The Pond 



green eyots. The diversions of die bath begin 

 forthwith. The ducklings clap their beaks and 

 rummage here, there and everywhere; they sift 

 each mouthful, rejecting the clear water and 

 retaining the good bits. In the deeper parts, 

 they point their sterns into the air and stick 

 their heads under water. They are happy; 

 and it is a blessed thing to see them at work. 

 We will let them be. It is my turn to enjoy the 

 pond. 



What is this? On the mud lie some loose, 

 knotted, soot-coloured cords. One could 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 extremely slack; the thing slips 

 through the fingers before they can catch hold 

 of it. A few of the knots burst and shed their 

 contents. What comes out is a black globule, 

 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. I have 



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