The Pond 



Hop-o'-my-Thumb, hiding under the wood- 

 cutter's stool, listened to his parents over- 

 come by want. I also, pretending to sleep, 

 with my elbows on the table, listen not to 

 blood-curdling designs, but to grand plans that 

 set my heart rejoicing. This is how the mat- 

 ter stands : at the bottom of the village, near 

 the church, at the spot where the water of 

 the large roofed spring escapes from its un- 

 derground weir and joins the brook in the 

 valley, an enterprising man, back from the 

 war,^ has set up a small tallow-factory. He 

 sells the scrapings of his pans, the burnt fat, 

 reeking of candle-grease, at a low price. He 

 proclaims these wares to be excellent for fat- 

 tening ducks. 



"Suppose we bred some ducks," says 

 mother. 'They sell very well in town. Henri 

 Vv^ould mind them and take them down to the 

 brook." 



"Very well," says father, "let's breed some 

 ducks. There may be difficulties in the way; 

 but we'll have a try." 



That night, I had dreams of paradise: I 

 was with my ducklings, clad in their yellow 

 suits ; I took them to the pond, I watched them 



iThe war of 1830 with Algiers.— Translator's Note. 

 165 



