Most of the time we regard things in a heedless fashion. But they are
like us, sorrowful or happy. When I notice a diseased ear of wheat
among healthy ears, and see the livid stain on its grains I have a
quick intuitive understanding of the suffering of this particular
thing. Within myself I feel the pain of those plant-cells; I realize
their agony in growing in this infected spot without crushing one
another. I am filled with a desire to tear up my handkerchief, and
bandage this ear of wheat. But I feel that there is no remedy for a
single ear of wheat, and that humanly it would be an act of folly
to attempt this cure. Such things are not done, yet no one pays
any special attention if I take care of a bird or a grasshopper.
Nevertheless I am certain that these grains suffer, because I feel
their suffering.

A beautiful rose on the other hand imparts to me its joy in life. One
feels that it is perfectly happy swaying on its stem, for does not
everybody say simply, "It is a pity to cut it," and thus affirm and
preserve the happiness of this flower?

* * * * *

I recall very distinctly the time when it was first revealed to me
that things suffered. It happened when I was three years old. In my
native hamlet a little boy, while playing, fell on a piece of broken
glass, and died of the wound.

A few days later I went to the child's home. His mother was crying
in the kitchen. On the mantelpiece stood a poor little toy. I recall
perfectly that it was a small tin or leaden horse, attached to a