The Schoolboy: Saint-Leons 



spent in stirring up old memories. Then, in our 

 dreamy moods, the beloved village reappears, em- 

 bellished, transfigured by the glow of those first 

 impressions; and the mental image, superior to the 

 reality, stands out in amazingly clear relief. The 

 past, the far-off past, was only yesterday; we see 

 it, we touch it. 



For my part, after three-quarters of a century, 

 I could walk with my eyes closed straight to the 

 flat stone where I first heard the soft chiming note 

 of the Midwife Toad; yes, I should find it to a 

 certainty, if time, which devastates all things, even 

 the homes of Toads, has not moved it or perhaps 

 left it in ruins. 



I see, on the margin of the brook, the exact 

 position of the alder-trees whose tangled roots, 

 deep under the water, were a refuge for the Cray- 

 fish. I should say: 



" It is just at the foot of this tree that I had the 

 unutterable bliss of catching a beauty. She had 

 horns so long . . . and enormous claws, full of 

 meat, for I got her just at the right time." 



I should go without faltering to the ash under 

 whose shade my heart beat so loudly one sunny 

 spring morning. I had caught sight of a sort of 

 white, cottony ball among the branches. Peeping 

 from the depths of the wadding was an anxious 

 little head with a red hood to it. Oh, what un- 

 paralleled luck! It was a Goldfinch, sitting on her 

 eggs. 



I know my village thoroughly, though I quitted 

 it so long ago; and I know hardly anything of the 



63 



