Can you believe that such a
mighty tree, with its branches and leaves and blossoms, is folded up in one
small horse-chestnut, such as that with which you were playing the other
day, whirling it round your head at the end of a string? The life of a
plant, could it be told, would be indeed a tale of wonder; and I should
like to try to tell you a little more about it, as well as something about
how flowers are made; but as we have had so long a chapter, we must end
with another story, the true story of what a flower, growing alone in a
yard, just springing up in its green sweetness between the flagstones,
taught a poor man who was as lonely as itself, and also very unhappy.
He was a Frenchman, and had been in prison a long time, because the Emperor
Napoleon considered him his enemy. One day while he was walking in the
prison-yard, pacing backwards and forwards, up and down the narrow space
which was allowed him, he noticed something green at his feet, and stooping
down to see what it could be, found that a busy little plant was bravely
pushing its way up between the crevices of the paving stones, to reach such
light and air as could be found in a prison-yard. "How could it have come
here?" the prisoner thought. A seed must have been dropped by some passing
bird, and "the scent of water" from some hidden spring must have caused it
to bud and to send down the slender fibres of its roots, with their little
sponges, to suck up all the moisture, so that the plant should grow, and
shoot up those fresh green leaves which had attracted his attention.
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