Among the wild flowers that grew on the grassy slopes of the Vall, there was a small daisy, popularly called "blind flower," because it was supposed to cause blindness in rash children who picked it.

I was rash, if I was awake; and I picked "blind flowers" behind the house, handfuls of them, and enjoyed my eyesight unimpaired.

If my faith in nursery lore was shaken by this experience, I kept my discovery to myself, and did not undertake to enlighten my playmates.
I find other instances, later on, of the curious fact that I was content with _finding out_ for myself.

It is curious to me because I am not so reticent now.

When I discover anything, if only a new tint in the red sunset, I must publish the fact to all my friends.