the heath is close at hand. Nay, if the case were otherwise, I should object to dwarfing comparisons. It argues a pitiful thinness of nature (and the majority in this respect are lean) when present excellence is depreciated because some greater excellence is to be found elsewhere. We are not elsewhere; we must do the best we can with what is here. Because ours is not the Elizabethan age, shall we express no reverence for our great men, but reserve it for Shakspeare, Bacon, and Raleigh, whose traditional renown must overshadow our contemporaries? Not so. To each age its honor. Let us be thankful for all greatness, past or present, and never speak slightingly of noble work or honest endeavor because it is not, or we choose to say it is not, equal to something else. No comparisons, then, I beg. If I said ponds were finer than rock-pools, you might demur; but I only say ponds are excellent things, let us dabble in them; ponds are rich in wonders, let us enjoy them.

And, first, we must look to our tackle. It is extremely simple. A landing-net, lined with muslin; a wide-mouthed glass jar, say a foot high and six inches in diameter, but the size optional, with a bit of string tied under the lip, and forming a loop over the top, to serve as a handle, which will let the jar swing without spilling the water; a camel's-hair brush; a quinine bottle, or any wide-mouthed phial, for worms and tiny animals which you desire to keep separated from the dangers and confusions of

the larger jar; and when to these a pocket lens is added, our equipment is complete.

As we emerge upon the common and tread its springy heather, what a wild wind dashes the hair into our eyes, and the blood into our cheeks! and what a fine sweep of horizon lies before us! The lingering splendors and the beautiful decays of autumn vary the scene, and touch it with a certain pensive charm. The ferns mingle harmoniously their rich browns with the dark green of the furze, now robbed of its golden summer glory, but still pleasant to the eye and exquisite to memory. The gaunt wind-mill on the rising ground is stretching its stiff, starred arms into the silent air, a landmark for the wanderer-a land-mark, too, for the wandering mind, since it serves to recall the dim early feelings and sweet broken associations of a childhood when we gazed at it with awe, and listened to the rushing of its mighty arms. Ah! well may the mind with the sweet insistance of sadness linger on those scenes of the irrecoverable past, and try, by lingering there, to feel that it is not wholly lost, wholly irrecoverable, vanished forever from the Life which, as these decays of autumn and these changing trees too feelingly remind us, is gliding away, leaving our cherished ambitions still unful filled, and our deeper affections still but half expressed. The vanishing visions of elapsing life bring with them thoughts which lie too deep for tears, and this wind-mill recalls such visions by

the subtle laws of association. Let us go toward it, and stand once more under its shadow. See the intelligent and tailless sheep-dog which bounds out at our approach, eager and minatory; now his quick eye at once recognizes that we are neither tramps nor thieves, and he ceases barking to commence a lively interchange of sniffs and amenities with our Pug, who seems also glad of a passing interchange of commonplace remarks. While these dogs travel over each other's minds, let us sun ourselves upon this bench, and look down on the embrowned valley, with its gipsy encampment, or abroad on the purple Surrey hills, or the varied-tinted trees of Combe Wood and Richmond Park. There are not many such prospects so near London. But, in spite of the sun, we must not linger here: the wind is much too analytical in its remarks; and, moreover, we came out to hunt.

Here is a pond with a mantling surface of green promise. Dip the jar into the water. Hold it now up to the light, and you will see an immense variety of tiny animals swimming about. Some are large enough to be recognized at once; others require a pocket lens, unless familiarity has already enabled you to infer the forms you can not distinctly see. Here (Fig. 7) are two larvæ (or grubs) of the common gnat. That large-headed fellow (4) bobbing about with such grotesque movements is very near the last stage of his metamorphosis, and to-morrow, or the next day, you may see him

Fig. 7.-LARVE OF THE GNAT in two different stages of development
(magnified).

cast aside this mask (larva means a mask), and emerge a perfect insect. The other (B) is in a much less matured condition, but leads an active predatory life, jerking through the water, and fastening to the stems of weed or sides of the jar by means of the tiny hooks at the end of its tail. The hairy appendage forming the angle is not another tail, but a breathing apparatus.

Observe, also, those grotesque Entomostraca,* popularly called "water-fleas," although, as you perceive, they have little resemblance in form or manners to our familiar (somewhat too familiar) bed-fellows. This (Fig. 8) is a Cyclops, with only one eye in the centre of its forehead, and carrying two sacs, filled with eggs, like panniers. You ob

* Entomostraca (from entomos, an insect, and ostracon, a shell) are not really insects, but belong to the same large group of animals as the lobster, the crab, or the shrimp-i. e., crustaceans.

hoisted up to the head, and become antennæ (or feelers). Here (Fig. 9) is a Daphnia, grotesque enough, throwing up his arms in astonished awk

traca, named Polyphemus, whose head is all eye; and another, named Caligus, who has no head at all. Other paradoxes and wonders are presented by this interesting group of animals;* but they all sink

* The student will find ample information in BAIRD's British Entomostraca, published by the Ray Society.