water-spider. She encloses a 
bubble of air in a contexture of filaments, takes her 
station in the midst, and plunges to the bottom of 
the lake, when the air-bubble appears like a globule 
of quicksilver. There she is exempt from every 
fear. If two happen to meet who suit each other, 
the two globules unite into one, and the two insects 
