CHAPTER VII 



THE POND 



THE pond, the delight of my early child- 

 hood, is still a sight whereof my old eyes 

 never tire. What animation in that verdant 

 world! On the warm mud of the edges, the 

 Frog's little Tadpole basks and frisks in its 

 black legions; down in the water, the orange- 

 bellied Newt steers his way slowly with the 

 broad rudder of his flat tail; among the reeds 

 are stationed the flotillas of the Caddis- 

 worms, half-protruding from their tubes, 

 which are now a tiny bit of stick and again a 

 turret of little shells. 



In the deep places, the Water-beetle dives, 

 carrying with him his reserves of breath: an 

 air-bubble at the tip of the wing-cases and, 

 under the chest, a film of gas that gleams like 

 a silver breastplate; on the surface, the ballet 

 of those shimmering pearls, the Whirligigs, 

 turns and twists about; hard by there skims 

 the insubmersible troop of the Pond-skaters, 

 who glide along with side-strokes similar to 

 those which the cobbler makes when sewing. 

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