198 A GARDEN DIARY 
it zs colossal, one says to oneself, and what if, 
as compared to it, ourselves and our troubles 
ave infinitesimal? what if they count no more 
in the scheme of things than do the afflic- 
tions of a broken-legged mouse, or of a crushed 
beetle? Very well; be it so. The mouse and 
the beetle have, after all, each their allotted 
place in that scheme. Nay for aught we know 
to the contrary, each may have its own incal- 
culable hour; each may be susceptible of the 
same profound, if intangible, consolation. 
