the day were then of the same duration, and it is equally certain that in the dim and distant future the month and the day will again be of the same duration, but this time the period of earth's rotation and moon's revolution will consist of 1400 of our present hours. However, we shall not be there to see, and I only mention the fact to show how scientific thought, from studying the present can predicate the future, from observing the known can foresee the unknown. It can teach us that not alone "The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," but the scientific thinker can soar in mental freedom through the corridors of time, from the infinite past to the illimitable future. He learns there was a beginning, and he finds there will be an end. He "Looks through Nature, up to Nature's God," and he can sing with the Psalmist, "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handy-work." Scientific knowledge has one disadvantage-it makes us conscious of the glaring errors of our heroes of the pen and brush. Frank Buckland and Professor Norman Lockyer used annually to expose the scientific blunders on the walls of the Royal Academy. Charles Dickens, by a strange lapsus pennæ, not only made a star a fixture to the earth, but made the day to be the result of the revolution of the earth around the sun, instead of its rotation on its own axis. In "Hard Times," when poor Stephen Blackwood fell down Ord Hill Shaft, and remained there helpless for days, he was cheered by a star which perpetually shone down the pit: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there on my trouble, I thowt 'twere G the star as guided to our Saviour's Home. I awmust think it be the very star." One of our most eminent special correspondents described the dew as falling like rain, and being licked up by the dust. Byron made the same mistake: "Words are things, and a small drop of ink, That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.” Another poet describes a molehill as being made by the ant! Keats uses the simile "Soft as a dove's nest," little thinking of the hard, dry sticks composing it. On the other hand, facts observed and collected by ourselves make us appreciate with great pleasure the references by writers to the same facts. Poets have been most earnest students of Nature. Shakespeare's plays abound with references to the lessons of our fields, woodlands, and mossy banks: 66 “I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weazel sucks eggs." "A vagabond flag upon the stream goes to and back, lacqueying the varying tide, to rot itself into motion." "Out on you Owls, nothing but songs of death.” "The hedgehog whines at night." 46 'The glowworm 'gins to pale its ineffectual fire." "Pray you tread softly that the blind mole may not Hear a footfall." ".... you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, There is a charming book by Harding, "On the Birds of Shakespeare." His animals and his plants, wherever the scene may be laid, in the chilly North or in the sunny South, are our wayside weeds and our field pests, companions of his wild young days, rosemary and pansies in Denmark, sedges, mallow docks, and nettles in the Mediterranean. But even Shakespeare was not immaculate. The scene of "As you like it" was laid in the Forest of Arden, in the north-east of France, on the borders of Belgium. He makes Oliver say, "Where in the purlieus of the forest stands a sheep-cote fenced about with olive-trees," and further on, "Under which bushes' shade a lioness, with udders all drawn dry, lay crouching." The olive is indigenous to Italy, and the lion did not roam in Europe in historic times. The Hindoo philosopher said to his son, "Bring me a fruit of that tree, and break it open. What is there?" The son said, "Some small seeds." Break one of them, and what do you see?" "Nothing, my lord." "My child," "where you see nothing, there dwells a said the sage, mighty tree." A loose pebble picked up on the shore can, if properly interpreted, tell the story of a continent and the history of a million years. We poor busy city men are not altogether deprived of some of the scientific charms of the country and the seaside. During the severe weather in February last, the river between Blackfriars Bridge and Westminster abounded with gulls, and the Embankment was thronged with EastEnd naturalists and interested watchers. In Russell Square, the sacred figure of Francis, Duke of Bedford, is desecrated by the impertinent and irrepressible British sparrow building its nest. A lapwing was recently seen in Belsize Avenue, and a magpie in the Regent's Park. Dabchicks, wild and free, appear every spring in St. James's Park. Rooks have returned to Kensington Gardens. For years and years a bird built its nest in a tree in Wood Street, Cheapside, and for aught I know does so still, while a few years ago a pair of hawks made their home on the cross of St. Paul's, feeding sumptuously daily on the ecclesiastical pigeons that abound there. We have but to ride to Wimbledon to listen to the lark trilling at heaven's gate, to admire the brilliant song of the nightingale, and to see swans flying majestically with long, straight-outstretched necks across the welkin. In Richmond Park we can see the heron and hear the cuckoo. The lovely Surrey Hills are within a walking distance, and with a field glass and patient observation many facts can be acquired, food for thought and mental recreation can be stored up. It was but yesterday that I saw a cock pheasant sporting his brilliant plumage, and strutting about with self-satisfied air to captivate the admiration of his spouse. In animal life, it is the male who shows off his colours and flaunts his magnificence. In humanity, it is the female! Those who handle the rod or shoulder the gun in the pursuit of their favourite sport have grand opportunities to observe and study nature. But the glory of their success often throws into oblivion the means by which they attain their ends. The fisherman exercises deceit, and the shooter commits murder. It is true that food is the original aim of all sport, but those who whip the Seiont or the Dee rarely think of their dinner, and rather prefer to exercise their ingenuity in cajoling the unsuspecting trout or circumventing the wary salmon. The lot of the wild creature is not a happy one. Life lives on life. It is not man alone that covets the hare or the rabbit. They are surrounded by enemies ready to pounce upon them and devour them, not for "sport," but for food. They carry their lives in their eyes, and their existence depends on their watchfulness, courage, and agility. The ruling spirit of the wild beast is appetite. They attack by cunning, they defend by manœuvring. They live in fear. The strong and the wise alone survive. It is much the same with nations. Why were not all creatures vegetarians? and why are not we all contented with that which we have? The scientific spirit has a vast field for observation, contemplation, and relaxation, in watching the vagaries of animal life. The way in which ships are watched and followed by sea-birds is a never-ceasing wonder to the deck observer. The refuse thrown over becomes the wild birds' perquisites. Let the ship but anchor within sight of a rock-bound shore, and down swoops upon it at once a large tribe of gulls, who squeak and scream and wail in most discordant music, but whose playful antics and dainty ways afford much amusement to the patient watcher. They never seem to quarrel or to fight, but the strong asserts his power to be fed first, and the old displays his selfishness in securing the biggest piece, even from the beak of the brown-backed yearling. The motions of the kittiwake in seizing its food offer a pretty scientific lesson. Its displacement of the water on which it rests shows that its weight is very slight. Its motion is quick, but any check to that motion, even in picking up a fish, must seriously retard its progress and endanger its life. Hence, as it swoops over the water to pounce upon some food, it lowers its webbed feet, and the instant it secures its prey, its feet, dipping in the water, act like paddles, give it an impetus forward which maintains its energy, and secures its flight into safety. The same birds leave the coast of Ireland to follow a Cunarder for hundreds of miles, and return by a home-bound boat, "feeding sumptuously every day." Let but a shoal of fish-pilchard or sardine-pass by, then there is a turmoil in the sea and a turmoil in the air. The |