The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



clearness of perception in the gaze which this 

 child already turns upon the things about 

 him. 



But I like still better the history of the 

 duck-pond, graceful as an idyll and touching 

 as an elegy, the idyll of a rustic childhood 

 which becomes aware, simultaneously, of the 

 family secrets and the secrets of nature; the 

 elegy of a father's tenderness and a son's 

 piety cramped and mortified by poverty, the 

 elegy of intelligence, nay, of genius, ready 

 to spread its wings and fettered in its flight 

 by the heavy chains and harsh necessities 

 of material existence: 



How shall a man earn his living in my poor 

 native village, with its inclement weather and its 

 niggardly soil? The owner of a few acres of 

 grazing-land rears sheep. In the best parts, he 

 scrapes the soil with the swing-plough; he flattens 

 it into terraces banked by walls of broken stones. 

 Pannierfuls of dung are carried up on donkey- 

 back from the cowshed. Then, in due season, 

 comes the excellent potato, which, boiled and 

 served hot in a basket of plaited straw, is the 

 chief stand-by in winter. 



Should the crop exceed the needs of the house- 

 hold, the surplus goes to feed a pig, that precious 

 beast, a treasure of bacon and ham. The ewes 

 supply butter and curds; the garden boasts cab- 

 bages, turnips, and even a few hives in a sheltered 



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