Entomologists tell us that millions of insects, generations
whose numbers must be counted by myriads, are born and die
within the compass of one summer’s day. Perfected with the
morning, they flutter through their sunny life; and the evening,
when it turns its shadow upon the earth, becomes to their
animated and tuneful being a universal grave. It is impossible
to understand for what end this is done, unless we accept the
happiness which these share, as a good in itself; a good so
great, in the judgment of the Creator, and of those who look
with Him on the creation, as to justify the expenditure of such
wisdom and force on their delicate, harmonious, but ephemeral
structure; and to make this structure illustrative of His
glory.--RICHARD S. STORRS.
(1343)