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Let a few years elapse be

who spoke it into existence, filled it with life and clothed it with beauty, its roots, faithful to their trust, amid the darkness of their prison, will send out a thousand fibres towards the neighboring rivulet or spring. Set a root of the Orchis in your garden and mark the spot. fore you seek it, and you will find that the strange thing has played you false; no vestige of it can be discovered, but clamber over your neighbor's fence, travel a quarter of a mile, and you may chance to find the truant flourishing in the soil of a new possessor. It had made a toilsome journey hither, all for its little life, abandoning the old and withered root from time to time, it had bundled off to a new and vigorous one, springing up beside the old habitation; like a tenant who resides, now in this dwelling, now in that, leaving each as the decaying timbers and broken roof, threaten to tumble upon his head!

The bulbous root is peculiarly adapted to resist the effects of drought; transplant such a root to some moist spot, and instead of remaining round and plump as a London alderman, it will become lean, lank and long as a half-starved friar; but never fear; it is not about to die. As in a dry soil, to the bulbous root, the plant owes its preservation, so in a marsh, the same formation would prove its sure destruction, actually drowning it; and for this reason, the root instinctively elongates, becomes fibrous, adapts itself to the new situation, and lives on, verdant as ever.

The wood-sorrel that folds its leaves from the coming storm; the yellow flowers that look cheerfully forth upon the rising sun, turn to the south at noon, and catch the last beams of the closing day; the sensitive fern that shrinks from the approaching hand; the Evening Primrose, whose little signal gun announces the approach of night, as one by one, its pale flowers

fly open to receive the falling dew; the water-lily that contracts its leaves, as it rests gently upon the crystal couch; the lazy Goatsbeard, that shuts its eyes at noon, as if to sleep, and the chickweed, that wraps the virgin flower in its green mantle, reminding you to make the umbrella your companion for that day, are all directed by INSTINCT, that principle, which, however varied the acts to which it impels, is admirably calculated to preserve life in the vegetable world. Take away this instinct, and the day which dawned upon a thou sand forms of almost breathing beauty, looking forth from hill-top and vale, would close upon a mournful scene of deso-lation and death.

Let us now observe the action of instinct in the animal world. I recollect, when a boy, of spying a robin's nest in an old apple tree. With much scrambling and kicking, I succeeded in getting a foothold on some of the spreading boughs, and eagerly reached up, to take a peep at the interior of the nest. At the imminent hazard of life or limb, so much was I taken by surprise, four young robins, opened their bills all together, and developing their capacious yellow throats, set up a chorus that first startled, then astounded me. Just at this instant, the alarm-note of the old robin, sounding loud and clear, close by me, added not a little to my fear, and trembling in every joint, 1 heartily wished myself out of the predatory excursion, and safe at home. The little family had but just escaped from the shell, and this movement was one of the first acts of life; without instruction or experience, and doubtless without a knowledge of the cause or the result, they placed themselves in the only position in which they could possibly receive nourishment from the parent. This act was an instinctive one; of the same nature with that per. formed by the Geranium that turns its leaves towards the un

curtained window, or by the root that seeks its proper soil; of the same nature with that put forth by the infant, which throws out its little hands, when in danger of falling from the arms of a careless nurse; an act which is prompted by no apprehension of danger, no knowledge of any means by which it might be averted. In the three instances mentioned, the act is essentially the same; equally unintelligent, and alike calculated to preserve the life, and health of the individual.

CHAPTER II.

The duck-Complex nature of sucking, swallowing and respiration-Definition of instinct-not sentient-not intelligent Examples-The office of intelligence-its relation to instinct— Few animals destroy life wantonly—The skill of birds in nidification-Color of the eggs-Individual and generic instincts.

The patient hen sets for weeks upon duck's eggs, unconscious of the anxiety which her perverse brood will occasion; the little web-feet come forth and waddle away to the nearest pool with all possible dispatch. The foster-mother, with drooping wings, runs hither and thither upon the bank, clucking her mingled notes of love and fear; but the heedless objects of her solicitude, diving and paddling about with notable zeal, pay not the slightest attention to her exhortations and entreaties. Fitted by nature for a sea-faring life, instinct directs them to their native element, and by instinct they swim. Of precisely the same nature, is the act of sucking and swal

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lowing, so readily performed by the new-born infant; indeed, evincing a skill, that all the experience of subsequent life, could not increase, or even attain; a process which calls into action, thirty pairs of muscles at every draught. In this connection, I will mention respiration or breathing, also; what instructor could initiate the aptest pupil into the mystery, so that he could bring into operation all the muscles necessary to this process, but that great Teacher, who, as He has bestowed upon organized bodies the boon of life, has also given them instinct for its preservation?

Numerous examples might be introduced, to illustrate still farther, the universality of instinct, as possessed by all living things, and its uniformity, as ever acting for good. But they are above, beneath and on every side of you; and to him, who studies the works of nature, animate or inanimate, they will constantly present themselves, extorting, even from the unwilling heart, an acknowledgement of the unbounded benevolence of that Being, by whom the worlds were made.

Instinct, then, is "the operation of the principle of organized life, by the exercise of certain natural powers, directed to the present good or future welfare of the individual." Where life is, there is instinct; within the secret chamber of the buried seed, it fans the slumbering spark into a flame; it guides unerringly the descending root, and accompanies the ascending stem; it folds the tender leaf from the frosty night; it opens the painted flower to the genial ray, and when the chill winds whistle around the shivering tree, it is there still!

Instinct is neither sentient nor intelligent; were it the latter, it might profit by experience; if the former, it might writhe with pain; but plants possess neither sensation nor knowledge, and yet plants have instinct; perfect at first, it is

not susceptible of improvement; unerring in its nature, wherever seen, you are compelled to exclaim with the poet, "And Reason raise o'er instinct as you can,

In this 'tis God directs, in that 'tis man.' ?"

Finally-contemplating instinct in connection with intelligence and reason, you will observe that it is a natural power, fully developed at first, while the two latter are yet feeble, requiring time and cultivation, to arrive at maturity, so that the young of very many animals must perish, without the aid of instinct; hence the providence of the bee, the secretions in the udder of the cow, and the breasts of the mother, and the hunting excursions of the parent bird. Even then, all these promptings of instinct or affection would be unavailing, did not the calf instinctively suck, the bird gape and the insect devour. In this view, the peculiar office of instinct is antecedent to that, either of intelligence or reason; it fills, as if the place of a guardian to the new-born creature, while the latter, as minors, are unable to act for themselves. Hence it follows, that though instinct continues to exercise its functions during the whole life of the brute or the man, yet it never discharges a duty which intelligence or reason is capa citated to perform. Thus the infant throws out its arms when falling; the man makes precisely the same movement when in similar circumstances; but so far from its being pure instinct, then, this essential difference is obvious; the man both apprehends the danger, and intelligently adopts this expedient to avert it. Here instinct may be said to act in concert with intelligence, for the accomplishment of the same object.

In the view which I have given of the subject, you can easi ly distinguish between the impulsion of instinct and the operation of intelligence; the former may act alone as well as the latter; the one executes what the other whispers as neces,

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