The Schoolboy: Saint-Leons 



the Tadpole, the Frog's baby. I have seen enough. 

 Let us leave the knotted cords alone. 



The next creatures please me better. They spin 

 round on the surface of the water and their black 

 backs gleam in the sun. If I lift a hand to seize 

 them, that moment they disappear, I know not 

 where. It's a pity: I should have much liked to 

 see them closer and to make them wriggle in a 

 little bowl which I should have put ready for 

 them. 



Let us look at the bottom of the water, pull- 

 ing aside those bunches of green string whence 

 beads of air are rising and gathering into foam. 

 There is something of everything underneath. I 

 see pretty shells with compact whorls, flat as beans ; 

 I notice little worms carrying tufts and feathers; 

 I make out some with flabby fins constantly flap- 

 ping on their backs. What are they all doing 

 there? What are their names? I do not know. 

 And I stare at them for ever so long, held by 

 the incomprehensible mystery of the waters. 



At the place where the pond dribbles into the 

 adjoining field are some alder-trees; and here I 

 make a glorious find. It is a Beetle — not a very 

 large one, oh no! He is smaller than a cherry- 

 stone, but of an unutterable blue. I put the 

 glorious one inside an empty snail-shell, which I 

 plug up with a leaf. I shall admire that living 

 jewel at my leisure, when I get back. Other dis- 

 tractions summon me away. 



The spring that feeds the pond trickles from 

 the rock, cold and clear. The water first collects 



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