The Life of the Fly 



sect which I hear moving in the empty snail- 

 shell, its temporary cage; it whispers the 

 secrets of the rock, the gold-filings, the faceted 

 jewels, the ram's-horn turned to stone. 



Poor simpleton, smother your joy! I ar- 

 rive. My parents catch sight of my bulging 

 pockets, with their disgraceful load of stones. 

 The cloth has given way under the rough and 

 heavy burden. 



'You rascal !" says father, at sight of the 

 damage. "I send you to mind the ducks and 

 you amuse yourself picking up stones, as 

 though there weren't enough of them all round 

 the house! Make haste and throw them 

 away!" 



Broken-hearted, I obey. Diamonds, gold- 

 dust, petrified ram's-horn, heavenly Beetle are 

 all flung on a rubbish-heap outside the door. 



Mother bewails her lot: 



"A nice thing, bringing up children to see 

 them turn out so badly! You'll bring me to 

 my grave. Green stuff I don't mind: it does 

 for the rabbits. But stones, which ruin your 

 pockets; poisonous animals, which'll sting your 

 hand: what good are they to you, silly? 

 There's no doubt about it: some one has 

 thrown a spell over you !" 



Yes, my poor mother, you were right, in 



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