The Sacred Beetle and Others 



narrow passage all round, just wide enough 

 to giv^e the mother room to move. 



This sumptuous portion, a regular 

 Twelfth-Night cake, has no fixed shape. 

 I come across some that are ovoid, suggest- 

 ing a Turkey's egg in form and size; I find 

 some that are a flattened ellipsoid, similar to 

 the common onion; I discover some that are 

 almost round, reminding me of a Dutch 

 cheese; I see some that are circular with a 

 slight swelling on the upper surface, like the 

 loaves of the Provencal peasant or, better 

 still, the fougasso a I'ioii with which he cele- 

 brates Easter. In every case, the surface is 

 smooth and nicely curved. 



There is no mistaking what has happened: 

 the mother has collected and kneaded into 

 one lump the numerous fragments brought 

 down one after the other; out of all those 

 particles she has made a homogeneous thing, 

 by mashing them, working them together and 

 treading on them. Time after time I come 

 across the baker on top of the colossal loaf 

 which makes the Sacred Beetle's pill look so 

 insignificant; she strolls about on the convex 

 surface, which sometimes measures as much 

 as four inches across; she pats the mass, 

 makes it firm and level. I just catch sight 

 of the curious scene, for the moment she is 



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