WALKING AS A FINE ART THE first act of all animals is that of absorption. Feeding is a primal necessity. The senses of smell, of touch, and of taste are involved in it. Sight has little to do with it at first, but is soon awakened. Coincident with this act among the lower animals is that of locomotion. Man, whose desire to annihilate space has become a supreme passion, approaches the act of locomotion later than all other animals. Young ducks and geese fly from the Arctic Circle to Florida a few months after they have been hatched. Babies do not often begin to crawl until they are twice as old, and rarely walk until more than a year of life has been passed. There is nothing more interesting than the sight of a child just beginning to walk. The look of glad surprise and immense satisfaction which is displayed when a few successful steps have been taken is delightful to the observer. The triumphs of the most successful men do not in later years afford them so much momentary pleasure as is experienced by the little fellow who realizes that at last after many failures he has "got his legs." In much of our going to and fro on this small globe we are aided by adventitious helps. Stephenson, Fulton, and the fathers of the science of magnetism and electricity have done much to pave the way for our rapid transportation from one spot to another. But there are some places to which we cannot be hauled, and we have not yet reached the point where we can dispense with the use of our pedal extremities. Happy is the man who has acquired the love of walking for its own sake! There is no form of exercise more health-giving, none which tends more thoroughly to invigorate, if it be wisely undertaken. The effect of the act is to quicken the venous circulation; to send the blood to the lungs, there to be purified by contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere; to harden and strengthen the muscles of the legs and to bring those of the arms and the chest into play. People who walk do not have overloaded veins. The shop-girl who stands behind the counter all day suffers from varicosis, but the man or woman who walks avoids it. Standing is harder than walking; it is more fatiguing, and brings no return of health to the system. In walking, the best results are secured when there is no burden upon the mind. The man who carries the load of daily care with him when he walks derives less benefit from the act than the man who dismisses all concern and simply gives himself over to the act. It is a mistake to suppose that it is an advantage in walking to have some definite object of pursuit. The woman who is advised by her physician to walk should not select as her path some busy street upon which she is certain to be diverted by the opportunity to unite with her exercise a number of shopping excursions. The man who goes out to walk should not choose a much frequented part of the town where he is sure to meet business friends and acquaintances. The person who desires to derive the best results from his strolls should select a retired spot in park or country where the "madding throng" does not resort. It is hard to make Americans realize the importance of these suggestions. The demand is forever that exercise, if taken at all, shall have an aim ulterior to itself, in the pursuit of which the upbuilding of the system shall take place as a collateral incident. The popularity of golf is due to the fact that it answers the demand of a great class of persons to be amused while they are being invigorated. It is one of the least objectionable forms, in which the pill of exercise is sugarcoated for consumption by a race which is slowly but surely working itself to death in office, mill and factory. Walking for its own sake is pursued to a far greater extent in England and in Germany than in America. We may well learn to imitate our cousins on the eastern side of the Atlantic in this regard. If walking is to be pursued with an object, there is nothing which may be chosen as an aim better than the pursuit of that knowledge which is the end of the naturalist. To become acquainted with the fields and the flowers which bloom in them, with the forests and the myriad forms of animate life which frequent them, is an aim which leads far away from the cares and pursuits of the weary, workday world. I met the other day a friend, who, with quick step and alertness depicted in every feature, was hurrying along one of the avenues in the capital. I marveled at his gait, for I knew that the winters of fourscore and five years rested upon his head. "How is it that you have found the fountain of eternal youth?" I said. "My dear boy," he replied, "I have found it by living near to nature's heart, and by having my beloved science of entomology to refresh and quicken me in my daily walks." Would you cultivate walking as a fine art, learn to see and to hear what the world, which man has not made nor has entirely marred, is telling you of the wonder of that life which she kindly nourishes upon her bosom. "Cleon sees no charm in nature--in a daisy, I; Cleon hears no anthem ringing in the sea and the sky, Nature sings to me forever--earnest listener, I; State for state, with all attendants, who would change! Not I."