LUTHER BURBANK 
If it rained too much, drainage took up the 
excess. When the rains did not come, the soil 
was sprinkled. 
Under cultivation, and kindly care, the discour- 
agements of its life grew less and less, and the 
encouragements to thrive grew more and more. 
Soon this violet, as if assured of reproduction, 
abandoned the blossoms at its base, and threw its 
energies into making bigger and brighter and 
more beautiful blossoms at its top. Where it had 
half-heartedly advertised to the bees of old, it now 
concentrated its efforts to win the approval of the 
new-found friend whose dooryard brought it 
opportunity. 
And this is the life story of that kind of violet 
which we now call the pansy. 
On the one hand, in the woods, we see its wild 
kin-folk still struggling against unequal odds; on 
the other we see its own large, beautiful pansy 
petals, and the increased brilliancy of its hues; 
each a response to environment. 
Truly, in the pretty face of the pansy, we may 
read the vivid story of man’s importance as a 
friendly element in the lives of plants. 
Where do the flowers get their colors? 
“From the bees,” said Mr. Burbank. “And from 
9? 
us. 
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