You,
for whom above all I am setting these things down, will
find them among my papers one day. They would seem
meaningless to most of my fellow men, I believe; to me
they are absorbingly interesting reading when once in a
great while I pick an older record up and glance it over.
But this is digressing.
Now slowly, slowly another fact came home to me. This
unanimous, synchronous march of all the flakes coming
down over hundreds of square miles--and I was watching
it myself over miles upon miles of road--in spite of the
fact that every single flake seemed to be in the greatest
possible hurry--was, judged as a whole, nevertheless an
exceedingly leisurely process. In one respect it reminded
me of bees swarming; watch the single bee, and it seems
to fly at its utmost speed; watch the swarm, and it seems
to be merely floating along. The reason, of course, is
entirely different. The bees wheel and circle around
individually, the whole swarm revolves--if I remember
right, Burroughs has well described it (as what has he
not?). [Footnote: Yes; I looked it up. See the "Pastoral
Bees" in "Locusts and Wild Honey.
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