The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



rows of bushes, yielding beneath the burden of the 

 heads of blossom, bow themselves, forming pointed 

 arches, this walk becomes a chapel, in which the 

 most beautiful festival of the year is celebrated in 

 the enchanting morning sunlight; a quiet festival, 

 without flags flapping at the windows, without the 

 burning of gunpowder, without quarrels after drink- 

 ing; the festival of the simple, disturbed neither 

 by the raucous brass band of the dancers, nor by 

 the shouts of the crowd. . . . Vulgar delights of 

 maroons and libations, how far removed are you 

 from this solemnity! 



I am one of the faithful in the chapel of the 

 lilacs. My prayer is not such as can be translated 

 by words; it is an intimate emotion that stirs in 

 me gently. Devoutly I make my stations from 

 one pillar of verdure to the next; step by step 

 I tell my observer's rosary. 1 



His " prayer is an Oh! of admiration," ad- 

 dressed to that creative Power who, in His 

 works, is always the geometer, according to 

 Plato's sublime saying: which is, that He 

 everywhere sheds order, light, and harmony. 



The contemplation of the living world that 

 is stirring all about him gives him yet fur- 

 ther cause to marvel at the wisdom of Him 

 " who has made the plans on which life is 



1 Souvenirs, p. 319, viii., p. x. 



2 Ibid., p. 294. 



236 



