The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



ing for it but to go barefoot over the broken 

 stones, dragging my leg and carrying high the in- 

 jured heel. 



Let us make a start, hobbling along, switch in 

 hand, behind the ducks. They, too, poor little 

 things, have sensitive soles to their feet; they limp, 

 they quack with fatigue. They would refuse to 

 go any further if I did not, from time to time, 

 call a halt under the shelter of an ash. 



We are there at last. The place could not be 

 better for my birdlets: shallow, tepid water, inter- 

 spersed with muddy knolls and green eyots. The 

 diversions of the bath begin forthwith. The duck- 

 lings clap their beaks and rummage here, there, 

 and everywhere. They are happy; and it is a 

 blessed thing to see them at work. We will let 

 them be. It is my turn to enjoy the pond. 



What is this? On the mud lie some loose, 

 knotted, soot-coloured cords. One might take them 

 for threads of wool like those which you pull out 

 of an old ravelly stocking. Can some shepherdess, 

 knitting a black sock and finding her work turn 

 out badly, have begun all over again and, in her 

 impatience, have thrown down the wool with all 

 the dropped stitches? It really looks like it. 



I take up one of those cords in my hand. It 

 is sticky and extremely slack; the thing slips 

 through the fingers before they can catch hold of 

 it. A few of the knots burst and shed their con- 

 tents. What comes out is a black globule, the 

 size of a pin's head, followed by a flat tail. I 

 recognise, on a very small scale, a familiar object: 



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