But he did not sleep here, because he missed his constant uneasiness and other things. Crouching in the ditches of Heaven he no longer had the feeling beneath the whiteness of his short tail of the chilly dampness penetrating through and through him. The mosquitoes, who had withdrawn to their own Paradise of shallow pools, no longer filled his always open eyelids with the sharp burning sensation of summer. He longed regretfully for this fever. His heart no longer beat as powerfully as it had beaten when on knolls in the flame-colored heath a shot scattered the earth like rain about him. Under the smooth caress of the lawn-like grass hair grew again on the callous parts of his paws where it had been so sparse. And he began to deplore the over-abundance of heaven. He was like the gardener who, having become king, was forced to put on sandals of purple, and longed regretfully for his wooden shoes heavy with clay and with poverty. * * * * * And Francis in his Paradise heard of Rabbit's troubles and of his bewilderment. And the heart of Francis was grieved that one of his old companions was not happy. From that moment the streets of the celestial hamlet where he dwelled seemed less peaceful to him, the shadows of the evening less soft, less white the breath of the lilies, less hallowed the gleams of the carpenter's plane within the sheds, less bright the singing pitchers whose water radiated like fresh sheaves and fell cooling upon the flesh of the angels seated on the curb-stones of the wells. Therefore Francis set out on his way to find God, and He received him in His Garden at the close of day. This garden of God was the most humble but also the most beautiful. No one knew whence came the miracle of its beauty. Perhaps because there was nothing in it but love. Over the walls which the ages had filled with chinks dark lilacs spread. The stones were joyous to support the smiling mosses whose golden mouths were drinking at the shadowy heart of the violets. In a diffused light which was neither like that of the dawn nor like that of the twilight, for it was softer than either of these, a blue-flowered leek blossomed in the center of a garden-bed. A sort of mystery enveloped the blue globe of its inflorescence which remained motionless and closed on its tall stalk. One felt that this plant was dreaming. Of what? Perhaps of its soul's labor which sings on winter evenings in the pot where boils the soup of the poor. Oh divine destiny! Not far from the hedges of boxwood the lips of the lettuce radiated mute words while a low light clung about the shadow of the sleeping watering-pots. Their task was over. And full of trust and serenity, without pride or humility, a sage-plant let its insignificant odor rise toward God. * * * * * Francis sat down beside God on a bench sheltered by an oak round which an ivy twined. And God said unto Francis: