the laborious study of their lives could enable them to discover.

RICHARD. Well, I am glad we have thought of something at last, to prove that men are wiser than rabbits.

FATHER. Herein appears the difference between what we call instinct and reason. Animals, in all their operations, follow the first impulse of nature, or that invariable law which God has implanted in them. In all they do undertake, therefore, their works are more perfect and regular than those of men. But man, having been endowed with the faculty of thinking or reasoning about what he does, although (being an imperfect and fallible creature) this liberty exposes him to mistake, and is perpetually leading him into error; yet by patience, perseverance, and industry, and by long experience, he at last achieves what angels may, perhaps, behold with admiration. A bird's nest, is, indeed, a perfect and beautiful structure; yet the nest of a swallow of the nineteenth century, is not at all more commodious, or elegant, than those that were built amid the rafters of Noah's ark. But if we compare (I will not say Adam's bower, for that was doubtless in the finest style of nature's own architecture) but if we compare the wigwam of the North American Indian, with the temples and palaces of ancient Greece and Rome, we then shall see to what man's mistakes, rectified and

can

improved upon, conduct him. Animals provide for their wants, and for those of their offspring, with the utmost adroitness; and just so much, and no more, did their antediluvian ancestry: while man, after having provided for his first necessities, emerging gradually from the savage state, begins to cultivate poetry and music, proceeds to the knowledge of arts and sciences, unknown and unthought of by his rude forefathers, till (in humble imitation of the works of God himself) he gives exquisite construction to the rudest materials which nature has left for his use; supplying those artificial wants and wishes, for which it was beneath her dignity to provide; and while his hand thus executes all that is ingenious and beautiful, his thought glances at all that is magnificent and sublime.

XXVII.

THE WORM AND THE SNAIL.

A Fable.

A LITTLE Worm too close that played
In contact with a gardener's spade,
Writhing about in sudden pain,
Perceived that he was cut in twain;

His nether half, left short and free,
Much doubting its identity.

However, when the shock was past,
New circling rings were formed so fast,
By nature's hand which fails her never,
That soon he was as long as ever.
But yet the insult and the pain,
This little reptile did retain,

In what, in man, is called the brain.

One fine spring evening, bright and wet,
Ere yet the April sun was set,

When slimy reptiles crawl and coil
Forth from the soft and humid soil,
He left his subterranean clay
To move along the gravelly way;
Where suddenly his course was stopt
By something on the path that dropt;
When, with precaution and surprise,
He straight shrunk up to half his size.
That 't was a stone was first his notion,
But soon discovering loco-motion,

He recognised the coat of mail,

And wary antlers of a snail,

Which some young rogue (we beg his pardon) Had flung into his neighbor's garden.

The snail all shattered and infirm,

Deplored his fate, and told the worm.
"Alas!" says he, "I know it well,
All this is owing to my shell:
They could not send me up so high,
Describing circles in the sky,

But that, on this account, 't is known
I bear resemblance to a stone:

Would I could rid me of my case,
And find a tenant for the place!
I'll make it known to all my kin;—
'This house to let-inquire within.”

"Good!" says the worm, "the bargain's struck; I take it, and admire my luck:

That shell, from which you'd fain be free,

Is just the very thing for me.

Oft have I wished, when danger calls,
For such impervious castle walls.
Both for defence and shelter made,
From greedy crow, and murderous spade:
Yes, neighbor snail, I'll hire the room,
And pay my rent when strawberries come.
"Do," says the snail, "and I'll declare,
You'll find the place in good repair;
With winding ways that will not fail
To accommodate your length of tail."
(This fact the wily rogue concealing—
The fall had broken in his ceiling.)
"O," says the sanguine worm, "I knew
That I might safely deal with you."
Thus was the tenement transferred,
And that without another word.

Off went the snail in houseless plight;

Alas! it proved a frosty night,
And ere a peep of morning light,
One wish supreme he found prevail ;—
(In all the world this foolish snail
Saw nothing he would like so well)-
-that he had got a shell.
But soon for this he ceased to sigh:
A little duck came waddling by,

Which was

Who having but a youthful bill,
Had ventured not so large a pill
(E'en at imperious hunger's call)
As this poor reptile, house and all.
But finding such a dainty bite

All ready to his appetite,

Down went the snail, whose last lament,

Mourned his deserted tenement.

Meantime the worm had spent his strength,
In vain attempts to curl his length
His small apartment's space about;
For head or tail must needs stick out.
Now, if this last was left, 't was more
Exposed to danger than before,

And 't would be vastly strange, he said,
To sit in doors without one's head.
Alas! he now completely bears

The unknown weight of household cares;
And wishes much some kind beholder
Would take the burden off his shoulder.
Now broke the dawn; and soon with fear,
Feeling the shock of footsteps near,

He tried to reach that wished for goal,
The shelter of a neighboring hole;

Which proved, when danger threatened sore,
A certain refuge heretofore.

But failed him now this last resort:
His new appendage stopt him short:
For all his efforts would not do

To force it in, or drag it through.

Oh then, poor worm! what words can say
How much he wished his shell away!
But wishes all were vain, for oh!