i 9 8 A GARDEN DIARY 



it is colossal, one says to oneself, and what if, 

 as compared to it, ourselves and our troubles 

 are infinitesimal ? what if they count no more 

 in the scheme of things than do the afflic- 

 tions of a broken-legged mouse, or of a crushed 

 beetle ? Very well ; be it so. The mouse and 

 the beetle have, after all, each their allotted 

 place in that scheme. Nay for aught we know 

 to the contrary, each may have its own incal- 

 culable hour ; each may be susceptible of the 

 same profound, if intangible, consolation. 



