nes."

"But, if the works are closed up, what will we see?"

"We shall meet with fossils in the shale, with trilobites, such as the
_Asaphus Canadensis_, a crustacean, closely allied to the wood-louse,
and occasionally found rolled up, like it, into a defensive ball,
together with other specimens of ancient life."

"Wilks, my son, who's doing Gosse's Canadian Naturalist, now, I'd like
to know? Pity we hadn't the working geologist along for a lesson."

"I am sorry if I have bored you with my talk, but I thought you were
interested in science. Does this suit you better?

Many a little hand
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set
In the dark crag; and then we turn'd, we wound
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in,
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the sun
Grew broader towards his death and fell, and all
The rosy heights came out above the lawns."

"That's better, avic. Tennyson's got the shale there, I see. But rag and
trap and tuff is the word, and tough the whole business is. Just look at
that living blue bell, there, it's worth all the stony names of rock and
fossil.

Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
His garlands of roses and moss-covered dells,
While humbly I sing of those sweet little flowers,
The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells.
We'll shout in the chorus forever and ever,
The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells."

"You are a nice botanist, Mr. Coristine, to confound that campanula with
the Scottish blue-bell, which is a scilla, or wild hyacinth."

"Poetic license, my dear friend, poetic license! Hear this now:--

Let the Blue Mountains boast of their shale that's bituminous,
Full of trilobites, graptolites and all the rest,
It may not be so learned, or ancient, or luminous,
But the little campanula's what I love best.
So we'll shout in the chorus forever and ever,
The little campanula's worth all the rest.

Whew! What do you think of that for an impromptu song, Wilks?"

"I think that you are turning your back upon your own principle that
there is no best, or no one best, and that everything is best in its
place."

"Barring old Nick and the mosquitoes, Wilks, come now?"

"Well,