A JOURNEY TO NATURE 



eating it embalmed by a French restaurateur, that 

 there is in hearing a fine oration and reading the 

 report of it the next morning. A potato must 

 be smelted in its own ashes. Then it has the 

 fine flavour of martyrdom combined with the 

 aroma of Father Prout.&quot; 



Then that roistering old savant, shut off from 

 his own world by the whistling rain, actually 

 became jovial, as if the potato, properly baked, 

 was intoxicating ; and before I knew it he was 

 trolling a stave of an old and forgotten song : 



&quot;At all feasts, if enough, 

 I most heartily stuff, 



And a song at my heart alike rushes, 

 Though I ve not fed my lungs 

 Upon nightingale s tongues, 



Nor the brains of goldfinches or thrushes.&quot; 



This struck me as being somewhat reckless. 

 I had my doubts about the philosophy, but he 

 cut me short by saying, &quot; Some doubts are like 

 dirty water ; let them alone and they will evapo 

 rate &quot; ; and then he pulled out the white flower, 

 saying, &quot;we live in a world of similitudes that s 

 stramonium.&quot; 



&quot; Yes, you said that before. Go ahead. There 

 seems to be a text in it.&quot; 



&quot; It s a symbol that has baffled man ever since 

 the time of Pliny. It belongs to the reptilian 

 class of plants and has followed in the footsteps 

 of man ever since the Fall. Unlike the gentian, 



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