#36184 Topic SCI 207 Our Dependence upon the EnvironmentNumber.docx

#36184 Topic: SCI 207 Our Dependence upon the Environment
Number of Pages: 1 (Double Spaced)
Number of sources: 2
Writing Style: APA
Type of document: Essay
Academic Level:Undergraduate
category: Environmental Issues
Language Style: English (U.S.)
Order Instructions: ATTACHED
PLEASE PUT PHOTO AS DESCRIBED ABOVE IN THE
DESCRIPTION OF THIS ASSIGNMENT PLEASE.
Week 5 - Discussion 2
No unread replies. No replies.
Your initial post is due on Day 3 (Thursday). Replies are
optional and you have until Day 7 (Monday) to respond to your
classmates. Your grade will reflect both the quality and depth of
your post. Carefully review the Grading RubricPreview the
document for guidance on how your discussion will be

evaluated.
Nature Experience Project [WLO: 1] [CLOs: 3, 5]
Prior to beginning this assignment, please listen to the podcast,
'The Sound of a Snail': A Patient’s Greatest Comfort (Links to
an external site.)Links to an external site..
Throughout this course, we have been exploring environmental
issues and challenges, such as fresh drinking water scarcity and
biodiversity loss. But what would our own lives be like without
nature? How might nature experiences benefit us? In this
activity, you are asked to spend time in nature, record your
experiences, and then share your reflections with the class. This
project is due on Day 3 (Thursday) of this week. Incorporate
feedback that you have received and complete the sections
below.
Note: You will not be able to view others’ projects until you
have posted your own.
? Go Outdoors: Find a place outside where you can be in nature
for at least one hour. This could be a national, state, or local
park, a city square with trees and gardens, an old cemetery, or
even your own backyard. Be creative. For those of you who may
think there is no nature whatsoever around you or you will not

have the opportunity to get out into nature, the podcast 'The
Sound of a Snail': A Patient’s Greatest Comfort (Links to an
external site.)Links to an external site. will give you get a sense
of creative ways to complete this assignment, particularly if you
are living in a highly urbanized setting.
? Observe: Once you are outdoors, choose a comfortable spot
where you can stand or sit quietly for at least one hour of
uninterrupted solitude. Turn off all electronic devices. Quietly
take in your surroundings. What do you notice? Use your senses
of sight, hearing, smell, and feeling to take the world in. Be as
still and quiet as you can. Please note:
You should plan to complete this step no later than Week 4.
? Write: Either while you are outdoors or as soon after your
return as you can, set aside at least a half an hour of
uninterrupted time to write about your nature experience. It
should include both what you directly experienced during your
time outdoors and your feelings and reflections on the
experience itself. In your writing, consider this question: Are
human beings a part of nature, or apart from it? Please note:
You should plan to complete this step no later than Week 4. It is
not necessary to share your journal work with anyone, but
taking the time to write about your experience will provide you
with valuable raw material for the next step.
? Create: Choose a creative means of sharing your nature
experience, and what you learned from it, with the class. This

could take the form of a series of photographs with captions, a
poem, a song, a brief personal essay, a work of art, the design
for a board game, a video of some kind, or any other creative
avenue you can think of. The work should be entirely your own
product. Please note:
You should plan to start on this step by Week 4 at the latest.
? Share: Share your completed creative project with the class by
uploading it to the Nature Experience Project discussion board
by Day 3 of this week. If your work is entirely visual or
auditory (e.g., fine art, photography, music, etc.), please include
a brief statement of 100 to 200 words that (1) relates your work
back to your original nature experience; and (2) relates your
work to the question of whether you feel you are a part of
nature or apart from it. Upload visual or auditory content to an
online repository that allows you to share a link to the content
with others. Follow the directions for uploading your video to
YouTube (Android Upload videos (Links to an external
site.)Links to an external site.; iPhone/iPad Upload videos
(Links to an external site.)Links to an external site.) or other
web-based video platform to obtain the link to share with
others. Audio can be recorded or uploaded in Vocaroo (Links to
an external site.)Links to an external site. (See Vocaroo’s
Frequently Asked Questions (Links to an external site.)Links to
an external site. for more information).
? Comment: Feel free to share your thoughts about other
students’ work. Make sure to communicate in a respectful and
positive way. This step is optional, but encouraged.

SEE THE INFO TEMPLATE BELOW TO USE FOR THIS
DISCUSSIONS PLEASE:
AUTHOR INTERVIEWS
'The Sound Of A Snail': A Patient's Greatest Comfort
LISTEN· 6:57
6:57
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August 28, 20101:12 AM ET
Heard on Weekend Edition Saturday
NPR STAFF
The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating
THE SOUND OF A WILD SNAIL EATING
BY ELISABETH TOVA BAILEY
HARDCOVER, 208 PAGES
ALGONQUIN BOOKS
LIST PRICE: $13.99
Read An Excerpt
Though illness may rob us of vitality, sometimes it can also
help bring us understanding -- albeit in improbable disguises.
Essayist and short story writer Elisabeth Tova Bailey was struck

with a neurological disorder that left her too weak even to sit
up. The illness forced her to stay in bed, where she felt life was
slipping by, unused.
Things changed for Bailey when a friend brought her a gift: a
pot of flowers that also contained a wild snail the friend had
plucked from the ground. That nearly motionless mollusk
became Bailey's companion -- almost her surrogate.
Bailey, who uses a pseudonym due to her illness, has written a
memoir called The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating: A True Story.
"I really have to lead a very, very quiet life," she tells NPR's
Scott Simon from her home in Maine. "I'm not somebody that
ever wanted to write about myself or my illness."
What Bailey did want to do, though, was "write a sort of
biographical thank you for the snail. And I also wanted to help
other patients with my illness."
Though Bailey's illness is debilitating, it is not very visible, she
says. Still, it's physically limiting: "extraordinarily difficult to
live with -- and it's very unpredictable," she says. The illness is
also difficult to define: "Depending on what specialist you go
to, you can get a different diagnosis," she explains. Those
possible diagnoses include dysautonomia, a mitochondrial

disease, and chronic fatigue syndrome.
Sign Up For The Books Newsletter
Get book recommendations, reviews, author interviews and
more, sent weekly.
E-mail address
By subscribing, you agree to NPR's terms of use and privacy
policy.
Despite the snail's tiny stature, Bailey says she found herself
overwhelmed by the little creature when it first arrived: "I was a
little bit perplexed," she says. "It felt like just one more thing
that I couldn't deal with." After her friend left, Bailey found
herself bed-ridden, with a small animal in her room "and no
understanding of its life or how I would ever get it back to the
woods where it came from."
Enlarge this image
Elisabeth Tova Bailey kept her snail in this glass terrarium.
Deborah Smith
But soon, Bailey found herself fascinated by the snail. Though
she was too sick to watch television or read, the snail's

minuscule movements were captivating. "I think sometimes
about the Emily Dickinson poem about the fly on the
windowsill," she says with a laugh -- the poem that begins, I
heard a Fly buzz -- when I died ...
As the hours and days wore on, the snail emerged from its shell
and started exploring its surroundings. "I began to see the
pattern in its life," Bailey recalls. "And when you start to
observe the patterns of another animal's life, I think you get to
know that animal and feel connected."
Bailey was so ill that she could hardly tend to her own needs,
let alone anyone else's. She could, however, care for the snail,
feeding it petals from wilted flowers. "It gave me a feeling of
being useful again," she says. Listening to the nocturnal snail
munch on petals was comforting to Bailey when she was
struggling with insomnia.
She also admired the pace at which the snail lived: "It moved at
a speed that was actually faster than my own speed, and so it
really was peaceful to watch it. It moved so smoothly and
gently and gracefully, it was like a tai chi master."
Though not fully recovered, Bailey is moving a little faster
these days, and says that "like most humans" she tries to do too
much. "I think the functioning of humans is evolving to be
faster and faster," she says.

Perhaps there's something to be said for moving at a snail's
pace.
Excerpt: 'The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating'
ELISABETH TOVA BAILEY
ALGONQUIN BOOKS
LIST PRICE: $13.99
Prologue
Viruses are embedded into the very fabric of all life.
-- Luis P. Villarreal, "The Living and Dead Chemical Called a
Virus," 2005
From my hotel window I look over the deep glacial lake to the
foothills and the Alps beyond. Twilight vanishes the hills into

the mountains; then all is lost to the dark.
After breakfast, I wander the cobbled village streets. The frost
is out of the ground, and huge bushes of rosemary bask
fragrantly in the sun. I take a trail that meanders up the steep,
wild hills past flocks of sheep. High on an outcrop, I lunch on
bread and cheese. Late in the afternoon along the shore, I find
ancient pieces of pottery, their edges smoothed by waves and
time. I hear that a virulent flu is sweeping this small town.
A few days pass and then comes a delirious night. My dreams
are disturbed by the comings and goings of ferries. Passengers
call into the dark, startling me awake. Each time I fall back into
sleep, the lake's watery sound pulls at me. Something is wrong
with my body. Nothing feels right.
In the morning I am weak and can't think. Some of my muscles
don't work. Time becomes strange. I get lost; the streets go in
too many directions. The days drift past in confusion. I pack my
suitcase, but for some reason it's impossible to lift. It seems to
be stuck to the floor. Somehow I get to the airport. Seated next
to me on the transatlantic flight is a sick surgeon; he sneezes
and coughs continually. My rare, much-needed vacation has not
gone as planned. I'll be okay; I just want to get home.
After a flight connection in Boston, I land at my small New
England airport near midnight. In the parking lot, as I bend over
to dig my car out of the snow, the shovel turns into a crutch that

I use to push myself upright. I don't know how I get home.
Arising the next morning, I immediately faint to the floor. Ten
days of fever with a pounding headache. Emergency room
visits. Lab tests. I am sicker than I have ever been. Childhood
pneumonia, college mononucleosis -- those were nothing
compared to this.
A few weeks later, resting on the couch, I spiral into a deep
darkness, falling farther and farther away until I am impossibly
distant. I cannot come back up; I cannot reach my body. Distant
sound of an ambulance siren. Distant sound of doctors talking.
My eyelids heavy as boulders. I try to open them to a slit, just
for a few seconds, but they close against my will. All I can do is
breathe.
The doctors will know how to fix me. They will stop this. I keep
breathing. What if my breath stops? I need to sleep, but I am
afraid to sleep. I try to watch over myself; if I go to sleep, I
might never wake up again.
1. Field Violets
at my feetwhen did you get here?snail
-- Kobayashi Issa (1763 – 1828)
In early spring, a friend went for a walk in the woods and,
glancing down at the path, saw a snail. Picking it up, she held it

gingerly in the palm of her hand and carried it back toward the
studio where I was convalescing. She noticed some field violets
on the edge of the lawn. Finding a trowel, she dug a few up,
then planted them in a terracotta pot and placed the snail
beneath their leaves. She brought the pot into the studio and put
it by my bedside.
"I found a snail in the woods. I brought it back and it's right
here beneath the violets."
"You did? Why did you bring it in?"
"I don't know. I thought you might enjoy it."
"Is it alive?"
She picked up the brown acorn-sized shell and looked at it. "I
think it is."
Why, I wondered, would I enjoy a snail? What on earth would I
do with it? I couldn't get out of bed to return it to the woods. It
was not of much interest, and if it was alive, the responsibility -
- especially for a snail, something so uncalled for -- was
overwhelming.

My friend hugged me, said good-bye, and drove off.
At age thirty-four, on a brief trip to Europe, I was felled by a
mysterious viral or bacterial pathogen, resulting in severe
neurological symptoms. I had thought I was indestructible. But I
wasn't. If anything did go wrong, I figured modern medicine
would fix me. But it didn't. Medical specialists at several major
clinics couldn't diagnose the infectious culprit. I was in and out
of the hospital for months, and the complications were life
threatening. An experimental drug that became available
stabilized my condition, though it would be several grueling
years to a partial recovery and a return to work. My doctors said
the illness was behind me, and I wanted to believe them. I was
ecstatic to have most of my life back.
But out of the blue came a series of insidious relapses, and once
again, I was bedridden. Further, more sophisticated testing
showed that the mitochondria in my cells no longer functioned
correctly and there was damage to my autonomic nervous
system; all functions not consciously directed, including heart
rate, blood pressure, and digestion, had gone haywire. The drug
that had previously helped now caused dangerous side effects; it
would soon be removed from the market.
When the body is rendered useless, the mind still runs like a
bloodhound along well-worn trails of neurons, tracking the
echoing questions: the confused family of whys, whats, and

whens and their impossibly distant kin how. The search is
exhaustive; the answers, elusive. Sometimes my mind went
blank and listless; at other times it was flooded with storms of
thought, unspeakable sadness, and intolerable loss.
Given the ease with which health infuses life with meaning and
purpose, it is shocking how swiftly illness steals away those
certainties. It was all I could do to get through each moment,
and each moment felt like an endless hour, yet days slipped
silently past. Time unused and only endured still vanishes, as if
time itself is starving, and each day is swallowed whole, leaving
no crumbs, no memory, no trace at all.
I had been moved to a studio apartment where I could receive
the care I needed. My own farmhouse, some fifty miles away,
was closed up. I did not know if or when I'd ever make it home
again. For now, my only way back was to close my eyes and
remember. I could see the early spring there, the purple field
violets -- like those at my bedside -- running rampant through
the yard. And the fragrant small pink violets that I had planted
in the little woodland garden to the north of my house -- they,
too, would be in bloom. Though not usually hardy this far north,
somehow they survived. In my mind I could smell their
sweetness.
Before my illness, my dog, Brandy, and I had often wandered
the acres of forest that stretched beyond the house to a hidden,
mountain-fed brook. The brook's song of weather and season
followed us as we crisscrossed its channel over partially
submerged boulders. On the trail home, in the boggiest of spots,

perched on tiny islands of root and moss, I found diminutive
wild white violets, their throats faintly striped with purple.
These field violets in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full
of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends.
Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase
water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I
was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could
even water the violets with my drinking glass.
But what about this snail? What would I do with it? As tiny as it
was, it had been going about its day when it was picked up.
What right did my friend and I have to disrupt its life? Though I
couldn't imagine what kind of life a snail might lead.
I didn't remember ever having noticed any snails on my
countless hikes in the woods. Perhaps, I thought, looking at the
nondescript brown creature, it was precisely because they were
so inconspicuous. For the rest of the day the snail stayed inside
its shell, and I was too worn out from my friend's visit to give it
another thought.
Excerpted from The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth
Tova Bailey. Copyright 2010 by Elisabeth Tova Bailey.
Excerpted by permission of Algonquin Books.

AUTHOR INTERVIEWS
'The Sound Of A Snail': A Patient's Greatest Comfort
LISTEN· 6:57
6:57
QUEUE
DOWNLOAD
EMBED
TRANSCRIPT
Facebook
Twitter
Flipboard

Email
August 28, 20101:12 AM ET
Heard on Weekend Edition Saturday
NPR STAFF
ALGONQUIN BOOKS
LIST PRICE: $13.99
Read An Excerpt
Though illness may rob us of vitality, sometimes it can also
help bring us understanding -- albeit in improbable disguises.
Essayist and short story writer Elisabeth Tova Bailey was struck
with a neurological disorder that left her too weak even to sit
up. The illness forced her to stay in bed, where she felt life was
slipping by, unused.

Things changed for Bailey when a friend brought her a gift: a
pot of flowers that also contained a wild snail the friend had
plucked from the ground. That nearly motionless mollusk
became Bailey's companion -- almost her surrogate.
Bailey, who uses a pseudonym due to her illness, has written a
memoir called The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating: A True Story.
"I really have to lead a very, very quiet life," she tells NPR's
Scott Simon from her home in Maine. "I'm not somebody that
ever wanted to write about myself or my illness."
What Bailey did want to do, though, was "write a sort of
biographical thank you for the snail. And I also wanted to help
other patients with my illness."
Though Bailey's illness is debilitating, it is not very visible, she
says. Still, it's physically limiting: "extraordinarily difficult to
live with -- and it's very unpredictable," she says. The illness is
also difficult to define: "Depending on what specialist you go
to, you can get a different diagnosis," she explains. Those
possible diagnoses include dysautonomia, a mitochondrial
disease, and chronic fatigue syndrome.
Sign Up For The Books Newsletter

Get book recommendations, reviews, author interviews and
more, sent weekly.
E-mail address
By subscribing, you agree to NPR's terms of use and privacy
policy.
Despite the snail's tiny stature, Bailey says she found herself
overwhelmed by the little creature when it first arrived: "I was a
little bit perplexed," she says. "It felt like just one more thing
that I couldn't deal with." After her friend left, Bailey found
herself bed-ridden, with a small animal in her room "and no
understanding of its life or how I would ever get it back to the
woods where it came from."
Enlarge this image
Elisabeth Tova Bailey kept her snail in this glass terrarium.
Deborah Smith
But soon, Bailey found herself fascinated by the snail. Though
she was too sick to watch television or read, the snail's
minuscule movements were captivating. "I think sometimes
about the Emily Dickinson poem about the fly on the
windowsill," she says with a laugh -- the poem that begins, I
heard a Fly buzz -- when I died ...

As the hours and days wore on, the snail emerged from its shell
and started exploring its surroundings. "I began to see the
pattern in its life," Bailey recalls. "And when you start to
observe the patterns of another animal's life, I think you get to
know that animal and feel connected."
Bailey was so ill that she could hardly tend to her own needs,
let alone anyone else's. She could, however, care for the snail,
feeding it petals from wilted flowers. "It gave me a feeling of
being useful again," she says. Listening to the nocturnal snail
munch on petals was comforting to Bailey when she was
struggling with insomnia.
She also admired the pace at which the snail lived: "It moved at
a speed that was actually faster than my own speed, and so it
really was peaceful to watch it. It moved so smoothly and
gently and gracefully, it was like a tai chi master."
Though not fully recovered, Bailey is moving a little faster
these days, and says that "like most humans" she tries to do too
much. "I think the functioning of humans is evolving to be
faster and faster," she says.
Perhaps there's something to be said for moving at a snail's
pace.

Excerpt: 'The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating'
ELISABETH TOVA BAILEY
ALGONQUIN BOOKS
LIST PRICE: $13.99
Prologue
Viruses are embedded into the very fabric of all life.
-- Luis P. Villarreal, "The Living and Dead Chemical Called a
Virus," 2005
From my hotel window I look over the deep glacial lake to the
foothills and the Alps beyond. Twilight vanishes the hills into
the mountains; then all is lost to the dark.
After breakfast, I wander the cobbled village streets. The frost
is out of the ground, and huge bushes of rosemary bask

fragrantly in the sun. I take a trail that meanders up the steep,
wild hills past flocks of sheep. High on an outcrop, I lunch on
bread and cheese. Late in the afternoon along the shore, I find
ancient pieces of pottery, their edges smoothed by waves and
time. I hear that a virulent flu is sweeping this small town.
A few days pass and then comes a delirious night. My dreams
are disturbed by the comings and goings of ferries. Passengers
call into the dark, startling me awake. Each time I fall back into
sleep, the lake's watery sound pulls at me. Something is wrong
with my body. Nothing feels right.
In the morning I am weak and can't think. Some of my muscles
don't work. Time becomes strange. I get lost; the streets go in
too many directions. The days drift past in confusion. I pack my
suitcase, but for some reason it's impossible to lift. It seems to
be stuck to the floor. Somehow I get to the airport. Seated next
to me on the transatlantic flight is a sick surgeon; he sneezes
and coughs continually. My rare, much-needed vacation has not
gone as planned. I'll be okay; I just want to get home.
After a flight connection in Boston, I land at my small New
England airport near midnight. In the parking lot, as I bend over
to dig my car out of the snow, the shovel turns into a crutch that
I use to push myself upright. I don't know how I get home.
Arising the next morning, I immediately faint to the floor. Ten
days of fever with a pounding headache. Emergency room
visits. Lab tests. I am sicker than I have ever been. Childhood
pneumonia, college mononucleosis -- those were nothing
compared to this.

A few weeks later, resting on the couch, I spiral into a deep
darkness, falling farther and farther away until I am impossibly
distant. I cannot come back up; I cannot reach my body. Distant
sound of an ambulance siren. Distant sound of doctors talking.
My eyelids heavy as boulders. I try to open them to a slit, just
for a few seconds, but they close against my will. All I can do is
breathe.
The doctors will know how to fix me. They will stop this. I keep
breathing. What if my breath stops? I need to sleep, but I am
afraid to sleep. I try to watch over myself; if I go to sleep, I
might never wake up again.
1. Field Violets
at my feetwhen did you get here?snail
-- Kobayashi Issa (1763 – 1828)
In early spring, a friend went for a walk in the woods and,
glancing down at the path, saw a snail. Picking it up, she held it
gingerly in the palm of her hand and carried it back toward the
studio where I was convalescing. She noticed some field violets
on the edge of the lawn. Finding a trowel, she dug a few up,
then planted them in a terracotta pot and placed the snail
beneath their leaves. She brought the pot into the studio and put
it by my bedside.

"I found a snail in the woods. I brought it back and it's right
here beneath the violets."
"You did? Why did you bring it in?"
"I don't know. I thought you might enjoy it."
"Is it alive?"
She picked up the brown acorn-sized shell and looked at it. "I
think it is."
Why, I wondered, would I enjoy a snail? What on earth would I
do with it? I couldn't get out of bed to return it to the woods. It
was not of much interest, and if it was alive, the responsibility -
- especially for a snail, something so uncalled for -- was
overwhelming.
My friend hugged me, said good-bye, and drove off.

At age thirty-four, on a brief trip to Europe, I was felled by a
mysterious viral or bacterial pathogen, resulting in severe
neurological symptoms. I had thought I was indestructible. But I
wasn't. If anything did go wrong, I figured modern medicine
would fix me. But it didn't. Medical specialists at several major
clinics couldn't diagnose the infectious culprit. I was in and out
of the hospital for months, and the complications were life
threatening. An experimental drug that became available
stabilized my condition, though it would be several grueling
years to a partial recovery and a return to work. My doctors said
the illness was behind me, and I wanted to believe them. I was
ecstatic to have most of my life back.
But out of the blue came a series of insidious relapses, and once
again, I was bedridden. Further, more sophisticated testing
showed that the mitochondria in my cells no longer functioned
correctly and there was damage to my autonomic nervous
system; all functions not consciously directed, including heart
rate, blood pressure, and digestion, had gone haywire. The drug
that had previously helped now caused dangerous side effects; it
would soon be removed from the market.
When the body is rendered useless, the mind still runs like a
bloodhound along well-worn trails of neurons, tracking the
echoing questions: the confused family of whys, whats, and
whens and their impossibly distant kin how. The search is
exhaustive; the answers, elusive. Sometimes my mind went
blank and listless; at other times it was flooded with storms of
thought, unspeakable sadness, and intolerable loss.

Given the ease with which health infuses life with meaning and
purpose, it is shocking how swiftly illness steals away those
certainties. It was all I could do to get through each moment,
and each moment felt like an endless hour, yet days slipped
silently past. Time unused and only endured still vanishes, as if
time itself is starving, and each day is swallowed whole, leaving
no crumbs, no memory, no trace at all.
I had been moved to a studio apartment where I could receive
the care I needed. My own farmhouse, some fifty miles away,
was closed up. I did not know if or when I'd ever make it home
again. For now, my only way back was to close my eyes and
remember. I could see the early spring there, the purple field
violets -- like those at my bedside -- running rampant through
the yard. And the fragrant small pink violets that I had planted
in the little woodland garden to the north of my house -- they,
too, would be in bloom. Though not usually hardy this far north,
somehow they survived. In my mind I could smell their
sweetness.
Before my illness, my dog, Brandy, and I had often wandered
the acres of forest that stretched beyond the house to a hidden,
mountain-fed brook. The brook's song of weather and season
followed us as we crisscrossed its channel over partially
submerged boulders. On the trail home, in the boggiest of spots,
perched on tiny islands of root and moss, I found diminutive
wild white violets, their throats faintly striped with purple.
These field violets in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full

of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends.
Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase
water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I
was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could
even water the violets with my drinking glass.
But what about this snail? What would I do with it? As tiny as it
was, it had been going about its day when it was picked up.
What right did my friend and I have to disrupt its life? Though I
couldn't imagine what kind of life a snail might lead.
I didn't remember ever having noticed any snails on my
countless hikes in the woods. Perhaps, I thought, looking at the
nondescript brown creature, it was precisely because they were
so inconspicuous. For the rest of the day the snail stayed inside
its shell, and I was too worn out from my friend's visit to give it
another thought.
Excerpted from The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth
Tova Bailey. Copyright 2010 by Elisabeth Tova Bailey.
Excerpted by permission of Algonquin Books.
PLEASE PUT PHOTO AS DESCRIBED ABOVE IN THE
DESCRIPTION OF THIS ASSIGNMENT PLEASE.

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