FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



in the open fields not an easy thing to obtain when one 

 lives in a state of constant anxiety about one's daily 

 bread. For forty years it was my dream to own a little 

 bit of land, fenced in for the sake of privacy: a 

 desolate, barren, sun-scorched bit of land, overgrown 

 with thistles and much beloved by Wasps and Bees. 

 Here, without fear of interruption, I might question the 

 Hunting-wasps and others of my friends in that difficult 

 language which consists of experiments and observa- 

 tions. Here, without the long expeditions and rambles 

 that use up my tune and strength, I might watch my 

 insects at every hour of the day. 



And then, at last, my wish was fulfilled. I obtained a 

 bit of land in the solitude of a little village. It was a 

 harmas, which is the name we give in this part of 

 Provence to an untilled, pebbly expanse where hardly 

 any plant but thyme can grow. It is too poor to be worth 

 the trouble of ploughing, but the sheep pass there in 

 spring, when it has chanced to rain and a little grass 

 grows up. 



My own particular harmas, however, had a small 

 quantity of red earth mixed with the stones, and had 

 been roughly cultivated. I was told that vines once 

 grew here, and I was sorry, for the original vegetation 

 had been driven out by the three-pronged fork. There 



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