of what the smallest and the dullest of them,
as well as the biggest and cleverest fleas and
fish as well as elephants can do.

There were Industrious Fleas before our
time. Baron Walckenaer (who died in 1452)
saw with his own eyes, for sixpence, in the
Place de la Bourse, Paris, four learned fleas
perform the manual exercise, standing upright
on their hind legs, with a splinter of wood to
serve for a pike. Two other fleas dragged a
golden carriage: with a third flea, holding a
whip, on the box for coachman. Another pair
dragged a cannon. The flea-horses were
harnessed by a golden chain fastened to their hind
legs, which was never taken off. They had lived
in this way two years and a half, without any
mortality among them, when Walckenaer saw
them. They took their meals on their keeper's
arm. Their feats were performed on a plate of
polished glass. When they were sulky, and
refused to work, the man, instead of whipping
them, held a bit of lighted charcoal over their
backs, which very soon brought them to their
senses.

But of what use is cleverness without a
heart? The flea has strong maternal affections.
She lays her eggs in the crannies of
floors, in the bedding of animals, and on babies'
night-clothes. When the helpless, transparent
larvae appear, the mother—flea feeds them, as the
dove does its young, by discharging into their
mouths the contents of her stomach. Grudge
her not, therefore, one small drop of blood.
For you, it is nothing but a flea-bite; for her,
it is the life of her beloved offspring!

While pleading, however, for the flea, we
cannot do as much for the bug, though he is
gifted with fuller developed intelligence. An
inquisitive gentleman, wishing to know how the
bug became aware of a human presence, tried
the following experiment. He got into a bed
suspended from the ceiling, without any tester,
in the middle of an unfurnished room. He
then placed on the floor, a bug, who, guided
probably by smell, pondered the means of reaching
the bed. After deep reflection, he climbed
up the wall, travelled straight across the ceiling
to the spot immediately over the bed, and then
dropped plump on the observer's nose. Was
this, or was it not, an act of intelligence?

The Fish belongs to the great Flathead
family. The same sort of platitude which you
see in his person, doubtless extends to the whole
of his character. You have met him somewhere
in human shape one of those pale-faced,
wishy-washy gentlemen, whose passions
have extinguished all heart and feeling. You
often find them in diplomatic regions, and can't
tell whether they are fish or flesh. But if their
mental powers are less developed, their term
of existence is more extended. They gain in
longevity what they lose in warmth of
temperament.

Nevertheless, the skill with which the stickle-
back constructs his nest is now a matter of
natural history. Other fishes display an
address which we acquire only by long and
constant practice. One fellow, with a muzzle
prolonged into a long narrow tube (which he uses
as a popgun), prowls about the banks of tidal
rivers. On spying a fly on the water-weeds, he
slyly swims up till he gets within five or six
feet of it. He then shoots it with water from
his proboscis, never failing to bring down his
game. A governor of the hospital at Batavia,
doubting the fact, though attested by credible
witnesses, procured some of these fish, to watch
their pranks. He stuck a fly on a pin at the
end of a stick, and placed it so as to attract
their notice. To his great delight, they shot it
with their water-guns, for which he rewarded
them with a treat of insects.

The pike has proved himself not only
intelligent, but even capable—disbelieve it who will—
of gratitude.

"While living at Durham," says Dr.
Warwick, "I took a walk one evening in Lord
Stamford's park. On reaching a pond in which
fish were kept ready for use, I observed a fine
pike of some six pounds' weight. At my
approach he darted away like an arrow. In his
hurry, he knocked his head against an iron hook
fixed in a post in the water, fracturing his skull
and injuring the optic nerve on one side of his
head. He appeared to suffer terrible pain; he
plunged into the mud, floundered hither and
thither, and at last, leaping out of the water,
fell on the bank. On examination, a portion
of the brain was seen protruding through the
fractured skull.

"This I carefully restored to its place,
making use of a small silver toothpick to raise
the splinters of broken bone. The fish
remained quiet during the operation; when it
was over he plunged into the pond. At first,
his sufferings appeared to be relieved; but in
the course of a few minutes he began rushing
right and left until he again leaped out of the
water.

"I called the keeper, and with his assistance
applied a bandage to the fracture. That done,
we restored him to the pond and left him to
his fate. Next morning, as soon as I reached
the water's edge, the pike swam to meet me
quite close to the bank, and laid his head upon
my feet. I thought this an extraordinary
proceeding. Without further delay, I examined
the wound and found it was healing nicely. I
then strolled for some time by the side of the
pond. The fish swam after me, following my
steps, and turning as I turned.

"The following day, I brought a few young
friends with me to see the fish. He swam
towards me as before. Little by little he
became so tame as to come to my whistle and
eat out of my hand. With other persons, on.
the contrary, he continued as shy and as wild
as ever."

This anecdote is averred to have been read,
in 1850, before the Liverpool Literary and
Philosophical Society.

The elephant, with a sort of humorous justice,
is given to return injuries or insults in kind. In
Madagascar, an elephant's cornac, happening to