The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



sters, let's go home. My blistered heel is for- 

 gotten in my excitement. 



The walk back is a delight. A voice sings in 

 my ear, an untranslatable voice, softer than any 

 language and bewildering as a dream. It speaks 

 to me for the first time of the mysteries of the 

 pond ; it glorifies the heavenly insect which I hear 

 moving in the empty snail-shell, its temporary cage; 

 it whispers the secrets of the rock, the gold-filings, 

 the faceted jewels, the ram's-horn turned to stone. 



Poor simpleton, smother your joy! I arrive. 

 My parents catch sight of my bulging pockets, 

 with their disgraceful load of stones. The cloth 

 has given way under the rough and heavy burden. 



"You rascal! " says father, at sight of the dam- 

 age. " I send you to mind the ducks and you 

 amuse yourself picking up stones, as though there 

 weren't enough of them all round the house ! Make 

 haste and throw them away ! " 



Broken-hearted, I obey. Diamonds, gold-dust, 

 petrified ram's-horn, heavenly Beetle are all flung 

 on a rubbish-heap outside the door. 



Mother bewails her lot: 



" A nice thing, bringing up children to see them 

 turn out so badly! You'll bring me to my grave. 

 Green stuff I don't mind : it does for the rabbits. 

 But stones, which ruin your pockets; poisonous 

 animals, which'll sting your hand : what good are 

 they to you, silly? There's no doubt about it: 

 some one has thrown a spell over you ! ' 



Yes, my poor mother, you were right, in your 

 simplicity: a spell had been cast upon me; I ad- 



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