The Life of the Fly 



to contemplate it on our bench, to decipher it 

 with the help of our next neighbour, in case 

 he might know one or two of the letters. Our 

 contemplation came to nothing, being every 

 moment disturbed by a visit to the potatoes in 

 the stew-pots, a quarrel among playmates 

 about a marble, the grunting invasion of the 

 porkers or the arrival of the chicks. With 

 the aid of these distractions, we would wait 

 patiently until it was time for us to go home. 

 That was our most serious work. 



The big ones used to write. They had the 

 benefit of the small amount of light in the 

 room, by the narrow window where the Wan- 

 dering Jew and ruthless Golo faced each other, 

 and of the large and only table with its circle 

 of seats. The school supplied nothing, not 

 even a drop of ink ; every one had to come with 

 a full set of utensils. The inkhorn of those 

 days, a relic of the ancient pencase of which 

 Rabelais speaks, was a long cardboard box 

 divided into two stages. The upper compart- 

 ment held the pens, made of goose- or turkey- 

 quills trimmed with a pen-knife; the lower 

 contained, in a tiny well, ink made of soot 

 mixed with vinegar. 



The master's great business was to mend the 

 pens — a delicate work, not without danger for 



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