An atheist, cold and cheerless in his creed, was one day resting himself beneath the branches of a spreading oak. It was autumn, and the golden acorns gleamed among the green leaves. He looked up to the oak tree and then surveyed his garden which lay before him. "I always thought," said he to himself, "that this world is the result of mere accident, and now I can no longer doubt it. There is no evidence of any skill anywhere ; all is bungling and confusion. For instance, there is that large round pumpkin, whose stem is so slight and feeble that it cannot raise it from the ground. Now, above me is a sturdy oak, whose branches could support pumpkins even twice as large, whereas they hold nothing suspended but the tiny acorn. This is sufficient evidence to me that the world cannot have been created by a superior intelligence." Thus far had he proceeded in his soliloquy, when the wind loosened a ripe acorn from the topmost bough, and the little nut falling down, hit the self-conceited scoffer in the eye. "Ah !" said he, as he smarted with the pain, " I think I must reconsider my opinion.

Had pumpkins grown on oak trees, and this acorn been one of them, I rather fear my philosophizing would have been finished forever".