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He was really very angry. He tossed his golden curls in the breeze.

I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman.

He has never smelled a flower.

He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one.

He has never done anything in his life but add up figures.

And all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man--he is a mushroom!"

A what?

A mushroom!

The little prince was now white with rage.

The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years.

For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same.

And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them?

Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important?

Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums?

And if I know--I, myself--one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing--Oh! You think that is not important!

His face turned from white to red as he continued:

If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars.

He can say to himself, 'Somewhere, my flower is there . . .'

But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened . . .

And you think that is not important!

He could not say anything more. His words were choked by sobbing.

The night had fallen. I had let my tools drop from my hands.

Of what moment now was my hammer, my bolt, or thirst, or death? On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince to be comforted.

I took him in my arms, and rocked him. I said to him:

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