Sibyl.  Of real gold?

L. No; of bronze, or copper, or some of their foul patent metals—­ it is no matter what.  I meant a model of our chief British eagle.  Every feather was made separately; and every filament of every feather separately, and so joined on; and all the quills modeled of the right length and right section, and at last the whole cluster of them fastened together.  You know, children, I don’t think much of my own drawing; but take my proud word for once, that when I go to the Zoological Gardens, and happen to have a bit of chalk in my pocket, and the Gray Harpy will sit, without screwing his head round, for thirty seconds,—­I can do a better thing of him in that time than the three years’ work of this industrious firm.  For, during the thirty seconds, the eagle is my object,—­not myself; and during the three years, the firm’s object, in every fiber of bronze it made, was itself, and not the eagle.  That is the true meaning of the little Pthah’s having no eyes—­he can see only himself.  The Egyptian beetle was not quite the full type of him; our northern ground beetle is a truer one.  It is beautiful to see it at work, gathering its treasures (such as they are) into little round balls; and pushing them home with the strong wrong end of it,—­head downmost all the way,—­like a modern political economist with his ball of capital, declaring that a nation can stand on its vices better than on its virtues.  But away with you, children, now, for I’m getting cross.

Dora.  I’m going downstairs; I shall take care, at any rate, that there are no little Pthahs in the kitchen cupboards.

LECTURE 4.

THE CRYSTAL ORDERS

A working Lecture in the large Schoolroom; with experimental Interludes.  The great bell has rung unexpectedly.

Kathleen (entering disconsolate, though first at the summons).  Oh dear, oh dear, what a day!  Was ever anything so provoking! just when we wanted to crystallize ourselves;—­and I’m sure it’s going to rain all day long.

L. So am I, Kate.  The sky has quite an Irish way with it.  But I don’t see why Irish girls should also look so dismal.  Fancy that you don’t want to crystallize yourselves:  you didn’t, the day before yesterday, and you were not unhappy when it rained then.

Florrie.  Ah! but we do want to-day; and the rain’s so tiresome.

L. That is to say, children, that because you are all the richer by the expectation of playing at a new game, you choose to make yourselves unhappier than when you had nothing to look forward to, but the old ones.

Isabel.  But then, to have to wait—­wait—­wait; and before we’ve tried it;—­and perhaps it will rain to-morrow, too!

L. It may also rain the day after to-morrow.  We can make ourselves uncomfortable to any extent with perhapses, Isabel.  You may stick perhapses into your little minds, like pins, till you are as uncomfortable as the Lilliputians made Gulliver with their arrows, when he would not lie quiet.