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..."