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THE SOUL OF THE BLOSSOM. 
hardly expect to meet with such pacific idyls, should there be but one 
shadowy, secure, and warm recess, Nature never fails, in the warm and 
humid mildness of that maternal retreat, to create a little chosen 
world; and there the flower distils to the bee its sweetest nectar,— 
there the bee assuages the impetuous yearning of the flower. 
Genial, bland, and still is the hour which precedes the evening. 
Caressed by the last rays of the sun, whose warmth it preserves 
within its bosom, besprinkled in its corolla by the light and already 
radiant mist, the flower becomes conscious of two lives and a twofold 
electricity; it is urged to love, and it loves ! The stamens blaze forth, 
and scatter abroad their cloud of incense. Then at that charming and 
sacred hour let the mediatrix come; let the Samaritan bee appear! 
Let her collect the sweet odours dispersed by the evening breeze; let 
her redivide them with wise forethought, giving here and taking 
there ! The blossoms are no longer solitary; through the agency of 
the bee, the meadow has been converted into a society where all 
understand and all love each other, initiated into the hymeneal rites 
by their friendly little high-priest. 
It is not a less important duty for the bee to rise at an early hour 
and be present at the moment when the flower—which has slumbered 
under the penetrating dew (exhaled by its divine master, father, and 
lover, the sun)—awakes, and recovers its consciousness. Struck by 
the sympathetic beam, it no longer resists; it gives up the softened 
essence of its choicest sweetness; it becomes, as it were, a tiny fountain, 
which distils honey drop by drop. Opportunely comes the bee; its 
work here is very nearly completed : the sweet treasure, finely prepared 
in that hour of perfection, will entail but little labour. It bears it off 
to its children : “ Eat: it is the soul of the blossom.” 
✓ 
But in the noonday heat will she remain inactive ? The burning 
sun and dry air have withered up the blossoms of the plain. But those 
of the woods, sheltered by the fresh cool shades, present their cups 
brimming over; those of the murmurous brooks, and'silent and deep 
marshes, are then instinct with vitality. The forget-me'-not dreams, 
and weeps tiny tears of nectar. Even the white water-lily, in her 
pale virginity, yields a rare treasure of love. 
