CHAPTER XIX. THE FRAGRANT 

 SOUL OF FLOWERS 



I HAVE a vague recollection that Ruskin, in 

 one of his passionate random paragraphs 

 (the great art critic was almost as discur- 

 sive and by-the-wayward as Mark Twain), 

 spoke most disrespectfully of flowers which 

 have no fragrance; that, in fact, he wiped 

 up the floor with them. I cannot now find this 

 paragraph, nor has a trained employee of the 

 Boston Public Library been able to find it for 

 me, so I may be mistaken. 



If Ruskin did not disparage scentless blos- 

 soms, I have felt tempted to do it myself, many 

 a time. The common blue violet, which in 

 May adorns our wayside by the millions, is 

 pretty, but how much more enjoyable it would 

 be if it had the delicious fragrance of its more 

 favored sisters, the Viola odor at a and the tiny 

 white Viola blanda, or of the canadensis, or of its 

 cousin, the pansy. Or take the rose. Don't 

 you feel disappointed and almost resentful 

 every time you pluck one and find that it has 

 none of the many rose odors? With poppies or 

 gladioli it is somewhat different, because you 

 don't look for fragrance; but they, too, would 

 be doubly attractive if they had it. Fragrance 

 is the soul of flowers as expression is the soul of 

 music and flavor the soul of food. A blossom 

 without it is like a beautiful girl without a soul. 

 There are two ways to avoid disappointment 



