The Pond 



Hop-o'-my-Thumb, hiding under the wood- 

 cutter's stool, listened to his parents over- 

 come by want. I also, pretending to sleep, 

 with my elbows on the table, listen not to 

 blood-curdling designs, but to grand plans that 

 set my heart rejoicing. This is how the mat- 

 ter stands: at the bottom of the village, near 

 the church, at the spot where the water of 

 the large roofed spring escapes from its un- 

 derground weir and joins the brook in the 

 valley, an enterprising man, back from the 

 war, 1 has set up a small tallow-factory. He 

 sells the scrapings of his pans, the burnt fat, 

 reeking of candle-grease, at a low price. He 

 proclaims these wares to be excellent for fat- 

 tening ducks. 



"Suppose we bred some ducks," says 

 mother. "They sell very well in town. Henri 

 would mind them and take them down to the 

 brook." 



"Very well," says father, "let's breed some 

 ducks. There may be difficulties in the way; 

 but we'll have a try." 



That night, I had dreams of paradise: I 

 was with my ducklings, clad in their yellow 

 suits; I took them to the pond, I watched them 



1 The war of 1830 with Algiers.— Translator's Note. 



165 



