PHOTOGRAPHY OF FLOWERS 



HEN Adam presented me with a camera, possess- 

 ing the various attachments designed to bewilder 

 simple woman, together with a dozen rolls of 

 films, I was as much overwhelmed with the new 

 dignity thrust upon me as if I had been an obscure Western 

 politician summoned to take a Cabinet position. I had not 

 gone through the snap-shot-pocket-kodak kindergarten; I 

 was innocent of the least knowledge of the wiles and tricks 

 a modern camera can play one, and here I was like a two- 

 year-old given a parlor clock to play with. 



I was taken in hand by a professional photographer, who 

 explained to me the functions and readings of the diaphram, 

 the way to set for distance, who also interpreted the mysteri- 

 ous phylactery over the eye of the lens, T. B. 1-25, 1-50, 

 i-ioo all of which instruction I asked him to let me repeat 

 parrot-fashion after him, and when he declared my answers 

 to the catechism were correct, he closed the camera, assuring 

 me it was loaded a terrifying word to one whose life-long 

 horror has been a gun and I reluctantly departed, saying 

 that he would probably see me again shortly. I lingered on 

 the doorstep of his piazza wondering if I could not invite him 

 up to the cottage to spend a week, so hazy already was my 

 impression of what had been said, and so unprepared had I 

 been for the interview. Adam had intended to surprise me 

 with his gift, and the effect was greater then he hoped I 

 was truly dazed. As we drove home with the camera, I 

 admired the case, reported every word of my instructions, 



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