out distinction.
Here the difference ends. Independent of similarity of structure, it
breaks out like genius, here or elsewhere, for no perceptible reason.
Nothing causes it to be foreseen, nothing in the organization explains
it. If cross-examined on this point, the Dung beetles and the rest, each
with his own peculiar talent, would answer, were we able to understand
them: 'Instinct is the animal's genius.'

CHAPTER VII. THE POND

The pond, the delight of my early childhood, is still a sight whereof my
old eyes never tire. What animation in that verdant world! On the warm
mud of the edges, the frog's little tadpole basks and frisks in its
black legions; down in the water, the orange-bellied newt steers his
way slowly with the broad rudder of his flat tail; among the reeds are
stationed the flotillas of the caddis worms, half protruding from their
tubes, which are now a tiny bit of stick and again a turret of little
shells.

In the deep places, the water beetle dives, carrying with him his
reserves of breath: an air bubble at the tip of the wing cases and,
under the chest, a film of gas that gleams like a silver breastplate;
on the surface, the ballet of those shimmering pearls, the whirligigs,
turns and twists about; hard by there skims the unsubmersible troop of
the pond skaters, who glide along with side strokes similar to those
which the cobbler makes when sewing.

Here are the water boatmen, who swim on their backs with two oars spread
cross-wise, and the flat water scorpions; here, squalidly clad in mud,
is the grub of the largest of our dragonflies, so curious because of its
manner of progression: it fills its hinder parts, a yawning funnel, with
water, spurts it out again and advances just so far as the recoil of its
hydraulic cannon.

The mollusks abound, a peaceful tribe. At the bottom, the plump river
snails discreetly raise their lid, opening ever so little the shutters
of their dwelling; on the level of the water, in the glades of the
aquatic garden, the pond snails--Physa, Limnaea and Planorbis--take
the air. Dark leeches writhe upon their prey, a chunk of earthworm;
thousands of tiny, reddish grubs, future mosquitoes, go spinning around
and twist and curve like so many graceful dolphins.

Yes, a stagnant pool, though but a few feet wide, hatched by the sun, is
an immense world, an inexhaustible mine of observation to the studious
man and a marvel to the child who, tired of his paper boat, div