The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



condensed even as suns are condensed in the nebulae 

 of the heavens. I should have admired the nascent 

 creature that turns, slowly turns, in the orb of 

 its egg and describes a volute, the draft perhaps 

 of the future shell. No planet circles round its 

 centre of attraction with greater geometrical ac- 

 curacy. 



I should have brought back a few ideas from 

 my frequent visits to the pond. Fate decided other- 

 wise: I was not to have my sheet of water. I have 

 tried the artificial pond, between four panes of 

 glass. A poor makeshift! 



A louis has been overlooked in a corner of a 

 drawer. I can spend it without seriously jeopar- 

 dising the domestic balance. The blacksmith makes 

 me the framework of a cage out of a few iron 

 rods. The joiner, who is also a glazier on occa- 

 sion — for, in my village, you have to be a Jack- 

 of-all trades if you would make both ends meet — 

 sets the framework on a wooden base and sup- 

 plies it with a movable board as a lid; he fixes 

 thick panes of glass in the four sides. Behold the 

 apparatus, complete, with a bottom of tarred sheet- 

 iron and a tap to let the water out. Many an 

 inquisitive caller has wondered what use I intend 

 to make of my little glass trough. The thing 

 creates a certain stir. Some insist that it is meant 

 to hold my supplies of oil and to take the place 

 of the receptacle in general use in our parts, the 

 urn dug out of a block of stone. What would 

 those utilitarians have thought of my crazy mind, 

 had they known that my costly gear would merely 



218 



