Recollections of Childhood 



which is also a picturesque term, suggesting 

 the patch on the bird's rump which spreads out 

 like a white Butterfly flitting over the fields. 



Thus did the vocabulary come into being 

 that would one day allow me to greet by their 

 real names the thousand actors on the stage of 

 the fields, the thousand little flowers that smile 

 at us from the wayside. The word which the 

 curate had spoken without attaching the least 

 importance to it revealed a world to me, the 

 world of plants and animals designated by 

 their real names. To the future must belong 

 the task of deciphering some pages of the Im- 

 mense lexicon; for to-day I will content myself 

 with remembering the Saxicola, or Stone-chat. 



On the west, my village crumbles into an 

 avalanche of garden-patches, In which plums 

 and apples ripen. Low bulging walls, black- 

 ened with the stains of lichens and mosses, sup- 

 port the terraces. The brook runs at the foot 

 of the slope. It can be cleared almost every- 

 where at a bound. In the wider parts, flat 

 stones standing out of the water serve as a 

 foot-bridge. There is no such thing as a whirl- 

 pool, the terror of mothers when the children 

 are away; it is nowhere more than knee-deep. 

 Dear little brook, so tranquil, cool and clear, I 

 have seen majestic rivers since, I have seen 



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