ll-o'-the-wisp.

Shaw's lamp of reason is one that has an extra fine glitter; it makes
everything look perfectly simple; it shows us short-cuts. He recommends
it as a substitute for understanding, which he does not manufacture.
Understanding is slow, and is always pointing to the longest way round.

Shaw has studied the ways of mankind, but without enough sympathy. It is
unlucky, both for him and for us, this is so. Sympathy would have made
him humorous and wise, and then what a friend he'd have been to us.
Instead, being brilliant and witty, he has left us unnourished.

[Illustration: Which shall the Future belong to--man or the insects?]

The Seamy Side of Fabre

This is an essay on Fabre--that lovable and charming old Frenchman who
wrote about insects. _I_ don't say he's lovable, mind you, but that's
how he is always described.

He was one of those fortunate men who are born with a gift of some sort.
His gift was for interpretation, but it worked well in only one field.
Every animal, vegetable and mineral finds an interpreter, sooner or
later; some man who so loves them that he understands them and their
story, and finds ways of telling it to the rest of mankind--if they'll
let him. Fabre was born with a peculiar understanding of insects.

Even as a baby he was fascinated by grasshoppers and beetles. As a
child he wished to study them far more than anything else. He should
have been encouraged to do this: allowed to, at any rate. Any child with
a gift, even for beetles, should be allowed to develop it. But this
small boy was born in a place where his gift was despised; he was torn
away from his insects and put through the mill.

Our great blundering old world is always searching for learning and
riches, and everlastingly crushing underfoot all new riches and
learning. It tried to make Fabre, a born lover of nature, desert her; it
forced him to teach mathematics for decades instead. The first thing the
world does to a genius is to make him lose all his youth.

Well, Fabre, after losing his youth, and his middle age too, and after
being duly kept back at every turn, all his life, by the want of a few
extra francs, finally won out at sixty. That is to say, he then got a
chance to study and write about insects, in a tiny country home, with an
income that was tinier still. "It is a little late, O my pretty
insects," he said; "I greatly fear the peach is offered to me only when
I'm beginning to have no tee