The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



and turned brown in rotting. What could this 

 curious object be, this pretty plaything that seemed 

 to have come from a turner's workshop? Was it 

 made by human hands? Was it a model of the 

 fruit of the pear-tree intended for some children's 

 museum? One would say so. 



The shepherd was at his post by daybreak. I 

 joined him on some slopes that had been lately 

 cleared of their trees, where the hot summer sun, 

 which strikes with such force on the back of one's 

 neck, could not reach us for two or three hours. 

 In the cool morning air, with the sheep browsing 

 under Sultan's care, the two of us started on our 

 search. 



A Sacred Beetle's burrow is soon found: you can 

 tell it by the fresh little mound of earth above it. 

 With a vigorous turn of the wrist, my companion 

 digs away with the little pocket-trowel which I 

 have lent him. Incorrigible earthscraper that I 

 am, I seldom set forth without this light but serv- 

 iceable tool. While he digs I lie down, the better 

 to see the arrangement and furniture of the cellar 

 which we are unearthing, and I am all eyes. The 

 shepherd uses the trowel as a lever and, with his 

 other hand, holds back and pushes aside the soil. 



Here we are! A cave opens out, and, in the 

 moist warmth of the yawning vault, I see a splen- 

 did pear lying full-length upon the ground. No, I 

 shall not soon forget this first revelation of the 

 Scarab's maternal masterpiece. My excitement 

 could have been no greater had I been an arch- 

 aeologist digging among the ancient relics of Egypt 



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