Insect Adventures. Fabre Jean-Henri

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      We are there at last. The place could not be better for my birdlets: shallow, tepid water, with a few muddy knolls and little green islands. The pleasures of the bath begin at once. The ducklings clap their beaks and rummage here, there, and everywhere; they sift each mouthful, throwing out the clear water and swallowing the good bits. In the deeper parts they point their tails into the air and stick their heads under water. They are happy: and it is a blessed thing to see them at work. I too am enjoying the pond.

      What is this? On the mud lie some loose, knotted, soot-covered cords. One might take them for threads of wool like those which you pull out of an old ravelly stocking. Can some shepherdess, knitting a black sock and finding her work turn out badly, have begun all over again and, in her impatience, have thrown down the wool with all the dropped stitches? It really looks like it.

      I take up one of those cords in my hand. It is sticky and very loose; the thing slips through my fingers before they can catch hold of it. A few of the knots burst and shed their contents. What comes out is a black ball, the size of a pin’s head, followed by a flat tail. I recognize, on a very small scale, a familiar object: the Tadpole, the Frog’s baby.

      Here are some other creatures. They spin around on the surface of the water and their black backs gleam in the sun. If I lift a hand to seize them, that moment they disappear, I do not know where. It’s a pity; I should have liked much to see them closer and to make them wriggle in a little bowl which I should have put ready for them.

       Let us look at the bottom of the water, pulling aside those bunches of green string from which beads of air are rising and gathering into foam. There is something of everything underneath. I see pretty shells with compact whorls, flat as beans; I notice little worms carrying tufts and feathers; I make out some with flabby fins constantly flapping on their backs. What are they all doing there? What are their names? I do not know. And I stare at them for ever so long, held by the mystery of the waters.

      At the place where the pond dribbles into the near-by field, are some alder-trees; and here I make a glorious find. It is a Beetle—not a very large one, oh, no! He is smaller than a cherry-stone, but of an unutterable blue. The angels in paradise must wear dresses of that color. I put the glorious one inside an empty snail-shell, which I plug up with a leaf. I shall admire that living jewel at my leisure, when I get back. Other things call me away.

      The spring that feeds the pond trickles from the rock, cold and clear. The water first collects into a cup, the size of the hollow of one’s two hands, and then runs over in a stream. These falls call for a mill: that goes without saying. I build one with two bits of straw, crossed on an axis, and supported by flat stones set on edge. The mill is a great success. I am sorry I have no playmates but the ducklings to admire it.

      Let us contrive a dam to hold back the waters and form a pool. There are plenty of stones for the brickwork. I pick the most suitable; I break the larger ones. And, while collecting these blocks, suddenly I forget all about the dam which I meant to build.

      On one of the broken stones, in a hole large enough for me to put my fist into, something gleams like glass. The hollow is lined with facets gathered in sixes which flash and glitter in the sun. I have seen something like this in church, on the great saints’-days, when the light of the candles in the big chandelier kindles the stars in its hanging crystal.

      We children, lying, in summer, on the straw of the threshing-floor, have told one another stories of the treasures which a dragon guards underground. Those treasures now return to my mind: the names of precious stones ring out uncertainly but gloriously in my memory. I think of the king’s crown, of the princesses’ necklaces. In breaking stones, can I have found, but on a much richer scale, the thing that shines quite small in my mother’s ring? I want more such.

      The dragon of the subterranean treasures treats me generously. He gives me his diamonds in such quantities that soon I possess a heap of broken stones sparkling with magnificent clusters. He does more: he gives me his gold. The trickle of water from the rock falls on a bed of fine sand which it swirls into bubbles. If I bend over towards the light, I see something like gold-filings whirling where the fall touches the bottom. Is it really the famous metal of which twenty-franc pieces, so rare with us at home, are made? One would think so, from the glitter.

      “I think of the king’s crown, of the princesses’ necklace.”

       I take a pinch of sand and place it in my palm. The brilliant particles are numerous, but so small that I have to pick them up with a straw moistened in my mouth. Let us drop this: they are too tiny and too bothersome to collect. The big, valuable lumps must be farther on, in the thickness of the rock. We’ll come back later; we’ll blast the mountain.

      I break more stones. Oh, what a queer thing has just come loose, all in one piece! It is turned spiral-wise, like certain flat Snails that come out of the cracks of old walls in rainy weather. With its gnarled sides, it looks like a little ram’s-horn. How do things like that find their way into the stone?

      Treasures and curiosities make my pockets bulge with pebbles. It is late and the little ducklings have had all they want to eat. “Come along, youngsters,” I say to them, “let’s go home.” My blistered heel is forgotten in my excitement.

      The walk back is a delight, as I think of all the wonderful things I have found. But a sad disappointment is waiting for me when I reach home. My parents catch sight of my bulging pockets, with their disgraceful load of stones. The cloth has given way under the rough and heavy burden.

      “You rascal!” says father, at sight of the damage. “I send you to mind the ducks and you amuse yourself picking up stones, as though there weren’t enough of them all round the house! Make haste and throw them away!”

      Broken-hearted, I obey. Diamonds, gold-dust, petrified ram’s-horn, heavenly Beetle, are all flung on a rubbish-heap outside the door.

      Mother bewails her lot:

      “A nice thing, bringing up children to see them turn out so badly! You’ll bring me to my grave. Green stuff I don’t mind: it does for the rabbits. But stones, which ruin your pockets; poisonous animals, which’ll sting your hand: what good are they to you, silly? There’s no doubt about it; some one has thrown a spell over you!”

      Poor mother! She was right. A spell had been cast upon me—a spell which Nature herself had woven. In later years I found out that the diamonds of the duck-pool were rock-crystal, the gold-dust, mica; but the fascination of the pond held good for all that. It was full of secrets that were worth more to me than diamonds СКАЧАТЬ