Blossoms which we buy from the florist's shop and 

 bring home half blown, to quickly wilt, satisfy but 

 poorly a flower-yearning heart. Bought flowers are 

 never really ours, they are extraneous things without 

 one touch of personality. The poorest little stunted 

 blossom, the seed of which we ourselves sow, weed and 

 watch from day to day becomes a part of our lives 

 and dreams, and is worth more spiritually than a 

 dozen American Beauties purchased at a bull market 

 price. 



If you happen to be some rare variety of altruist 

 who not only wishes to paint the landscape of your 

 temporary home with beauty, but would strew the 

 path of your successor with welcoming posies, per- 

 haps you will add a few abiding perennials to the list 

 I have suggested. 



But even with the garden you now plant, the flow- 

 ers will sow their own seed sufficiently to carry a post- 

 script of loveliness to the stranger who follows you. 

 Although it takes a peculiar selflessness to think hap- 

 pily of another's enjoyment of the thing we have lost, 

 wouldn't anyone be glad if it could be said of her, as 

 someone said of Ellen Terry, " Wherever she passed, 

 flowers grew " ? 



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