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career, and come back rejoicing and triumphing for what he had performed, they all burst out into acclamations of applause; and his father, weeping for joy, kissed him as he came down from his horse, and in his transport said, “O my son! seek some kingdom equal to thy worth, for Macedonia is too little for thee."
69.-WASTE OF FUEL.
The enormous waste of fuel in London may be estimated by the vast dark cloud which continually hangs over this great metropolis, and frequently overshadows the whole country far and wide ; for this dense cloud is certainly composed almost entirely of unconsumed coal, which, having stolen wings from the innumerable fires of this great city, has escaped by the chimneys, and continues to sail about in the air, till, having lost the heat which gave it volatility, it falls in a dry shower of extremely fine dust to the ground, obscuring the atmosphere in its descent, and frequently changing the brightest day into more than Egyptian dark
I never view from a distance, as I come into town, the black cloud which hangs over London, without wishing to be able to compute
the immense number of chaldrons of coals of which it is composed; for could this be ascertained, I am persuaded so striking a fact would awaken the curiosity and excite the astonishment of all ranks of the inhabitants, and perhaps turn their minds to an object of economy, to which they have hitherto paid little attention.
Count Rumford's Essays.
The frugal snail, with forecast of repose,
71.–GUIDANCE OF THE TONGUE.
Give not thy tongue too great a liberty, lest it take thee prisoner: a word unspoken is, like the sword in the scabbard, thine; if vented, thy sword is in another's hand. If thou desire to be held wise, be so wise as to hold thy tongue.
72.-MERCY TO ANIMALS.
Take no pleasure in the death of a creature. If it be harmless or useful, destroy it not; if useless or harmful, destroy it mercifully. He that mercifully made His creatures for thy sake, expects thy mercy upon them for His sake.
Mercy turns her back on the unmerciful.
73.—MIGRATION OF BIRDS.
pre-ma-ture lat-it-ude cat-a-ract
The bird seems better to understand than any other living creature the numerous phenomena of heat and magnetism, whose secrets our senses cannot arrive at. He perceives them in their birth, in their early beginnings, even before they manifest themselves. He possesses, as it were, a kind of physical foreknowledge. Would to Heaven that Napoleon, in September 1811, had taken note of the premature migration of the birds of the north! From the storks and cranes he might have secured the most trustworthy information. In their precocious departure he might have divined the imminency of a severe and terrible winter. They hastened towards the south, and he remained at Moscow.
In the midst of the ocean, the weary bird which reposes for a night on the vessel's mast, recovers its way, nevertheless, without difficulty. So complete is his sympathy with the globe, so exactly does he know the true realm of light, that, on the following morning, he commits himself to the breeze without hesitation; the briefest
l consultation with himself suffices. He chooses on the immense ocean, uniform, and without other path than the vessel's track, the exact course which will lead him whither he wishes to go. There, not as upon land, exists no local observation, no landmark, no guide; the currents of the atmosphere alone, in sympathy with those of water—perhaps, also, some invisible magnetic currents-pilot this hardy voyager.
How strange a science! Not only does the swallow in Europe know that the insect which fails him there awaits him elsewhere, and go in quest of it, travelling upon the meridian; but in the same latitude, and under the same climates, the loriot of the United States understands that the cherry is ripe in France, and departs without hesitation to gather his harvest of our fruits.
It would be wrong to believe that these migrations occur in their season, without any definite choice of days or seasons.
We ourselves have been able to observe, on the contrary, the exact and lucid decision which regulates them; not an hour too soon or too late.
When living at Nantes, in October 1857, the season being still exceptionally fine, the insects numerous, and the feeding-ground of the swallows plentifully provided, it was our happy chance to catch sight of the sage republic, convoked in one immense and noisy assembly, deliberating on the roof of the Church of St Felix, which looks across the Loire. Why was the meeting held on this particular day, at this hour more than at any other? We did not know; soon afterwards we were able to understand it.
Bright was the morning sky, but the wind blew from La Vendée. My pines bewailed their fate, and from my afflicted cedar issued a low, deep voice of mourning. The ground was strewn with fruit, which we all set to work to gather. Gradually the weather grew cloudy, the sky assumed a dull, leaden grey, the wind sank. It was then, at about four o'clock, that simultaneously arrived from all points—from the wood, from the city, from the river-infinite legions, darkening the day, which settled on the church roof, with a myriad