For authorities whose hopesare shaped by mercenaries? Writers entrapped by teatime fame and bycommuters' comforts? Not for these the paper nautilus constructs her thin glass shell. Giving her perishablesouvenir of hope, a dull white outside and smooth- edged inner surfaceglossy as the sea, the watchful maker of it guards it day and night; she scarcely eats until the eggs are hatched.
Buried eight-fold in her eight arms, for she is in a sense a devil-fish, her glass ram'shorn-cradled freight is hid but is not crushed; as Hercules, bitten by a crab loyal to the hydra,was hindered to succeed, the intensively watched eggs coming fromthe shell free it when they are freed,— leaving its wasp-nest flaws of white on white, and close- laid Ionic chiton-foldslike the lines in the mane of a Parthenon horse, round which the arms hadwound themselves as if they knew love is the only fortress strong enough to trust to.
