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delicate sensitiveness it would not be nies that he should 
overlook the flowers. Very well, will ask if the flowers 
prove of service to Cooper, novelist ¢ he hunter and the Indian 
trail, who might be expected to ignore them like the disregarding 
red man of whom he treats. But I open his Last of the 
hicans and the first page shows his Indian scout saying, ‘‘ The 
outer branch near the prints of one of the horses was bent up- 
oy as a lady breaks a flower oe its stem; but all the rest 
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o the graces ai the art of ee. flowers find their way 
even into the Leatherstocking 
Another voice is calling, and Lonclidy will tell us what flow- 
ers are to him, in the pages of his Hyperion. ‘TI have this morn- 
ing,” says he, ‘‘a singular longing for flowers: a wish to stroll 
among ae roses and carnations and inhale their breath as if it 
would revive me. I wish I knew the man who called flowers 
the fugitive poetry of Nature.” 
H us of youth’s irrecoverable amaze, how ‘the great 
heaven wan their meek blue eyes from their home in Angel’s 
meadow.’ 
Would we turn to Dickens and to Thackeray and seek for How: 
: u 
ner of suggestions. Often, when she would flash a whole story 
before us in an instant, she calls up the image of a flower, and 
has told her story 
