The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



you could give a glance at my grey mane. Where 

 is the cheerful face of former days, bright with 

 enthusiasm and hope? 1 have aged, I have aged. 

 And you, what a falling off, since you came to me 

 from the dealer's, gleaming and polished and smell- 

 ing so good with your beeswax! Like your mas- 

 ter, you have wrinkles, often my work, I admit; 

 for how many times, in my impatience, have I not 

 dug my pen into you, when, after its dip in the 

 muddy inkpot, the nib refused to write decently! 



One of your corners is broken off; the boards 

 are beginning to come loose. Inside you, I hear, 

 from time to time, the plane of the Death-watch, 

 who despoils old furniture. From year to year 

 new galleries are excavated, endangering your solid- 

 ity. The old ones show on the outside in the shape 

 of tiny round holes. A stranger has seized upon 

 the latter, excellent quarters, obtained without 

 trouble. I see the impudent intruder run nimbly 

 under my elbow and penetrate forthwith into the 

 tunnel abandoned by the Death-watch. She is 

 after game, this slender huntress, clad in black, 

 busy collecting Wood-lice for her grubs. A whole 

 nation is devouring you, you old table; I am writ- 

 ing on a swarm of insects! No support could be 

 more appropriate to my entomological notes. 



What will become of you when your master is 

 gone? Will you be knocked down for a franc, 

 when the family come to apportion my poor spoils? 

 Will you be turned into a stand for the pitcher 

 beside the kitchen-sink? Will you be the plank on 

 which the cabbages are shredded? Or will my chil- 



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