Occasionally, indeed, Science may destroy some poetical myth of antiquity,
such as the ancient Hindoo explanation of rivers, that "Indra dug out
their beds with his thunderbolts, and sent them forth by long continuous
paths;" but the real causes of natural phenomena are far more striking,
and contain more true poetry, than those which have occurred to the
untrained imagination of mankind.

In endless aspects science is as wonderful and interesting as a fairy
tale.

"There are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairyland; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse
O'er her wild universe is skillful to diffuse." [1]

Mackay justly exclaims:

"Blessings on Science! When the earth seemed old,
When Faith grew doting, and our reason cold,
'Twas she discovered that the world was young,
And taught a language to its lisping tongue."

Botany, for instance, is by many regarded as a dry science. Yet though
without it we may admire flowers and trees, it is only as strangers, only
as one may admire a great man or a beautiful woman in a crowd. The
botanist, on the contrary--nay, I will not say the botanist, but one with
even a slight knowledge of that delightful science--when he goes out into
the woods, or into one of those fairy forests which we call fields, finds
himself welcomed by a glad company of friends, every one with something