262 A TOUR ROUNB MY GABDEN. 



My pigeogs might have become green or blue; and it 

 would not have appeared unkind in the roses if they had 

 tressed up their crests a little. 



As for the wheat and barley, I have no complaint to make 

 of them, as I do not know what they would have done, or 

 how they would have behaved themselves, seeing that I have 

 none of either in my garden. 



But as to the others — 



Here is a rose, now — can you imagine what it has done? 

 It has enveloped in its petals a rose-heetle, which is going 

 comfortably to sleep. 



The gorterias have folded up their petals in their full 

 length ; the asterias have roUed up theirs, and are absolutely 

 as fast asleep as if Edmond were not gone. 



The pigeons — the pigeons have something else to do than 

 to stain themselves blue or red; they think themselves, 

 besides, very well as they are, and are exceedingly busy 

 telling one another so. 



The tiffer lilies, as ragged as ill-closed twists of paper, are 

 ready to fall to the earth ; but nothing can equal the indiffe- 

 rence of the briars and laurels/ 



Seriously this fiction, which poets good and bad have all 

 abused, of showing that trees and flowers partake our sadness 

 and mourning, our joy and our pleasure, is, for me, a less 

 elevated poetry than the superb indifference of nature. I am 

 not convinced even if they have any right to create this 

 falsehood in order to increase the sadness of their songs. 



The church bell sounds : the peasants say — Ah ! there is a 

 funeral bell ! 



And now the sun, who has triumphed over the clouds, sheds 

 upon everything the colours of joy and life, like a look of love 

 and goodness, which God allows to fall upon the earth. 



The flowers, spreading forth their beauties like a brilliant 

 illumination, appear to attract the sun. The insects seek 

 each other beneath the leaves; the bees hum; the birds sing; 

 sweet odours float around. 



And the fiineral bell continues its heavy monotonous toll, 

 and the peasants bear to the grave a fair young girl, who so 

 dearly loved flowers, the sun, perfumes, the hum of bees, and 

 the song of birds; that lovely girl who planted many of these 



