The Life of the Fly 



the boundless sea ; but nothing In my memories 

 equals your modest falls. About you clings 

 all the hallowed pleasure of my first impres- 

 sions. 



A miller has bethought him of putting the 

 brook, which used to flow so gaily through the 

 fields, to work. Half-way up the slope, a 

 water-course, economizing the gradient, diverts 

 part of the water and conducts it into a large 

 reservoir, which supplies the mill-wheels with 

 motor power. This basin stands beside a fre- 

 quented path and is walled off at the end. 



One day, hoisting myself on a play-fellow's 

 shoulders, I looked over the melancholy wall, 

 all bearded with ferns. I saw bottomless stag- 

 nant waters, covered with slimy green. In the 

 gaps in the sticky carpet, a sort of dumpy, 

 black-and-yellow reptile was lazily swimming. 

 To-day, I should call it a Salamander; at that 

 time, it appeared to me the offspring of the 

 Serpent and the Dragon, of whom we were 

 told such blood-curdling tales when we sat up 

 at night. Hoo ! I've seen enough: let's get 

 down again, quick! 



The brook runs below. Alders and ash, 



bending forward on either bank, mingle their 



branches and form a verdant arch. At their 



feet, behind a porch of great twisted roots, are 



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