e finger a lateen sail that would have served to
waft a skiff across the Thames, it kept the rest of its hands for other
uses. But what bearing has all this on the case of birds? Here is a
whole sub-kingdom, as they call it, of the animal world which has
unreservedly and irrevocably bartered one pair of its limbs for a
flying-machine. The apparatus is made of feathers--a new invention,
unknown to amphibian or saurian, whence obtained nobody can say--and
these are grafted into the transformed frame of the old limbs. The
bargain was worth making, for the winged bird at once soared away in all
senses from the creeping things of earth, and became a more ethereal
being; "like a blown flame, it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses
it, outraces it; it is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself,
ruling itself." But the price was heavy. The bird must get through life
with one pair of feet and its mouth. But this was all the bodily
furniture of Charles Francois Felu, who, without arms, became a famous
artist.

A friend of mine, standing behind him in a _salon_ and watching him at
work, saw him lay down his brush and, raising his foot to his head, take
off his hat and scratch his crown with his great toe. My friend was
nearly hypnotised by the sight, yet it scarcely strikes us as a wonder
when a parrot, standing on one foot, takes its meals with the other. It
is a wonder, and stamps the parrot as a bird of talent. A mine of hidden
possibilities is in us all, but those who dig resolutely into it and
bring out treasure are few.

And let us note that the art of standing began with birds. Frogs sit,
and, as far as I know, every reptile, be it lizard, crocodile,
alligator, or tortoise, lays its body on the ground when not actually
carrying it. And these have each four fat legs. Contrast the flamingo,
which, having only two, and those like willow wands, tucks up one of
them and sleeps poised high on the other, like a tulip on its stem.

Note also that one toe has been altogether discarded by birds as
superfluous. The germ, or bud, must be there, for the Dorking fowl has
produced a fifth toe under some influence of the poultry-yard, but no
natural bird has more than four. Except in swifts, which never perch,
but cling to rocks and walls, one is turned backwards, and, by a cunning
contrivance, the act of bending the leg draws them all automatically
together. So a hen closes its toes at every step it takes, as if it
grasped