“That seems queer. I never thought a plant could have a soul.”
“Mebbe you call it intelligence. Names make leetle difference. What do you think? Look at mine lily. It iss in November just a dry brown thing like onions. I put it in the ground. It grows, blooms with a beautiful flower; then its leafs die, its flower, all you see. In August it iss again one dry brown thing like onions. But inside iss all the bloom, all the green leafs, all the lovely color, sweet fragrance, wrapped in those leetle silk folds. It has drawn all back again into itself. I throw it in mine cellar. It has no water, no light, nothing; but next year if I put it once again into the ground it blooms. What do you call that?”
“I—I don’t know. It’s wonderful!”
“Also grass thinks.”
“Thinks! Grass?”
They were passing a lawn that needed mowing. “See that clover? In May it blooms. Every week after that this man mows his lawn, ant every week he cuts off leetle clover blossoms mebbe two inches high. But there on the vacant lot just beside you see other clover growing?”
“Yes.”
“That also gets plenty water from the sprinkler; but that clover takes its time. That clover grows mebbe one foot high before it blooms. What do you call that? That grass thinks mebbe? Nicht wahr?”
Max looked his astonishment. “Why is it so?”
“Why? It iss the law of life. All things before they die give back to the world children. If the clover in the lawn hurries not it never blooms; never puts out its flower. The clover on the side needs not to hurry.”