The Life of the Fly 



the ground, a streamlet, forming a pond of 

 some size. Here profound solitude reigns all 

 day long. The ducklings will be well off; and 

 the journey can be made in peace by a deserted 

 foot-path. 



You, little man, shall take them to that 

 delectable spot. What a day it was that 

 marked my first appearance as a herdsman of 

 ducks! Why must there be a jar to the even 

 tenor of such joys? The too-frequent en- 

 counter of my tender skin with the hard 

 ground had given me a large and painful blis- 

 ter on the heel. Had I wanted to put on the 

 shoes stowed away in the cupboard for Sun- 

 days and holidays, I could not. There was 

 nothing for it but to go barefoot over the 

 broken stones, dragging my leg and carrying 

 high the injured heel. 



Let us make a start, hobbling along, switch 

 in hand, behind the ducks. They too, poor 

 little things, have sensitive soles to their feet; 

 they limp, they quack with fatigue. They 

 would refuse to go any farther if I did not, 

 from time to time, call a halt under the shelter 

 of an ash. 



We are there at last. The place could not 

 be better for' my birdlets; shallow, tepid 

 water, interspersed with muddy knolls and 



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