owl ruffled his feathers and pretended to

think.

But the cat observed that it was foolish to search after such things. "Indeed," she purringly said, "I only trouble about easy

matters."

"Ah! I will give you an example of my philosophy, and how inquiry ought to be made. You at least know, I presume," scoffingly exclaimed the owl, "that the chicken arises from the egg, and the egg comes from the hen. Now the object of true philosophy is to examine this statement in all its bearings, and consider which was first, the egg or the bird.”

The cat was quite struck with the proposition.

"It is quite clear," went on the owl, "to all but the ignorant, one or other appeared first, since neither is immortal."

The cat inquired, "Do you find out this
thing by philosophy?"

Really how absurd of you to ask,"
concluded the feathered one. "And I

thank the gods for it, were it as you
suggest, O cat, philosophy would give no
delight to inquirers, for knowing all things
would mean the end and destruction of
philosophy."

With this owl's apology nursery-lore is
presented to my readers without the legion
of verified references of that character de-
manded as corroborative evidence in the
schools of criticism to-day.

A few leading thoughts culled from
such men as Tylor, Lubbock, Wilson,
McLennan, Frazer, and Boyd Dawkins,
etc., the experiences of our modern
travellers among primitive races, Indian
and European folklore, the world's

credulities past and present, have helped
me to fix the idea that amongst the true
historians of mankind the children of our
streets find a place.

A HISTORY

OF

NURSERY RHYMES

Part E.

CHAPTER I.

"The scene was savage, but the scene was new."

CIENTISTS tell us many marvellous

SCIEN

tales, none the less true because marvellous, about the prehistoric past. Like the owl in the preface, they are not discouraged because the starting-point is beyond reach; and we, like the cat, should try to awaken our interest when evidences are presented to us that on first hearing sound like the wonderful tales of the Orient.

Thousands of years ago in our own land dwelt two races of people, the River Driftmen and the Cave-dwellers. The River

Drift-man was a hunter of a very low order, possessing only the limited intelligence of the modern Australian native. This man supported life much in the same way we should expect a man to do, surrounded by similar conditions; but, on the other hand, the Cave-dweller showed a singular talent for representing the animals he hunted, and his sketches reveal to us the capacity he had for seeing the beauty and grace of natural objects. Were a visit to be paid to the British Museum, his handicraft, rude when compared to modern art, could be seen in the fragments beyond all cavil recording his primitive culture.

Without, then, any very great stretch of imagination we can picture to ourselves this