ing and starry looking, and the curious radiated structure of 7 M. comes out.
In looking at such objects we can not too often recall to our minds the significance of what we see—that these glimmering specks are the lights in the windows of the universe which carry to us, across inconceivable tracts of space, the assurance that we and our little system are not alone in the heavens; that all around us, and even on the very confines of immensity, Nature is busy, as she is here, and the laws of light, heat, gravitation (and why not of life?) are in full activity.
The clusters we have just been looking at lie on the borders of Scorpio and Sagittarius. Let us cross over into the latter constellation, which commemorates the centaur Chiron. We are now in another, and even a richer, region of wonders. The Milky-Way, streaming down out of the northeast, pours, in a luminous flood through Sagittarius, inundating that whole region of the heavens with seeming deeps and shallows, and finally bursting the barriers of the horizon disappears, only to glow with redoubled splendor in the southern hemisphere. The stars Zeta (ζ), Tau (τ), Sigma (σ), Phi (φ), Lambda (λ), and Mu (μ) indicate the outlines of a figure sometimes called the Milk-Dipper, which is very evident when the eye has once recognized it. On either side of the upturned handle of this dipper-like figure lie some of the most interesting objects in the sky. Let us take the star μ for a starting-point. Sweep downward and to the right a little way, and you will be startled by a most singular phenomenon that has suddenly made its appearance in the field of view of your glass. You may, perhaps, be tempted to congratulate yourself on having got ahead of all the astronomers, and discovered a comet. It is really a combination of a star-cluster with a nebula, and is known as 8 M. Sir John Herschel has described the "nebulous folds and masses" and dark oval gaps which he saw in this nebula with his large telescope at the Cape of Good Hope. But no telescope is needed to make it appear a wonderful object; an opera-glass suffices for that, and a field-glass reveals still more of its marvelous structure.
On the opposite side of the star μ—that is to say, above and a little to the left—is an entirely different but almost equally attractive spectacle, the swarm of stars called 24 M. Here, again, the field-glass easily shows its superiority over the opera-glass, for magnifying power is needed to bring out the innumerable little twinklers of which the cluster is composed. But, whether you use an opera-glass or a field-glass, do not fail to gaze long and steadily at this island of stars, for much of its beauty becomes evident only after the eye has accustomed itself to disentangle the glimmering rays with which the whole field of view is filled. Try the method of averted vision, and hundreds of the finest conceivable points of light will seem to spring into view out of the depths of the sky. The necessity of a perfectly clear night, and the absence of moonlight, can not be too much insisted upon for