FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



From my earliest childhood I have felt drawn towards 

 the things of Nature. It would be ridiculous to suppose 

 that this gift, this love of observing plants and insects, 

 was inherited from my ancestors, who were uneducated 

 people of the soil and observed little but their own cows 

 and sheep. Of my four grandparents only one ever 

 opened a book, and even he was very uncertain about his 

 spelling. Nor do I owe anything to a scientific training. 

 Without masters, without guides, often without books, I 

 have gone forward with one aim always before me : to 

 add a few pages to the history of insects. 



As I look back — so many years back! — I can see my- 

 self as a tiny boy, extremely proud of my first braces and 

 of my attempts to learn the alphabet. And very well I 

 remember the delight of finding my first bird's nest and 

 gathering my first mushroom. 



One day I was climbing a hill. At the top of it was a 

 row of trees that had long interested me very much. 

 From the little window at home I could see them against 

 the sky, tossing before the wind or writhing madly in the 

 snow, and I wished to have a closer view of them. It 

 was a long climb — ever so long; and my legs were very 

 short. I clambered up slowly and tediously, for the 

 grassy slope was as steep as a roof. 



Suddenly, at my feet, a lovely bird flew out from its 



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