The tufts of feathers which distinguish the short-eared and long-eared owls, and are developed still more imposingly in the great eagle owl of northern Europe, are, of course, no more ears than they are horns; but the true ears of the owls are most remarkable organs. The facial disk of feathers, which gives them their most characteristic appearance, serves as a kind of sounding-board or ear-trumpet to concentrate the slightest sounds and transmit them to the orifice of the true ear, which is concealed in the small feathers behind the eye. Even in the barn-owl, which possesses the least complicated arrangement of this kind, the orifice of the ear is covered by a remarkable flap of skin; while in the other species there are striking differences in the size and shape of this orifice and its covering flap on the two sides of the head. The exact way in which owls utilize this elaborately specialized apparatus has still to be discovered; but it is a natural inference that two ears of widely different structure must give the owls which possess them a power of localizing sound which is of the greatest use to them when hunting small creatures in the dark. It is, therefore, all the more surprizing that the barn-owl's ears have not this difference of structure, altho the power of instantly locating the rustle of the running mouse must be almost indispensable. For catching small birds, which are the especial prey of the wood-owl, keenness of sight rather than of hearing must be necessary, since they are chiefly caught when at roost; and the large nocturnal eye is developed in most of the owls almost as remarkably as the ear. In the short-eared owl, which is a day-flying species, the eye is correspondingly reduced. It has also a far less conspicuous facial disk; and this might also seem to be naturally explained as a result of its diurnal habits, with the consequent reduction of the need for acute hearing, if it were not for the marked difference in the structure of its two ears, which is even greater than in the case of the wood-owl. In the study of such complex problems, we are soon forced to realize how inadequate is even the most helpful and fascinating of single clues. The equilibrium of nature is no simple thing, like the balance of a pair of scales; it more resembles the complicated equipoise of an aeroplane among air-currents playing in three dimensions.—London Times.
(502)
COMPLIMENT
Few have equalled Sir Joshua Reynolds in
skill and graciousness of compliment. When
he painted the portrait of Mrs. Siddons as
the "Tragic Muse," he wrought his name
on the border of her robe, with the remark,
"I can not lose this opportunity of sending
my name to posterity on the hem of your
garment."
(503)
During a visit once with Queen Victoria, who had sent for him to her palace, the poet Longfellow was seating himself in a waiting coach at the close of the royal interview, when a working man, hat in hand, approached, and asked:
"Please, sir, yer honor, an' are you Mr. Longfellow?" Said the poet, "I am Mr. Longfellow." "An' did you write 'The Psalm of Life?'" continued the questioner. "I wrote the 'Psalm of Life,' was the answer. "An' yer honor, would you be willing to take a working man by the hand?"
Instantly Mr. Longfellow responded with a warm hand grip. In telling the story later the poet said, "I never in my life received a compliment that gave me greater satisfaction."
(504)
I recollect once standing in front of a bit of marble carved by Powers, a Vermonter, who had a matchless, instinctive love of art and perception of beauty. I said to an Italian standing with me, "Well, now, that seems to me to be perfection." The answer was, "To be perfection"—shrugging his shoulders—"why, sir, that reminds you of Phidias!" as if to remind you of that Greek was a greater compliment than to be perfection.—Wendell Phillips.
(505)
COMPLIMENTS, SPARING OF
The first time I ever stood in the pulpit
to preach was in the meeting-house of the
ancient Connecticut town where I was
brought up. That was a great day for our
folks and all my old neighbors, you may depend.
After benediction, when I passed out
into the vestibule, I was the recipient there
of many congratulatory expressions. Among
my friends in the crowd was an aged deacon,
a man in whom survived, to a rather remarkable
degree, the original New England
Puritan type, who had known me from the
cradle, and to whom the elevation I had
reached was as gratifying as it could possibly
