But he could not have had the illusion that in thus taking refuge from the tribulations of which the world is the source, he was placing himself beyond the reach of any trials. Is it not written that the life of man upon earth is a perpetual struggle against suffering? And if it were not for the cruel wounds which it inflicts upon the poor human heart, we ought rather perhaps to bless this law of our destiny; for it is one of the qualities of human greatness, of the beauty of the soul as of the power of the intellect, that it does not fully reveal itself save under the discipline and empire of suffering. Among the moral qualities of Fabre as we have been able to divine them there is one which the vicissitudes of life revealed more especially during this phase of his existence: I mean his kindliness. Fabre had the simplicity of the kindly man as well as that of the truthful man. He, who instinctively withdrew from the gaze and the malice of men, cared nothing for their smiles or their disdain when there was a question of adding to his store of scientific data or kindly actions, however trivial the matter might be. The following episode is illuminating. Our entomologist was interested, as a scientist, in discovering whether the bite of the Black-bellied Tarantula, deadly to insects, was dangerous to other animals, and to man, or whether it was not, in the latter case, a negligible accident. He therefore experimented upon a bird: I make a Tarantula bite the leg of a young, well-fledged Sparrow, ready to leave the nest. A drop of blood flows: the wounded spot is surrounded by a reddish circle, changing to purple. The bird almost immediately loses the use of its leg, which drags, with the toes doubled in; it hops upon the other. Apart from this, the patient does not seem to trouble much about his hurt; his appetite is good. My daughters feed him on flies, bread-crumb, apricot-pulp. He is sure to get well, he will recover his strength; the poor victim of the curiosity of science will be restored to liberty. This is the wish, the intention of us all. Twelve hours later, the hope of a cure increases; the invalid takes nourishment readily; he clamours for it, if we keep him waiting. But the leg still drags. I set this down to a temporary paralysis which will soon disappear. Two days after, he refuses his food. Wrapping himself in his stoicism and his rumpled feathers, the Sparrow hunches into a ball, now motionless, now twitching. My girls take him in the hollow of their hands and warm him with their breath. The spasms become more frequent. A gasp proclaims that all is over. The bird is dead.