s were like the birds, they scarcely needed ears.
And so by the high road of evolution you arrive at man and the enigma of
his ear. It is a shrunken and shrivelled remnant, a moss-grown ruin, a
derelict ship. It is to a pattern ear what the old shoe which you find
in a country lane, shed from the foot of some "unemployed," is to one of
Waukenphast's "five-miles-an-hour-easy" boots. We ought to temper our
contempt for what it is with respect for what it was. All the parts of
it are there and recognisable, even to the muscles that should move it,
but we have lost control of them. I believe anyone could regain that by
persevering exercise of his will power for a time--that is, if he has
any. I have a friend who, if you treat him with disrespect, shrivels you
up with a sarcastic wag of his right ear.

The ears of dogs open up another vista for the questioning philosopher.
Their day is past, too, and man may cut them short to match his own, but
the dog grows them longer than before. When he first took service with
man, and grew careless and lazy, the muscles got slack and the ears
dropped, which is in accordance with Nature. Then, instead of being
allowed to wither away, they have been handed over to the milliner and
shaped and trimmed in harmony with the "style" of each breed of dogs.
How it has been done is one of those mysteries which will not open to
the iron keys of Darwin, But there it is for those to see who have eyes.

[Illustration: THE CURLS OF A MOTHER'S DARLING.]

The ears of the little dogs bred for ladies' laps are the curls of a
mother's darling; the pendant love-locks of the old, old maid who,
despite of changeful fashions, clings to those memorials of the pensive
beauty of her youth, are repeated in solemn mimicry by the dachshund
trotting at her heels; but the sensible fur cap of the dignified
Newfoundland reminds us of the cold regions from which his forefathers
came. Some kinds of terriers still have their ears starched up to look
perky, and I have occasionally seen a dog with one ear up and the other
down as if straining after the elusive idea expressed in the
Baden-Powell hat. All which shows that "one touch of nature makes the
whole world kin."

VI

TOMMY

THE STORY OF AN OWL

Among the many and various strangers within my gates who have helped to
enliven the days of my exile, Tommy was one towards whom I still feel a
certain sense of obligation because he taught me for the first time w