The Pond 



rare with us at home, are made? One would 

 think so, from the gHtter. 



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 far- 

 ther 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. Shell or horn, it is 

 very curious. 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, let's go home. My blis- 

 tered heel is forgotten in my excitement. 



The walk back is a delight. A voice sings 

 In my ear, an untranslatable voice, softer than 

 any language and bewildering as a dream. It 

 speaks to me for the first time of the myste- 

 ries of the pond; it glorifies the heavenly In- 



^73 



