one day the air is filled with winged aphides, another and different generation has appeared, and we know that the end approaches. A frost, a heavy shower or two, and all our plants are clean; gone is the blight, gone the ladybird, syrphid, and lace-wing larvæ, which fought so bravely for us during the period of abundance. The race is wiped out, suddenly and efiectually, but hidden from our eyes is that spark of life in a few dormant individuals which will in spring kindle the prolific flame once more; we have not done with aphides because none is visible.
Faced by such dread facts, by an order that is not only "careless of the single life," but apparently careless of life altogether. Siddartha might well be saddened when he marked—
"How lizard fed on ant, and snake on him,
And kite on both; and how the fish-hawk robbed
The fish-tiger of that which it had seized;
The shrike chasing the bulbul, which did hunt
The jewelled butterflies; till everywhere
Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain,
Life living upon death. So the fair show
Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy
Of mutual murder, from the worm to man,
Who himself kills his fellow."
But is this the whole truth? Is life one great tragedy in "a world of plunder and prey"? Had not Buddha, but a moment before, rejoiced that—
"All the jungle laughed with nesting-songs,
And all the thickets rustled with small life
Of lizard, bee, beetle, and creeping things
Pleased at the spring-time."
This first contemplation, when "all things spoke peace and plenty," was as true a picture as the second. Few wild creatures perish in decline, die of old age; sudden, often violent death terminates their short lives; ordinary
