PHOTOGRAPHY OF FLOWERS 
&)HEN Adam presented me with a camera, possess- 
ing the various attachments designed to bewilder 
simple woman, together with a dozen rolls of 
I films, I was as much overwhelmed with the new 
dignity thrust upon me as if I had been an obscure Western 
politician summoned to take a Cabinet position. I had not 
gone through the snap-shot-pocket-kodak kindergarten; I 
was innocent of the least knowledge of the wiles and tricks 
a modern camera can play one, and here I was like a two- 
year-old given a parlor clock to play with. 
I was taken in hand by a professional photographer, who 
explained to me the functions and readings of the diaphram, 
the way to set for distance, who also interpreted the mysteri- 
ous phylactery over the eye of the lens, T. B. 1-25, 1-50, 
1-100—all of which instruction I asked him to let me repeat 
parrot-fashion after him, and when he declared my answers 
to the catechism were correct, he closed the camera, assuring 
me it was loaded—a terrifying word to one whose life-long 
horror has been a gun—and I reluctantly departed, saying 
that he would probably see me again shortly. I lingered on 
the doorstep of his piazza wondering if I could not invite him 
up to the cottage to spend a week, so hazy already was my 
impression of what had been said, and so unprepared had I 
been for the interview. Adam had intended to surprise me 
with his gift, and the effect was greater then he hoped—I 
was truly dazed. As we drove home with the camera, I 
admired the case, reported every word of my instructions, 
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