The Life of the Bee 
And should the last word of all this be 
wretched, it will be no little achievement 
to have laid bare the inanity and the petti- 
ness of the aim of Nature. 
93 
“There is no truth for us yet,” a great 
physiologist of our day remarked to me 
once, as I walked with him in the country; 
“there is no truth yet, but there are every- 
where three very good semblances of truth. 
Each man makes his own choice, or rather, 
perhaps, has it thrust upon him; and this 
choice, whether it be thrust upon him, or 
whether, as is often the case, he have made 
it without due reflection, this choice, to 
which he clings, will determine the form 
and the conduct of all that enters within 
him. The friend whom we meet, the woman 
who approaches and smiles, the love that 
unlocks our heart, the death or sorrow that 
seals it, the September sky above us, this 
superb and delightful garden, wherein we 
see, as in Corneille’s ‘Psyche,’ bowers of 
greenery resting on gilded statues, and the 
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