Let us turn elsewhere, to the wasps and bees, who unquestionably
come first in the laying up of a heritage for their offspring.
Whether the treasure hoarded for the benefit of the sons be a pot
of honey or a bag of game, the father never takes the smallest part
in the work. He does not so much as give a sweep of the broom when
it comes to tidying the outside of the dwelling. To do nothing is
his invariable rule. The bringing up of the family, therefore,
however expensive it may be in certain cases, has not given rise to
the instinct of paternity. Then where are we to look for a reply?

Let us make the question a wider one. Let us leave the animal, for
a moment, and occupy ourselves with man. We have our own
instincts, some of which take the name of genius when they attain a
degree of might that towers over the plain of mediocrity. We are
amazed by the unusual, springing out of flat commonplaces; we are
spellbound by the luminous speck shining in the wonted darkness.
We admire; and, failing to understand whence came those glorious
harvests in this one or in that, we say of them: "They have the
gift."

A goatherd amuses himself by making combinations with heaps of
little pebbles. He becomes an astoundingly quick and accurate
reckoner without other aid than a moment's reflection. He
terrifies us with the conflict of enormous numbers which blend in
an orderly fashion in his mind, but whose mere statement overwhelms
us by its inextricable confusion. This marvelous arithmetical
juggler has an instinct, a genius, a gift for figures.

A second, at the age when most of us delight in tops and marbles,