THE SACRED BEETLE 



This was how it came about. We were five or six, 

 I the oldest and their professor, still more their 

 comrade and friend ; they, young fellows with warm 

 hearts and lively imaginations, overflowing with that 

 youthful vitality which makes one so open to im- 

 pressions and so eager for knowledge. 



Talking of one thing and another we followed a 

 path bordered with elder and hawthorn, where already 

 the Rose Beetle was revelling in the overwhelming 

 scent of the clustering blossoms. We were going to 

 see if the Sacred Scarabaeus had yet appeared on the 

 sandy plateau of Les Angles, rolling the ball of dung 

 which ancient Egypt looked on as emblematic of the 

 world ; we wanted to discover whether the running 

 stream at the bottom of the hill might not hide 

 young newts under the net of water weeds — newts 

 whose branchiae look like tiny sprays of coral ; to 

 see if that elegant little fish of the rivulet, the 

 stickleback, had donned his wedding cravat of 

 azure and purple ; if the new-come swallows were 

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