Welcome freely to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.”
Sop. How pretty! I think they will almost make me love flies. But pray, papa, do not animals destroy one another?
Pa. They do, indeed. The greatest part of them only live by the destruction of life. There is a perpetual warfare going on, in which the stronger prey upon the weaker, and, in their turns, are the prey of those which are a degree stronger than themselves. Even the innocent sheep, with every mouthful of grass, destroys hundreds of small insects. In the air we breathe, and the water we drink, we give death to thousands of invisible creatures.
Sop. But is not that very strange? If they were created to live and be happy, why should they be destroyed so fast?
Pa. They are destroyed no faster than others are produced; and if they enjoyed life while it lasted, they have had a good bargain. By making animals the food of animals, Providence has filled up every chink, as it were, of existence. You see these swarms of flies. During all the hot weather they are continually coming forth from the state of eggs and maggots, and as soon as they get the use of wings, they roam about and fill every place in search of food. Meantime, they are giving sustenance to the whole race of spiders; they maintain all the swallow tribe, and contribute greatly to the support of many other small birds, and even afford many a delicate morsel to the fishes. Their own numbers, however, seem scarcely diminished, and vast multitudes live on till the cold weather comes and puts an end to them. Were nothing to touch them, they would probably become so numerous as to starve each other. As it is, they are full of enjoyment themselves, and afford life and enjoyment to other creatures, which in their turn supply the wants of others.
Sop. It is no charity, then, to tear a spider’s web in pieces in order to set the fly at liberty.
Pa. None at all—no more than it would be to demolish the traps of a poor Indian hunter who depended upon them for his dinner. They both act as nature directs them. Shall I tell you a story?
Sop. O yes—pray do!
Pa. As a venerable Bramin, who had never in his days eaten anything but rice, fruits, and milk, and held it the greatest of crimes to shed the blood of anything that had life, was one day meditating on the banks of the Ganges, he saw a little bird on the ground picking up ants as fast as he could swallow. “Murderous wretch,” cried he, “what scores of lives are sacrificed to one gluttonous meal of thine!” Presently, a sparrow-hawk, pouncing down, seized him in his claws and flew off with him. The Bramin was at first inclined to triumph over the little bird; but on hearing his cries, he could not help pitying him. “Poor thing,” said he, “thou art fallen into the clutches of a tyrant!” A stronger tyrant, however, took up the matter; for a falcon in mid air darting on the sparrow-hawk, struck him to the ground, with the bird lifeless in his talons. Tyrant against tyrant, thought the Bramin, is well enough. The falcon had not finished tearing his prey, when a lynx stealing from behind a rock on which he was perched, sprung upon him, and having strangled him, bore him to the edge of a neighbouring thicket, and began to suck his blood. The Bramin was attentively viewing this new display of retributive justice, when a sudden roar shook the air, and a huge tiger rushing from the thicket, came like thunder on the lynx. The Bramin was near enough to hear the crushing bones, and was making off in great terror, when he met an English soldier armed with his musket. He pointed eagerly to the place where the tiger was making his bloody repast. The soldier levelled his gun, and laid the tiger dead. “Brave fellow!” exclaimed the Bramin. “I am very hungry,” said the soldier, “can you give me a beefsteak? I see you have plenty of cows here.”—“Horrible!” cried the Bramin; “what! I kill the sacred cows of Brama!”—“Then kill the next tiger yourself,” said the soldier.