I
On a fine day during the Cambrian Era bright sunshine flooded the
best that our old Earth could do in the way of scenery at that remote
period. Huge mud-flats extended for thousands of miles on every hand,
and between them stretched shallow oceans. Humble forms of vegetation
flourished in the mud and a heavy atmosphere, dense as steam, covered
all. The air was full of noble rainbows, probably the most beautiful
phenomena known to Cambrian times.
Absolute silence marked the scene. No feather made music in the air; no
fin rippled the water; no beast or herd of beasts moved upon the face
of the earth to break the terrific monotony of that prehistoric picture.
Suddenly upon a steaming mud-flat there appeared a little lobster-like
creature of many joints, large eyes, and various feelers arranged like
whiskers around his jaws. He was twenty inches in length and carried
himself with conscious dignity, albeit mud knocks the dignity out
of almost anything but a trilobite. But this trilobite, for such he
was, surveyed that Cambrian noon pensively, curled his whiskers with
thought, and wriggled his shining joints in the sun. Presently a hen
trilobite appeared and squatted beside him placidly.
“When I survey this spectacle,” said the trilobite, “when I reflect
that the world is empty but for us, I am often tempted to wonder.”
He rolled his goggle eyes towards the zenith.
“Wonder? What at?” asked his lady. “Surely, as the lord of creation,
you have a right to everything here? You’re the most wonderful thing
in the mud, after all; you can walk about and talk; in fact, you’re
alive--a live creature--Nature’s masterpiece.”
“It would be easy and pleasant to think so,” mused the trilobite, “but
sometimes, in rare fits of modesty, I almost fancy that I am not the
best that Nature can do. I even picture something bigger, better, more
beautiful than a trilobite. It may be morbid, but I do.”
“This is nonsense and stuff, my dear. You’re fishing for compliments?
Bigger? Good heavens! you’re twenty inches long; isn’t that big
enough for anybody? Better? Well, you’re a good husband and father;
what better could any trilobite be? And as to beauty, I shouldn’t
have married you if you had not been about the handsomest gentleman
trilobite that ever sat and curled his whiskers. Nature never made
anything better than a trilobite. Why? Because she can’t. Can you
picture anything different? Can you imagine any creature with more
convenient limbs, more exquisite joints, more perfect claws, better
eyesight, better senses, better manners, or more self-respecting? You
know you can’t.”
“I actually cannot picture the creature, but I can picture the
possibility of such a creature.”
“Twaddle!” said Mrs. Trilobite. “We’re the best and last, so there’s
an end of it. The world was made for us.” She had the final word, very
properly, and the trilobite shrugged his shoulders and waddled off to
his family. Still he doubted.