The Life of the Fly 



first pond, at a time when ideas began to dawn 

 in my seven-year-old brain. 



How shall a man earn his living in my poor 

 native village, with its inclement weather and 

 its niggardly soil? The owner of a few acres 

 of grazing-land rears sheep. In the best parts, 

 he scrapes the soil with the swing-plough ; he 

 flattens it into terraces banked by walls of 

 broken stones. Pannierfuls of dung are car- 

 ried up on donkey-back from the cowshed. 

 Then, in due season, comes the excellent po- 

 tato, which, boiled and served hot in a basket 

 of plaited straw, is the chief stand-by in winter. 



Should the crop exceed the needs of the 

 household, the surplus goes to feed a pig, that 

 precious beast, a treasure of bacon and ham. 

 The ewes supply butter and curds; the garden 

 boasts cabbages, turnips and even a few hives 

 in a sheltered corner. With wealth like that 

 one can look fate in the face. 



But we, we have nothing, nothing but the 

 little house inherited by my mother and its ad- 

 joining patch of garden. The meagre re- 

 sources of the family are coming to an end. 

 It is time to see to it and that quickly. What 

 is to be done? That is the stern question 

 which father and mother sat debating one 



evening. 



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