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There are many ways to love the flowers.

The scientists flatten, -the dry out and bury them in named beds cemeteries, then they put below pretentious epitaphs barbarous language.

The amateurs - love only the rare flowers, and love them, not to see them and to breathe them, but to show them; 2 Their enjoyments consist much less in having certain flowers than in knowing that others do not have them.-So they do not care for all those rich and happy flowers which the goodness of God has made common, -as it is made the sky and the sun common.

When, on a fine February day, you discover at the foot of a bush the first primrose in bloom, you are seized with sweet joy, it is the first smile of spring.

You dream of shadows and songs of birds.

You dream of calm, innocence and love.

But it is that you are not a true amateur.

If you were an amateur, you would not allow yourself to be unexpectedly taken by these poetic impressions-you would soon see if, in the heart of the primrose, the stamens protrude beyond the pistil.-If, on the contrary, it is pistil protruding stamens, the true lover can feel no pleasure in as incorrect flower; -that for him unless the stones of the road; -and if this flower is 3 never allowed to flourish in his garden he would pull out and trample on it.

For scientists, there is no rose but the simple rose: - rosa canina .

The double rose, the hundred-leafed rose, the foamy rose, which have changed their stamens into petals, are monsters : absolutely like the scientists of men, perhaps simple and good, have also become double and triples by science.

The amateur no longer admits the rose to a hundred leaves, nor the foamy rose in his collections; they are common, they are no longer flowers , they are bouquets . "The lover says to you coldly:" See this gain ! "" This rose, it is I who obtained it from grains, there is five years. He never wanted to bloom.

My friends have done everything to have a graft of this precious subject; but I have held on, I shall remain the sole proprietor.

But there are other people happier, -which like all the flowers that make them the first to bloom in their small 4 garden -those they must to the purest and most certain flowers jouissances.-but still there We must divide them into two classes: some like in the flowers certain memories, which are hidden in their corolla like the hamadryads under the bark of the oaks.

They remember that the lilacs were in bloom the first time they met her.

It is under an arbor of honeysuckle , that seated together, at the end of the day, they exchanged these sweet oaths only one, alas! kept.

In wanting to pick a branch of hawthorn for her , he tore her hand, and she put on her wound a piece of English taffeta, after having passed it several times on her pink lips.

Another time, they had gathered together wergiss-mein-nicht on the edge of the pond. There were yellow wallflowers on the old walls of the country church where they met every Sunday.

Thus, each spring, these memories are reborn and blossom like flowers.

But there comes a time when we call all these young and true feelings of illusions, a moment when we think we are becoming wise because we are starting to become dead.

One is then simply plagued by other illusions.

The side of the lorgnette that shrinks the objects is no more true than the side that magnifies them.

So we love flowers, but only for themselves.

We love them for their brilliance, for their fragrance and also for the care they cost you.

We discover then that all the riches of the rich are only a more or less imperfect imitation of the wealth of the poor.

We see that the diamonds, which sometimes cost so much shame and which we are so proud of, would like to look quite like the dew drops of the rising sun.

We see that the flowers are living and fragrant jewels.

We see that a picture which represents nearly these three trees and this lawn, is paid a hundred times the value of the lawn and the three trees themselves.-Well, we will try to imitate that marble or in wood, then, if the artist succeeds in succeeding so that one can immediately see what he has wanted to do, he will have to cut down two kilometers of these old beeches to pay for the imitation he has made. of one.

It is then that one understands that God loves the poor, and that, like little children, he lets them come near him.

So too, withdrawn, wounded from the struggles of life, -we remember all that we loved, all that deceived you, -all the charming flowers that bore sad and poisonous fruits, all these promises that became betrayals, all these disappointed hopes.

And when one is shut up between the walls of one's garden, alone with one's beloved flowers, one thinks that one has nothing to fear from such a person in this last affection.

Never will the pink flowers of the peach tree take over the poisonous capsules of datura, -as the charming flowers of love and friendship have succeeded the bitter fruits of oblivion and hatred.

And when these dear flowers straighten their corolla under the ardent caresses of the sun, you know in what month and what day of the following year they will return to the same place of the garden to flourish again, laughing, young, beautiful and fragrant.

Happy those who love flowers! Happy are those who love only flowers!

I used https://www140.lunapic.com/editor/
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