CHRYSANTHEMUMS 



flower-beds, our more varied, more abundant, more luscious 

 vegetables, our ever more delicious fruits. Contemplate, for 

 instance, around the chrysanthemums, the marvels that ripen 

 nowadays in the humblest gardens, among the long branches 

 wisely restrained by the patient, spreading espaliers. Less 

 than a century ago, they were unknown; and we owe them to 

 the innumerable and infinitesimal exertions of a legion of 

 small seekers, all more or less hampered, all more or less 

 absurd. 



It is thus that man acquires nearly all his riches. There 

 is nothing trivial in nature; and he who becomes impassioned 

 of a flower, a blade of grass, a butterfly's wing, a nest, a shell, 

 wraps his passion around a small thing that always contains a 

 great truth. To succeed in modifying the appearance of a 

 flower is an insignificant act in itself, if you will; but reflect 

 upon it, for however short a while, and it becomes gigantic. 

 In thus succeeding, do we not violate or divert profound, 

 perhaps essential and, in any case, time-honoured laws? Do 

 we not exceed too-easily-accepted limits? Do we not directly 

 intrude our ephemeral will on that of the eternal forces? 

 Does not this suggest our possession of a singular power, an 

 almost supernatural power? And, although it is wise to 



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