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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