I
ON a fine day during the Cambrian Era bright sunshine flooded the best that our old Earth could do in the way of scenery at that remote period. Huge mud-flats extended for thousands of miles on every hand, and between them stretched shallow oceans. Humble forms of vegetation flourished in the mud and a heavy atmosphere, dense as steam, covered all. The air was full of noble rainbows, probably the most beautiful phenomena known to Cambrian times.
Absolute silence marked the scene. No feather made music in the air; no fin rippled the water; no beast or herd of beasts moved upon the face of the earth to break the terrific monotony of that prehistoric picture.
Suddenly upon a steaming mud-flat there appeared a little lobster-like creature of many joints, large eyes, and various feelers arranged like whiskers around his jaws. He was twenty inches in length and carried himself with conscious dignity, albeit mud knocks the dignity out of almost anything but a trilobite. But this trilobite, for such he was, surveyed that Cambrian noon pensively, curled his whiskers with thought, and wriggled his shining joints in the sun. Presently a hen trilobite appeared and squatted beside him placidly.
“When I survey this spectacle,” said the trilobite, “when I reflect that the world is empty but for us, I am often tempted to wonder.”
He rolled his goggle eyes towards the zenith.
“Wonder? What at?” asked his lady. “Surely, as the lord of creation, you have a right to everything here? You’re the most wonderful thing in the mud, after all; you can walk about and talk; in fact, you’re alive—a live creature—Nature’s masterpiece.”
“It would be easy and pleasant to think so,” mused the trilobite, “but sometimes, in rare fits of modesty, I almost fancy that I am not the best that Nature can do. I even picture something bigger, better, more beautiful than a trilobite. It may be morbid, but I do.”
“This is nonsense and stuff, my dear. You’re fishing for compliments? Bigger? Good heavens! you’re twenty inches long; isn’t that big enough for anybody? Better? Well, you’re a good husband and father; what better could any trilobite be? And as to beauty, I shouldn’t have married you if you had not been about the handsomest gentleman trilobite that ever sat and curled his whiskers. Nature never made anything better than a trilobite. Why? Because she can’t. Can you picture anything different? Can you imagine any creature with more convenient limbs, more exquisite joints, more perfect claws, better eyesight, better senses, better manners, or more self-respecting? You know you can’t.”
“I actually cannot picture the creature, but I can picture the possibility of such a creature.”
“Twaddle!” said Mrs. Trilobite. “We’re the best and last, so there’s an end of it. The world was made for us.” She had the final word, very properly, and the trilobite shrugged his shoulders and waddled off to his family. Still he doubted.