The Pond 



dresses of that colour. I put the glorious one 

 inside an empty snail-shell, which I plug up 

 with a leaf. I shall admire that living jewel at 

 my leisure, when I get back. Other distractions 

 summon me away. 



The spring that feeds the pond trickles 

 from the rock, cold and clear. The water first 

 collects into a cup, the size of the hollow of 

 one's two hands, and then runs over in a 

 stream. These falls call for a mill: that goes 

 without saying. Two bits of straw, artistic- 

 ally crossed upon an axis, provide the machin- 

 ery; some flat stones set on edge afford sup- 

 ports. It is a great success : the mill turns ad- 

 mirably. My triumph would be complete, 

 could I but share it. For want of other play- 

 mates, I invite the ducks. 



Everything palls in this poor world of ours, 

 even a mill made of two straws. Let us think 

 of something else : let us contrive a dam to 

 hold back the waters and form a pool. There 

 is no lack of stones for the brickwork. I pick 

 the most suitable; I break the larger ones. 

 And, while collecting these blocks, suddenly 

 I forget all about the dam which I meant to 

 build. 



On one of the broken stones, in a cavity 

 large enough for me to put my fist in, some- 



171 



