Hence the
time-honoured and serviceable metaphor.
Now with me, in this particular instance, it was all the other way
about--from insect to man--seeing that it was when occupied in watching
the small comedies and tragedies of the insect world on its stage that I
stumbled by chance upon a compelling reminder of one of the greatest
tragedies in England's history--greatest, that is to say, in its
consequences. And this is how it happened.
One summer day, prowling in an extensive oak wood, in Hampshire, known
as Harewood Forest, I discovered that it counted among its inhabitants
no fewer than three species of insects of peculiar interest to me, and
from that time I haunted it, going there day after day to spend long
hours in pursuit of my small quarry. Not to kill and preserve their
diminutive corpses in a cabinet, but solely to witness the comedy of
their brilliant little lives. And as I used to take my luncheon in my
pocket I fell into the habit of going to a particular spot, some opening
in the dense wood with a big tree to lean against and give me shade,
where after refreshing myself with food and drink I could smoke my pipe
in solitude and peace.
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