I stand quite still and try hard not to move or lift a hand since it would only frighten him. Whenever I catch a frog’s eye I am aware of this, but I do not find it depressing. Someday, with a telescopic lens an acre in extent, we are going to see something not to out liking, some looming shape outside there across the great pond of space. Yet whenever I see a frog’s eye low in the water warily ogling the shoreward landscape, I always think inconsequentially of those twiddling mechanical eyes that mankind manipulates nightly from a thousand observatories. Light-year beyond light-year, deep beyond deep, the mind may rove by means of it, hanging above the bottomless and surveying impartially the state of matter in the white-dwarf suns. A billion years have gone into the making of that eye the water and the salt and the vapors of the sun have built it things that squirmed in the tide silts have devised it.
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