The Cetoniae 



not yet recovered from the chill of morning; 

 it lies slumbering all golden on the lilac- 

 blossoms, unconscious of danger, incapable 

 of flight. It is plentiful. Five or six are 

 quickly caught. I intervene, so that the 

 rest may be left in peace. The booty is 

 placed in a box, with a bed of blossoms. 

 Presently, during the heat of the day, the 

 Cetonia, with a long thread tied to one 

 leg, will fly in circles round the little girl's 

 head. 



Childhood is pitiless because it does not 

 understand, for nothing is more cruel than 

 ignorance. None of my madcaps will heed 

 the sufferings of the insect, a melancholy 

 galley-slave chained to a cannon-ball. These 

 artless minds find amusement in torture. I 

 dare not always call them to order, for I 

 admit that I on my side am also guilty, 

 though I am ripened by experience, to some 

 extent civilized and beginning to know a 

 thing or two. They inflict suffering for the 

 sake of amusement ar^d I for the sake of in- 

 formation: is it not really the same thing? 

 Is there a very definite hne of demarcation 

 between the experiments of knowledge and 

 the puerilities of childhood? I cannot 

 see it. 



5 



