Chapter 7

Onthefifthday,thanksagaintothesheep, anothersecretofthelittleprince’slifewasrevealedtome. Abruptly,withnopreamble,heaskedme, asifitwerethefruitofaproblemlongponderedinsilence: 

"Ifasheepeatsbushes,doesiteatflowers,too?" 

"Asheepeatswhateveritfinds." 

"Evenflowersthathavethorns?" 

"Yes.Evenflowersthathavethorns." 

"Thenwhatgoodarethorns?" 

Ididn’tknow. AtthatmomentIwasverybusytryingtounscrewaboltthatwasjammedinmyengine. Iwasquiteworried,formyplanecrashwasbeginningtoseemextremelyserious,andthelackofdrinkingwatermademefeartheworst. 

"Whatgoodarethorns?" 

Thelittleprinceneverletgoofaquestiononcehehadaskedit. Iwasannoyedbymyjammedbolt,andIansweredwithoutthinking. 

"Thornsarenogoodforanything -they’rejusttheflowers’wayofbeingmean!" 

"Oh!" Butafterasilence,helashedoutatme,withasortofbitterness. 

"Idon’tbelieveyou! Flowersareweak.They’renaive. Theyreassurethemselveswhateverwaytheycan. Theybelievetheirthornsmakethemfrightening..." 

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