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. 

 t6^ 



