The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



coals in the stove. I do not care for these famil- 

 iarities with the unknown. 



Suddenly, bang! And there is running and 

 stamping and shouting and cries of pain! What 

 has happened? I rush up from the back of the 

 room. The retort has burst, squirting its boiling 

 vitriol in every direction. The wall opposite is all 

 stained with it. Most of my fellow-pupils have 

 been more or less struck. One poor youth has 

 had the splashes full in his face, right into his 

 eyes. He is yelling like a madman. With the 

 help of a friend who has come off better than the 

 others, I drag him outside by main force, take him 

 to the sink, which fortunately is close at hand, 

 and hold his face under the tap. This swift ablu- 

 tion serves its purpose. The horrible pain begins 

 to be allayed, so much so that the sufferer recovers 

 his senses and is able to continue the washing 

 process for himself. 



My prompt aid certainly saved his sight. A 

 week later, with the help of the doctor's lotions, 

 all danger was over. How lucky it was that I 

 took it into my head to keep some way off! My 

 isolation, as I stood looking into the glass case of 

 chemicals, left me all my presence of mind, my 

 readiness of resource. What are the others doing, 

 those who got splashed through standing too near 

 the chemical bomb? I return to the lecture-hall. 

 It is not a cheerful spectacle. The master has 

 come off badly: his shirt-front, his waistcoat and 

 trousers are covered with smears, which are all 

 smouldering and burning into holes. He hurriedly 

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