Survival of the fittest adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there's soul in everything that squirms. And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things, All dream and unaccountable desire; Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings; Spreading through every inch of earth's old mire, Mystical hanker after something higher. Wishes _are_ horses, as I understand. I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes Of feeling faint to gallivant on land Will come to be a scandal to his folk; Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes. And at the core of every life that crawls Or runs or flies or swims or vegetates-- Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the galls Of shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates, Lighting the love of eagles for their mates; Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fish That is and is not living--moved and stirred From the beginning a mysterious wish, A vision, a command, a fatal Word: The name of Man was uttered, and they heard. Upward along the aeons of old war They sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and bill, Were fashioned and rejected; wide and far They roamed the twilight jungles of their will; But still they sought him, and desired him still. Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man, The radiant and the loving, yet to be! I hardly wonder, when they come to scan The upshot of their strenuosity, They gazed with mixed emotions upon _me_. Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures, Or spot them sideways with your weather eye, Just to keep tab on their expansive features; It isn't pleasant when you're stepping high To catch a giraffe smiling on the sly. If Nature made you graceful, don't get gay Back-to before the hippopotamus; If meek and godly, find some place to play Besides right where three mad hyenas fuss; You may hear language that we won't discuss. If you're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat, Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in, Don't squander love's bright springtime girding at An old chimpanzee with an Irish chin: _There may be hidden meaning in his grin_. DOWN AROUND THE RIVER BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Noon-time and June-time, down around the river! Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her! Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wishin', Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fishin'! Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is,-- Specalatin', more'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me.