The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



that have now become dovecotes. A steep path 

 takes you up to this open space. From my house 

 on, it is more like a precipice than a slope. Gar- 

 dens buttressed by walls are staged in terraces on 

 the sides of the funnel-shaped valley. Ours is the 

 highest; it is also the smallest. 



There are no trees. Even a solitary apple-tree 

 would crowd it. There is a patch of cabbages, 

 with a border of sorrel, a patch of turnips, and an- 

 other of lettuces. That is all we have in the way 

 of garden-stuff; there is no room for more. 

 Against the upper supporting-wall, facing due 

 south, is a vine-arbour which, at intervals, when 

 the sun is generous, provides half a basketful of 

 white muscatel grapes. These are a luxury of 

 our own, greatly envied by the neighbours, for 

 the vine is unknown outside this corner, the warm- 

 est in the village. 



A hedge of currant-bushes, the only safeguard 

 against a terrible fall, forms a parapet above the 

 next terrace. When our parents' watchful eyes 

 are off us, we lie flat on our stomachs, my brother 1 

 and I, and look into the abyss at the foot of the 

 wall bulging under the thrust of the soil. It is 

 the garden of monsieur le notaire. 



There are beds with box-borders in that gar- 

 was born in 1823. Cf. The Life of the Fly, chaps, vi. and 

 vii. A. T. DE M. 



1 The brother whom Fabre here associates with the 

 memories of his childhood has also proved a credit to 

 his name and his vocation. M. Frederic Fabre is to-day 

 Director of the Crillon Canal and assistant justice for 

 the southern canton of Avignon. 

 4 



