FIELD FLOWERS 



were to man ; all his gratitude, his stu- 

 dious fondness, all that he owed them, 

 all that they gave him, are there con- 

 tained, like a secular aroma in hollow 

 pearls. And so they bear names of 

 queens, shepherdesses, virgins, prin- 

 cesses, sylphs and fairies, which flow 

 from the lips like a caress, a lightning- 

 flash, a kiss, a murmur of love. Our lan- 

 guage, I think, contains nothing that is 

 better, more daintily, more affection- 

 ately named than these homely flow- 

 ers. Here the word clothes the idea al- 

 most always with care, with light pre- 

 cision, with admirable happiness. It is 

 like an ornate and transparent stuff that 

 moulds the form which it embraces and 

 has the proper shade, perfume and 



