IN AN OLD GARDEN 253 



the fine silvery hairs of the flying summer ; and the 

 coccus that fall from the fruit trees to float on 

 their buoyant cottony down — a summer snow. 

 Fils de la Vierge are these, and sacred. The man 

 who can needlessly set his foot on a worm is as 

 strange to my soul as De Quincey's imaginary 

 Malay, or even his "damned crocodile." The 

 worm that one sees lying bruised and incapable 

 on the gravel walk has fallen among thieves. 

 These little lives do me good and not harm. I 

 smell the acid ants to strengthen my memory. I 

 know that if I set an overturned cockchafer on 

 his legs three sins shall be forgiven me; that if 

 I am kindly tolerant of the spider that drops ac- 

 cidentally on my hand or face, my purse shall be 

 mysteriously replenished. At the same time, one 

 has to remember that such sentiments, as a rule, 

 are not understood by those who have charge over 

 groves and gardens, whose minds are ignorant 

 and earthy, or, as they would say, practical. Of 

 the balance of nature they know and care naught, 

 nor can they regard life as sacred; it is enough 

 to know that it is or may be injurious to their 

 interests for them to sweep it away. The small 

 thing that has been flying about and uttering 



