The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



a log, was the real object of the brushwood fire. 

 The two boarders, on their stools, in the best places, 

 and we others, sitting on our heels, formed a semi- 

 circle around those big cauldrons full to the brim 

 and giving off little jets of steam, with puff-puff- 

 puffing sounds. The bolder among us, when the 

 master's eyes were engaged elsewhere, would dig a 

 knife into a well-cooked potato and add it to their 

 bit of bread; for I must say that, if we did little 

 work at my school, at least we did a deal of eat- 

 ing. It was the regular custom to crack a few 

 nuts and nibble at a crust while writing our page 

 or setting out our rows of figures. 



We, the smaller ones, in addition to the com- 

 fort of studying with our mouths full, had every 

 now and then two other delights, which were quite 

 as good as cracking nuts. The back-door com- 

 municated with the yard where the hen, surrounded 

 by her brood of chicks, scratched at the dung-hill, 

 while the little porkers, of whom there were a 

 dozen, wallowed in their stone trough. This door 

 would open sometimes to let one of us out, a priv- 

 ilege which we abused, for the sly ones among 

 us were careful not to close it on returning. Forth- 

 with the porkers would come running in, one after 

 the other, attracted by the smell of the boiled pota- 

 toes. My bench, the one where the youngsters 

 sat, stood against the wall, under the copper pail 

 to which we used to go for water when the nuts 

 had made us thirsty, and was right in the way 

 of the pigs. Up they came trotting and grunting, 

 curling their little tails; they rubbeo against our 

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