142 FLOWER-FIELDS OF ALPINE SWITZERLAND 



such a flower as the Autumn Crocus ; is it 

 justified ? I imagine it is not. I venture even 

 to say I am sure it is not. 



Here is a flower that is exceptional. It defies 

 the general rule, the usual sequence of life for 

 flowers. It reverses the customary order of 

 events and, so to speak, turns day into night. 

 And it does so with the utmost felicity. Its 

 well-being is ideal, for it shows perfect adapta- 

 tion to its circumstance. What, then, have we ? 

 " What rumour of what mystery ? " Can it be 

 a rumour of disability through blindness? Is it 

 a rumour of the mystery of justice ? Is it, that 

 is to say, a rumour of " injustice " ? I think not ; 

 nay, I am sure not. It is, if you ask me, a 

 rumour of that wide and many-sided efficiency 

 to which we refer when we declare : " There are 

 more ways than one of killing a cat." 



The fault is quite a common one with us. We 

 fall into it each time we talk of animals — the 

 " poor, dumb animals." Wherefore poor ? Where- 

 fore dumb ? Man, noisily verbose, condescends 

 to commiserate with anything less noisy or less 

 verbose than himself. To him, an absence of 

 capacity for a volubility matching his own marks 

 unhappiness. What, he asks, would not a cow 



