The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



into a cup, the size of the hollow of one's two 

 hands, and then runs over in a stream. These 

 falls call for a mill: that goes without saying. 

 Two bits of straw, artistically crossed upon an axis, 

 provide the machine; some flat stones set on edge 

 afford supports. It is a great success: the mill 

 turns admirably. My triumph would be complete, 

 could I but share it. For want of other play- 

 mates, I invite the ducks. 



Everything palls in this poor world of ours, 

 even a mill made of two straws. Let us think 

 of something else; let us contrive a dam to hold 

 back the waters and form a pool. There is no 

 lack of stones for the brickwork. I pick the most 

 suitable; I break the larger ones. And, while col- 

 lecting these blocks, suddenly I forget all about 

 the dam which I meant to build. 



On one of the broken stones, in a cavity large 

 enough for me to put my fist in, something gleams 

 like glass. The hollow is lined with facets gath- 

 ered in sixes which flash and glitter in the sun. 

 I have seen something like this in church, on the 

 great saint's day, when the light of the candles 

 in the big chandelier kindles the stars in its hang- 

 ing crystal. 



We children, lying, in summer, on the straw 

 of the threshing-floor, have told one another stories 

 of the treasures which a dragon guards under- 

 ground. Those treasures now return to my mind: 

 the names of precious stones ring out uncertainly 

 but gloriously in my memory. I think of the king's 

 crown, of the princesses' necklaces. In breaking 

 48 



