The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



the government stamp. Who in the world, in her 

 day among the small folk, dreamt of knowing how 

 to read and write? That luxury was reserved for 

 the attorney, who himself made but a sparing use 

 of it. The insect, I need hardly say, was the least 

 of her cares. If sometimes, when rinsing her salad 

 at the tap, she found a Caterpillar on the lettuce- 

 leaves, with a start of fright she would fling the 

 loathsome thing away, thus cutting short relations 

 reputed dangerous. In brief, to both my maternal 

 grandparents the insect was a creature of no in- 

 terest whatever and almost always a repulsive ob- 

 ject, which one dared not touch with the tip of 

 one's finger. Beyond a doubt, my taste for ani- 

 mals was not derived from them. Nor from either 

 of my own parents. My mother, who was quite 

 illiterate, having known no teacher but the bitter 

 experience of a harassed life, was the exact oppo- 

 site of what my tastes required for their develop- 

 ment. My peculiarity must seek its origin else- 

 where; that I will swear. 



Nor shall I find it in my father. The excel- 

 lent man, who was hard-working and sturdily-built 

 like grandad, had been to school as a child. He 

 knew how to write, though he took the greatest 

 liberties with spelling; he knew how to read and 

 understood what he read, provided the reading 

 presented no more serious literary difficulties than 

 occurred in the stories in the almanack. He was 

 the first of his line to allow himself to be tempted 

 by the town, and he lived to regret it. Badly off, 

 having but little outlet for his industry, making 



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