The Life of the Fly 



We, the smaller ones, in addition to the 

 comfort 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 communicated with the yard where 

 the hen, surrounded by her brood of chicks, 

 scratched at the dung-hill, while the little pork- 

 ers, of whom there were a dozen, wallowed 

 in their stone trough. This door would open 

 sometimes to let one of us out, a privilege 

 which we abused, for the sly ones among us 

 were careful not to close it on returning. 

 Forthwith, the porkers would come running in, 

 one after the other, attracted by the smell of 

 the boiled potatoes. 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 rubbed against our legs; they poked 

 their cold pink snouts into our hands in search 

 of a scrap of crust; they questioned us with 

 their sharp little eyes to learn if we happened 

 to have a dry chestnut for them in our pockets. 

 When they had gone the round, some this way 

 and some that, they went back to the farm- 

 yard, driven away by a friendly flick of the 



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