The Schoolboy: Saint-Leons 



corner. With weahh 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 adjoining 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. 



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

 ter's stool, listened to his parents overcome 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 matter stands: at the bottom of the 

 village, near the church, at the spot where the 

 water of the large roofed spring escapes from its 

 underground weir and joins the brook in the val- 

 ley, an enterprising man, back from the war,^ has 

 set up a small tallow-factory. He sells the scrap- 

 ings of his pans, the burnt fat, reeking of candle- 

 grease, at a low price. He proclaims these wares 

 to be excellent for fattening ducks. 



" Suppose we breed 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 



^The war of 1830 with Algiers. — A. T. de M. 



43 



