The Urchin of Malaval 



again next day and the day after. This time my 

 stubborn watch succeeds. Whoosh! A grab of 

 my hand and I hold the singer. It is not a bird; 

 it is a kind of Grasshopper whose hind-legs my 

 playfellows have taught me to relish : a poor recom- 

 pense for my prolonged ambush. The best part 

 of the business is not the two haunches with the 

 shrimpy flavour, but what I have just learnt. I now 

 know, from personal observation, that the Grass- 

 hopper sings. I did not publish my discovery for 

 fear of the same laughter that greeted my story 

 about the sun. 



Oh, what pretty flowers, in a field close to 

 the house! They seem to smile to me with their 

 great violet eyes. Later on I see, in their place, 

 bunches of big red cherries. I taste them. They 

 are not nice, and they have no stones. What can 

 those cherries be? At the end of the summer, 

 grandfather walks up with a spade and turns my 

 field of observation topsy-turvy. From under 

 ground there comes, by the basketful and sackful, 

 a sort of round root. I know that root ; it abounds 

 in the house; time after time I have cooked it in 

 the peat-stove. It is the potato. Its violet flower 

 and its red fruit are pigeon-holed in my memory 

 for good and all. 



With an ever-watchful eye for animals and 

 plants, the future observer, the little six-year-old 

 monkey, practised by himself, all unawares. He 

 went to the flower, he went to the insect, even as 

 the Large White Butterfly goes to the cabbage, 

 and the Red Admiral to the thistle. 

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