“If we deny them _soul_, we must admit that they have _some spirit direct from God_, what we call unerring instinct, which holds the place of it.”--SIR ISAAC NEWTON. Any reflecting person who has lived much in the country, and been observant of animals, must have had thoughts similar to those expressed in the above mottoes. Even the smallest and most common animals sometimes give indications of thought, feeling, and memory, almost as remarkable as those related of the “half-reasoning elephant.” If we could penetrate into the mysteries of their domestic arrangements, and learn of the humming-bird why she makes her little thimble of a nest so exactly the color of the tree on which it is placed, and of the mason-bee why he makes his small mortared cell to resemble so closely the stones of the wall where he inserts it, we should probably be still more puzzled to define the boundary between instinct and reason. Several times in my life my attention has been arrested, and my mind excited to activity, by singular manifestations of intelligence in animals that came under my observation. A few summers ago, when I was living at an old farm-house in New York, I chanced to go into the garret late in the afternoon. The sun was setting in a blaze of glory, and I knelt at the western window, looking out long and lovingly upon the broad expanse of field and meadow, on which he was throwing a shower of gold as he passed away. After a while, my attention was diverted from this beautiful scene by the motions of a wasp, that emerged from a crevice in the old window, and began to nibble off thin, soft slivers of the decaying wood, to be used in constructing her nest. I bent very near to her, trying to ascertain by what process she cut up the materials so dexterously. Suddenly, she stopped working, drew back a little, and appeared to watch _me_ as closely as I watched _her_. At first, I thought this was a delusion of my imagination; for I supposed her eyes were too small to see me. So I continued gazing at her, waiting to observe what she would do. She remained motionless, in an attitude that expressed surprise and consternation as plainly as an insect _could_ express them. Presently, another wasp came up from the same crevice, and began to nibble at the rotten wood. The first wasp immediately put out one of her antennæ, and pulled the antenna of her neighbour, as I would jog the elbow of a companion, if I wished to call her attention to something extraordinary. The second wasp drew back instantly, in the same attitude, and, without stirring, appeared to gaze at me fixedly. A third wasp came. One of her antennæ was cautiously pulled by the second comer; and she did precisely as they had done. It may seem absurd to say I was troubled by the fixed stare of three wasps; but there was something so _human_ about their proceedings, that I _was_ troubled. I was in the presence of a mystery. I asked myself, What _am_ I to them?