What do flowers say? George Sand

George Sand

What do the flowers say

When I was a child, my dear Aurora, I was very worried that I could not understand the conversation of flowers. My botany professor assured me that they didn't say anything, whether he was deaf or didn't want to tell me the truth, but he insisted that flowers didn't say anything. I was sure of something completely different. I heard them whisper shyly, especially when the evening dew fell on them, but, unfortunately, they spoke too quietly for me to make out their words, and then they were incredulous. When I walked through the garden near the flower beds or along the path past the hayfield, some kind of sh-sh-i was heard in the air throughout the entire space, this sound ran from one flower to another and seemed to want to say: “Let's be careful, let's shut up! There is a child next to us who listens to us.” But I insisted on my own: I tried to walk so quietly that not a single grass moved under my steps. They calmed down, and I moved closer and closer. Then, so that they would not notice me, I bent down and walked under the shade of the trees. Finally I managed to overhear a lively conversation. It was necessary to concentrate all your attention, because these were such gentle voices, so pleasant and subtle that the slightest fresh breeze, the buzz of large butterflies or the flight of moths completely hid them.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught then, but somehow I understood it well. It even seemed to me that I understood this language much better than any other that I had heard so far. One evening, in one sheltered corner, I lay down on the sand, and I was able to listen very clearly to the entire conversation taking place around me. Some kind of hum was heard throughout the garden, all the flowers were talking at once, and it didn’t take much curiosity to learn more than one secret at a time. I remained motionless - and this is the conversation that took place among the field red poppies.

Dear ladies and gentlemen! It's time to end this stupidity. All plants are equally noble, our family is not inferior to any other - and therefore let whoever wants to recognize the primacy of the rose, as for me, I repeat to you that I am terribly bored with all this, and I no longer recognize the rights of anyone be considered better than me in origin and title.

To this the daisies responded all at once that the speaker, the field red poppy, was absolutely right. One of the daisies, which was larger and more beautiful than the others, asked to speak.

I never understood,” she said, “why the rose society assumes such an important air. Why exactly, I ask you, is the rose better and more beautiful than me? Nature and art have equally taken care to multiply our petals and enhance the brightness of our colors. On the contrary, we are much richer, because the best rose will have no more than two hundred petals, but we have up to five hundred. As for color, we have purple and pure blue - exactly the kind that roses do not have.

And I,” said the big Cavalier Spur with fervor, “I am Princess Delphinia, I have the azure of heaven on my crown, and my numerous relatives have all pinkish shades.” The imaginary queen of flowers has a lot to envy us, and as for her vaunted smell...

Please don’t tell me about this,” the field red poppy interrupted her. - Boasting with smell gets on my nerves. What is smell? Explain to me please. For example, you may think that a rose smells bad, but I smell fragrant...

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the daisy, “and with this, I hope, we set an example of good manners and taste.” Perfume is a sign of immodesty and vanity. A plant that respects itself does not make itself known by smell: its beauty is enough for it.

I don't share your opinion! - exclaimed the poppy, who smelled strongly, - perfume is a sign of health and intelligence.

The fat poppy's words were covered in laughter. Carnation held on to her sides, and mignonette even fainted. But instead of getting angry, he began to criticize the shape and colors of the rose, which could not defend itself, because all its bushes had been pruned, and on the new shoots there were only small buds, tightly wrapped in their green swaddling clothes. Luxuriously dressed Pansies terribly attacked the double flowers, but since they made up the majority in the flower garden, they began to get angry. The jealousy that the rose aroused in everyone was so great that everyone decided to ridicule and humiliate her. Pansies had the greatest success - they compared the rose to a large head of cabbage and preferred the latter for its size and usefulness. The nonsense that I had to listen to brought me to despair, and I, grumbling, spoke in their language:

Shut up! - I screamed, pushing these stupid flowers with my foot. - In all this time you haven’t said anything smart. I thought I would hear the wonders of poetry among you, oh, how cruelly I was deceived! You have disappointed me with your rivalry, vanity and petty envy.

There was deep silence, and I left the flower garden. “Let’s see,” I said to myself, “maybe wild plants have more sublime feelings than these educated talkers, who, having received beauty from us, also borrowed our prejudices and our deceit.” I slipped into the shady hedge and headed towards the meadow, I wanted to find out if the meadowsweet, which was called the queen of the meadows, was also envious and proud. But I stopped near a large rose hip, on which all the flowers spoke together.

“I’ll try to find out,” I thought, “whether the wild rose blackens the larch rose and despises the double rose.”

I must tell you that when I was a child, there were not such diverse breeds of roses, which garden scientists have since bred through grafting and replanting, but nature was not poorer for this. Our bushes were full of various types of roses in the wild, these were: rose hips, which was considered a good remedy against the bite of rabid dogs, cinnamon rose, musk rose, rubiginosa, which was considered one of the beautiful roses, blue-headed rose, felt, alpine, etc. other. Besides them, we had other beautiful breeds of roses in our gardens, which are now almost lost; they were: striped - red and white, which had few petals, but had a bright yellow stamen with the smell of bergamot; This rose is very hardy and was not afraid of either dry summer or harsh winter; small and large double roses, now rare; and the small May rose, the earliest and most fragrant, is now almost never on sale; Damascus or Provencal rose, which was very useful to us and which we can now only find in the south of France; finally, the larch rose, or, better said, the rose with a hundred petals, the homeland of which is unknown and which is usually classified as grafted. This rose, the capital rose, was for me, as for many others, the ideal rose, and I was not sure, as my professor was sure, that this monstrous rose owed its origin to the art of gardeners. I read from my poets that the rose was a model of beauty and fragrance in ancient times. In all likelihood, they did not know then about the existence of our tea rose, which does not smell at all, and about those lovely varieties of our days that have so changed the rose that it has completely lost its true type. Then I was taught botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I wanted the smell to be a distinctive feature of the flower. My professor, who sniffed tobacco, did not want to take my word for it. He only smelled tobacco, and when he sniffed some other plant, he began to sneeze endlessly.

So, sitting by the hedge, I heard very clearly what the rose hips were saying above my head. From their very first words, I understood that they were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay here, meek marshmallow! Look how we have blossomed! The lovely roses of the flower beds are still sleeping, wrapped in their green buds. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you rock us a little, we will spread the same fragrance everywhere as our famous queen.

I heard the marshmallow answer them:

Shut up, children of the north; I’ll be happy to talk to you a little, but don’t even think about being equal to the queen of flowers.

Sweet marshmallow! We respect and love her,” the rosehip flowers answered in one voice, “and we know how envious the other flowers in the garden are of her.” They place her no higher than us and say that she is the daughter of the wild rose and owes her beauty to the gardener’s care and grafting. We are ignorant and do not know how to speak. You, who came to earth before us, tell us the real story of the rose.

“I’ll tell it to you,” answered the marshmallow, “because it’s my own story.” Listen and never forget.

And the marshmallow said the following.

George Sand

What do the flowers say

When I was a child, my dear Aurora, I was very worried that I could not understand the conversation of flowers. My botany professor assured me that they didn't say anything, whether he was deaf or didn't want to tell me the truth, but he insisted that flowers didn't say anything. I was sure of something completely different. I heard them whisper shyly, especially when the evening dew fell on them, but, unfortunately, they spoke too quietly for me to make out their words, and then they were incredulous. When I walked through the garden near the flower beds or along the path past the hayfield, some kind of sh-sh-i was heard in the air throughout the entire space, this sound ran from one flower to another and seemed to want to say: “Let's be careful, let's shut up! There is a child next to us who listens to us.” But I insisted on my own: I tried to walk so quietly that not a single grass moved under my steps. They calmed down, and I moved closer and closer. Then, so that they would not notice me, I bent down and walked under the shade of the trees. Finally I managed to overhear a lively conversation. It was necessary to concentrate all your attention, because these were such gentle voices, so pleasant and subtle that the slightest fresh breeze, the buzz of large butterflies or the flight of moths completely hid them.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught then, but somehow I understood it well. It even seemed to me that I understood this language much better than any other that I had heard so far. One evening, in one sheltered corner, I lay down on the sand, and I was able to listen very clearly to the entire conversation taking place around me. Some kind of hum was heard throughout the garden, all the flowers were talking at once, and it didn’t take much curiosity to learn more than one secret at a time. I remained motionless - and this is the conversation that took place among the field red poppies.

Dear ladies and gentlemen! It's time to end this stupidity. All plants are equally noble, our family is not inferior to any other - and therefore let whoever wants to recognize the primacy of the rose, as for me, I repeat to you that I am terribly bored with all this, and I no longer recognize the rights of anyone be considered better than me in origin and title.

To this the daisies responded all at once that the speaker, the field red poppy, was absolutely right. One of the daisies, which was larger and more beautiful than the others, asked to speak.

I never understood,” she said, “why the rose society assumes such an important air. Why exactly, I ask you, is the rose better and more beautiful than me? Nature and art have equally taken care to multiply our petals and enhance the brightness of our colors. On the contrary, we are much richer, because the best rose will have no more than two hundred petals, but we have up to five hundred. As for color, we have purple and pure blue - exactly the kind that roses do not have.

And I,” said the big Cavalier Spur with fervor, “I am Princess Delphinia, I have the azure of heaven on my crown, and my numerous relatives have all pinkish shades.” The imaginary queen of flowers has a lot to envy us, and as for her vaunted smell...

Please don’t tell me about this,” the field red poppy interrupted her. - Boasting with smell gets on my nerves. What is smell? Explain to me please. For example, you may think that a rose smells bad, but I smell fragrant...

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the daisy, “and with this, I hope, we set an example of good manners and taste.” Perfume is a sign of immodesty and vanity. A plant that respects itself does not make itself known by smell: its beauty is enough for it.

I don't share your opinion! - exclaimed the poppy, who smelled strongly, - perfume is a sign of health and intelligence.

The fat poppy's words were covered in laughter. Carnation held on to her sides, and mignonette even fainted. But instead of getting angry, he began to criticize the shape and colors of the rose, which could not defend itself, because all its bushes had been pruned, and on the new shoots there were only small buds, tightly wrapped in their green swaddling clothes. Luxuriously dressed Pansies terribly attacked the double flowers, but since they made up the majority in the flower garden, they began to get angry. The jealousy that the rose aroused in everyone was so great that everyone decided to ridicule and humiliate her. Pansies had the greatest success - they compared the rose to a large head of cabbage and preferred the latter for its size and usefulness. The nonsense that I had to listen to brought me to despair, and I, grumbling, spoke in their language:

Shut up! - I screamed, pushing these stupid flowers with my foot. - In all this time you haven’t said anything smart. I thought I would hear the wonders of poetry among you, oh, how cruelly I was deceived! You have disappointed me with your rivalry, vanity and petty envy.

There was deep silence, and I left the flower garden. “Let’s see,” I said to myself, “maybe wild plants have more sublime feelings than these educated talkers, who, having received beauty from us, also borrowed our prejudices and our deceit.” I slipped into the shady hedge and headed towards the meadow, I wanted to find out if the meadowsweet, which was called the queen of the meadows, was also envious and proud. But I stopped near a large rose hip, on which all the flowers spoke together.

“I’ll try to find out,” I thought, “whether the wild rose blackens the larch rose and despises the double rose.”

I must tell you that when I was a child, there were not such diverse breeds of roses, which garden scientists have since bred through grafting and replanting, but nature was not poorer for this. Our bushes were full of various types of roses in the wild, these were: rose hips, which was considered a good remedy against the bite of rabid dogs, cinnamon rose, musk rose, rubiginosa, which was considered one of the beautiful roses, blue-headed rose, felt, alpine, etc. other. Besides them, we had other beautiful breeds of roses in our gardens, which are now almost lost; they were: striped - red and white, which had few petals, but had a bright yellow stamen with the smell of bergamot; This rose is very hardy and was not afraid of either dry summer or harsh winter; small and large double roses, now rare; and the small May rose, the earliest and most fragrant, is now almost never on sale; Damascus or Provencal rose, which was very useful to us and which we can now only find in the south of France; finally, the larch rose, or, better said, the rose with a hundred petals, the homeland of which is unknown and which is usually classified as grafted. This rose, the capital rose, was for me, as for many others, the ideal rose, and I was not sure, as my professor was sure, that this monstrous rose owed its origin to the art of gardeners. I read from my poets that the rose was a model of beauty and fragrance in ancient times. In all likelihood, they did not know then about the existence of our tea rose, which does not smell at all, and about those lovely varieties of our days that have so changed the rose that it has completely lost its true type. Then I was taught botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I wanted the smell to be a distinctive feature of the flower. My professor, who sniffed tobacco, did not want to take my word for it. He only smelled tobacco, and when he sniffed some other plant, he began to sneeze endlessly.

What do flowers say?

When I was little, it really bothered me that I couldn’t make out what the flowers were saying. My botany teacher insisted that they weren't talking about anything. I don’t know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers didn’t talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew that this was not so. I myself heard their vague babbling, especially in the evenings, when the dew had already set. But they spoke so quietly that I could not distinguish the words. In addition, they were very distrustful, and if I walked through the garden between the flower beds or across the field, they whispered to each other: “Shh!” An alarm seemed to be transmitted throughout the entire row: “Shut up, otherwise a curious girl is listening to you.”

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully as not to touch a single blade of grass, and the flowers did not hear how I came close to them. And then, hiding under the trees so that they would not see my shadow, I finally understood their speech.

I had to focus all my attention. The flowers' voices were so thin and tender that the blow of a breeze or the buzz of some night butterfly completely drowned them out.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught at that time, but I understood it perfectly. It even seems to me that I understood it better than other languages ​​I knew.

One evening I managed, lying on the sand, not to utter a word of what was being said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

Gentlemen, it's time to put an end to these prejudices. All plants are equally noble. Our family will not yield to any other. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that enough is enough for me, I do not consider anyone the right to call himself more noble than me.

I don't understand why the rose family is so proud. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art have jointly increased the number of our petals and made our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, and we have up to five hundred. And roses will never achieve such shades of lilac and even almost blue as ours.

“I’ll tell you about myself,” the lively bindweed intervened, “I’m Prince Delphinium.” My crown reflects the azure of the sky, and my many relatives possess all the pink tints. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then...

“Oh, don’t even talk about it,” the field poppy interrupted passionately. - I’m just annoyed by the constant talk about some kind of fragrance. Well, what is aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept invented by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the astra, “and by this we prove our decency and good manners.” The smell indicates immodesty or boasting. A flower that respects itself will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

I don't agree with you! - exclaimed the terry poppy, which had a strong aroma. - Smell is a reflection of mind and health.

The voice of the terry poppy was drowned out by friendly laughter. The carnations were held by the sides, and the mignonette swayed from side to side. But, not paying attention to them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not respond - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and small buds only appeared on the young shoots, tightly tied together with green tufts.

Richly dressed pansies spoke out against double flowers, and since double flowers predominated in the flower garden, general displeasure began. However, everyone was so jealous of the rose that they soon made peace with each other and began vying with each other to ridicule it. It was even compared to a head of cabbage, and they said that the head, in any case, was thicker and healthier. The nonsense that I listened to brought me out of patience, and, stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

Shut up! You're all talking nonsense! I thought I would hear miracles of poetry here, but, to my extreme disappointment, I found only rivalry, vanity, and envy in you!

There was deep silence and I ran out of the garden.

Let’s see, I thought, maybe wildflowers are more intelligent than these arrogant garden plants that receive artificial beauty from us and at the same time seem to be infected by our prejudices and mistakes.

Under the shade of the hedge I made my way to the field. I wanted to know if the spiria, who are called queens of the field, are also proud and envious. On the way, I stopped near a large rose hip, on which all the flowers were talking.

I must tell you that during my childhood there were not yet numerous varieties of roses, which were subsequently obtained by skilled gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in our garden there was a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; its homeland is unknown, but its origin is usually attributed to culture.

For me, as for everyone then, this centifolia represented the ideal of the rose, and I was not at all sure, like my teacher, that it was only the product of skillful gardening. From books I knew that even in ancient times the rose delighted people with its beauty and its aroma. Of course, at that time they did not know the tea rose, which does not smell like a rose at all, and all these lovely species that now diversify endlessly, but essentially distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I definitely wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main characteristics of a flower. My teacher, who took snuff, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed some plant, he would later claim that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the rosehip above my head was talking about, because from the first words I understood that we were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay with us, dear breeze, said the rosehip flowers. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flower beds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you rock us a little, we will have the same delicate aroma as our glorious queen.

Shut up, you are only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think about equaling the queen of flowers.

“Dear breeze, we respect and adore her,” answered the rosehip flowers. - We know how jealous other flowers are of her. They assure that the rose is no better than us, that she is the daughter of the rose hip and owes her beauty only to coloring and care. We ourselves are uneducated and do not know how to object. You are older and more experienced than us. Tell me, do you know anything about the origin of the rose?

Well, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget this!

That's what the breeze said.

In those days when earthly creatures still spoke the language of the gods, I was the eldest son of the king of storms. With the ends of my black wings I touched opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with the clouds. I looked majestic and menacing. It was in my power to gather all the clouds from the west and spread them as an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time I, with my father and brothers, reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. As my brothers and I rushed from all sides towards this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the shapeless lump now called Earth. If my father felt tired, he would lie down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still remained motionless, was hidden a powerful divine spirit - the spirit of life, which strived out and one day, breaking mountains, parting seas, collecting a heap of dust, paved its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of countless creatures who, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On the still warm surface of the earth’s crust, in crevices and in the waters, flexible plants and floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves against these tiny creatures. Life continually appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive creative genius had decided to adapt all the organs and needs of creatures to the environment we inhabit.

When I was little, it really bothered me that I couldn’t make out what the flowers were saying. My botany teacher insisted that they weren't talking about anything. I don’t know if he was deaf or hiding the truth from me, but he swore that flowers didn’t talk at all.

Meanwhile, I knew that this was not so. I myself heard their vague babbling, especially in the evenings, when the dew had already set. But they spoke so quietly that I could not distinguish the words. In addition, they were very distrustful, and if I walked through the garden between the flower beds or across the field, they whispered to each other: “Shh!” An alarm seemed to be transmitted throughout the entire row: “Shut up, otherwise a curious girl is listening to you.”

But I got my way. I learned to step so carefully as not to touch a single blade of grass, and the flowers did not hear how I came close to them. And then, hiding under the trees so that they would not see my shadow, I finally understood their speech.

I had to focus all my attention. The flowers' voices were so thin and tender that the blow of a breeze or the buzz of some night butterfly completely drowned them out.

I don't know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was taught at that time, but I understood it perfectly. It even seems to me that I understood it better than other languages ​​I knew.

One evening I managed, lying on the sand, not to utter a word of what was being said in the corner of the flower garden. I tried not to move and heard one of the field poppies speak:

Gentlemen, it's time to put an end to these prejudices. All plants are equally noble. Our family will not yield to any other. Let anyone recognize the rose as a queen, but I declare that enough is enough for me, I do not consider anyone the right to call himself more noble than me.

I don't understand why the rose family is so proud. Tell me, please, is the rose more beautiful and slimmer than me? Nature and art have jointly increased the number of our petals and made our colors especially bright. We are undoubtedly richer, since the most luxurious rose has many, many two hundred petals, and we have up to five hundred. And roses will never achieve such shades of lilac and even almost blue as ours.

My crown reflects the azure of the sky, and my many relatives possess all the pink tints. As you can see, the notorious queen can envy us in many ways, and as for her vaunted aroma, then...

“Oh, don’t even talk about it,” the field poppy interrupted passionately. - I’m just annoyed by the constant talk about some kind of fragrance. Well, what is aroma, please tell me? A conventional concept invented by gardeners and butterflies. I find that roses have an unpleasant smell, but I have a pleasant one.

“We don’t smell of anything,” said the astra, “and by this we prove our decency and good manners.” The smell indicates immodesty or boasting. A flower that respects itself will not hit you in the nose. It's enough that he's handsome.

Smell is a reflection of mind and health.

But, not paying attention to them, he began to criticize the shape and color of the rose, which could not respond - all the rose bushes had been pruned shortly before, and small buds only appeared on the young shoots, tightly tied together with green tufts.

However, everyone was so jealous of the rose that they soon made peace with each other and began vying with each other to ridicule it. It was even compared to a head of cabbage, and they said that the head, in any case, was thicker and healthier. The nonsense that I listened to brought me out of patience, and, stamping my foot, I suddenly spoke in the language of flowers:

There was deep silence and I ran out of the garden.

Let’s see, I thought, maybe wildflowers are more intelligent than these arrogant garden plants that receive artificial beauty from us and at the same time seem to be infected by our prejudices and mistakes.

On the way, I stopped near a large rose hip, on which all the flowers were talking.

I must tell you that during my childhood there were not yet numerous varieties of roses, which were subsequently obtained by skilled gardeners through coloring. Nevertheless, nature did not deprive our area, where a variety of roses grew wild. And in our garden there was a centifolia - a rose with a hundred petals; its homeland is unknown, but its origin is usually attributed to culture.

For me, as for everyone then, this centifolia represented the ideal of the rose, and I was not at all sure, like my teacher, that it was only the product of skillful gardening. From books I knew that even in ancient times the rose delighted people with its beauty and its aroma. Of course, at that time they did not know the tea rose, which does not smell like a rose at all, and all these lovely species that now diversify endlessly, but essentially distort the true type of rose. They began to teach me botany, but I understood it in my own way. I had a keen sense of smell, and I definitely wanted the aroma to be considered one of the main characteristics of a flower. My teacher, who took snuff, did not share my hobby. He was sensitive only to the smell of tobacco, and if he sniffed some plant, he would later claim that it tickled his nose.

I listened with all my ears to what the rosehip above my head was talking about, because from the first words I understood that we were talking about the origin of the rose.

Stay with us, dear breeze, said the rosehip flowers. - We have blossomed, and the beautiful roses in the flower beds are still sleeping in their green shells. Look how fresh and cheerful we are, and if you rock us a little, we will have the same delicate aroma as our glorious queen.

Shut up, you are only children of the north. I'll chat with you for a minute, but don't think about equaling the queen of flowers.

“Dear breeze, we respect and adore her,” answered the rosehip flowers. - We know how jealous other flowers are of her. They assure that the rose is no better than us, that she is the daughter of the rose hip and owes her beauty only to coloring and care. We ourselves are uneducated and do not know how to object. You are older and more experienced than us. Tell me, do you know anything about the origin of the rose?

Well, my own story is connected with it. Listen and never forget this!

That's what the breeze said.

In those days when earthly creatures still spoke the language of the gods, I was the eldest son of the king of storms. With the ends of my black wings I touched opposite points of the horizon. My huge hair was intertwined with the clouds. I looked majestic and menacing. It was in my power to gather all the clouds from the west and spread them as an impenetrable veil between the Earth and the Sun.

For a long time I, with my father and brothers, reigned over a barren planet. Our task was to destroy and destroy everything. As my brothers and I rushed from all sides towards this helpless and small world, it seemed that life could never appear on the shapeless lump now called Earth. If my father felt tired, he would lie down to rest on the clouds, leaving me to continue his destructive work. But inside the Earth, which still remained motionless, was hidden a powerful divine spirit - the spirit of life, which strived out and one day, breaking mountains, parting seas, collecting a heap of dust, paved its way. We redoubled our efforts, but only contributed to the growth of countless creatures who, due to their small size, eluded us or resisted us by their very weakness. On the still warm surface of the earth’s crust, in crevices and in the waters, flexible plants and floating shells appeared. In vain we drove furious waves against these tiny creatures. Life continually appeared in new forms, as if a patient and inventive creative genius had decided to adapt all the organs and needs of creatures to the environment we inhabit.

We began to get tired of this resistance, so weak in appearance, but in fact insurmountable. We destroyed entire families of living creatures, but in their place others appeared, more adapted to the struggle, which they successfully withstood. Then we decided to gather with the clouds to discuss the situation and ask our father for new reinforcements.

While he was giving us his orders, the Earth, having briefly rested from our persecutions, managed to be covered with a multitude of plants, among which moved myriads of animals of the most diverse breeds, looking for shelter and food in huge forests, on the slopes of mighty mountains or in clear waters huge lakes.

Go, said the king of storms, my father. - Look, the Earth is dressed up like a bride about to marry the Sun. Separate them. Gather huge clouds, blow with all your might. Let your breath upend trees, flatten mountains, and stir up seas. Go and don’t come back until there is at least one living creature, at least one plant left on this damned Earth, where life wants to establish itself in defiance of us.

We set out to spread death in both hemispheres. Cutting through the cloud curtain like an eagle, I rushed to the countries of the Far East, to where, on the sloping lowlands going down to the sea under a sultry sky, gigantic plants and fierce animals are found among the intense moisture. I had rested from my previous fatigue and now felt an extraordinary increase in strength. I was proud that I was bringing destruction to the weak creatures who dared not give in to me the first time. With one flap of my wing I swept away an entire area, with one breath I tore down an entire forest and madly, blindly rejoiced in the fact that I was stronger than all the mighty forces of nature.

Suddenly I smelled an unfamiliar aroma and, surprised by this new sensation, I stopped to figure out where it came from. Then for the first time I saw the creature that appeared during my absence, a gentle, graceful, lovely creature - a rose!

I rushed to crush her. She bent down, lay down on the ground and said to me:

Have pity on me! After all, I am so beautiful and meek! Inhale my scent, then you will spare me.

I inhaled her scent - and the sudden intoxication softened my rage. I sank to the ground next to her and fell asleep.

When I woke up, the rose had already straightened up and was standing, swaying slightly from my calm breathing.

with myself. I want to look closely at the Sun and clouds. I put the rose on my chest and flew away. But soon it seemed to me that she was dying. She was no longer able to speak to me from exhaustion, but her scent continued to delight me. Fearing that she would be killed, I flew quietly over the treetops, avoiding the slightest shock. Thus, with precautions, I reached the palace of dark clouds, where my father was waiting for me.

What do you need? - he asked. - Why did you leave the forest on the shores of India? I can see him from here. Go back and destroy it quickly.

“Okay,” I answered, showing him the rose. “But let me leave it with you.”

you are the treasure that I want to save.

From that day on, I lived peacefully, and people, animals and plants fell in love with me dearly. Thanks to my divine origin, I can choose to live anywhere, but I am a devoted servant of life, which I promote with my beneficial breath, and I do not want to leave the dear Earth where my first and eternal love holds me. Yes, dear flowers, I am a faithful admirer of the rose, and therefore your brother and friend.

In that case, give us a ball! - exclaimed the rosehip flowers. - We will have fun and sing the praises of our queen, the rose of the east with a hundred petals. The breeze moved its pretty wings, and lively dancing began above my head, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the rustling of leaves, which replaced tambourines and castanets. Out of enthusiasm, some wild roses tore their ball gowns and showered their petals on my hair. But this did not stop them from dancing further, chanting:

Long live the beautiful rose, who with her meekness defeated the son of the king of storms! Long live the good breeze, who remains a friend of flowers!

When I told my teacher everything I had heard, he said that I was sick and that I needed to be given a laxative. However, my grandmother helped me out and told him:

I really feel sorry for you if you yourself have never heard what the flowers are talking about. I wish I could go back to the times when I understood them. This is the property of children. Don't mix properties with ailments!