Insect Adventures. Fabre Jean-Henri
ILLUSTRATIONS
What a Day It Was When I First Became a Herdsman of Ducks! (Frontispiece)
I Think of the King’s Crown of the Princesses’ Necklace
The Flowers Which Deck the Mountain Streams With Gold Supply Her With Sugary Liquid and Pollen
“Be Off, or You’ll Catch It!” Says the Doorkeeping Bee
What Pattern that She Carries in Her Mind Guides Her Scissors?
The Gorgeous Drama
One Day, Bang!
When Winter is Near They Will Build a Stronger Tent
They Proceed in Single File
The Fire Was Not Exactly Lit for Us
Does She Help Them to Regain Their Place on Her Back?
The Slanting Cord Is a Telegraph Wire
Like the Finish of a Fire-Works Display
INSECT ADVENTURES
I am never tired of looking in a pond. What busy life there is in that green world! On the warm mud of the edges, the Frog’s little Tadpole basks and frisks in its black legions; down in the water, the orange-bellied Newt steers his way slowly with the broad rudder of his flat tail; among the reeds are stationed the little fleets of the Caddis-worms, half-protruding from their tubes, which are now a tiny bit of stick and again a tower of little shells.
In the deep places, the Water-beetle dives, carrying with him his extra supply of breath, an air-bubble at the tip of the wing-cases and, under the chest, a film of gas that gleams like a silver breast plate; on the surface, the ballet of those shimmering pearls, the Whirligigs, turns and twists about; hard by, there swims the troop of the Pond-skaters, who glide along with side-strokes like those which the cobbler makes when sewing.
Here are the Water-boatmen, who swim on their backs with two oars spread crosswise, and the flat Water-scorpions; here, clad in mud, is the grub of the largest of our Dragon-flies, so curious because of its manner of moving: it fills its hinder parts, a yawning funnel, with water, spirts it out again and advances just so far as the recoil of its water cannon.
There are plenty of peaceful Shellfish. At the bottom, the plump River-snails discreetly raise their lid, opening ever so little the shutters of their dwelling; on the level of the water, in the glades of the water-garden, the Pond-snails take the air. Dark Leeches writhe upon their prey, a chunk of Earthworm; thousands of tiny, reddish grubs, future Mosquitoes, go spinning around and twist and curve like so many graceful Dolphins.
Yes, a stagnant pool, though but a few feet wide, hatched by the sun, is an immense world, a marvel to the child who, tired of his paper boat, amuses himself by noticing what is happening in the water. Let me tell what I remember of my first pond, which I explored when I was seven years old.
We had nothing but the little house inherited by my mother, and its patch of garden. Our money was almost all gone. What was to be done? That was the stern question which father and mother sat talking over one evening.
Do you remember Hop-o’-My-Thumb, who hid under the wood-cutter’s stool and listened to his parents overcome by want? I was like him. I also listened, pretending to sleep, with my elbows on the table. It was not blood-curdling designs that I heard but grand plans that set my heart rejoicing.
“Suppose we breed some ducks,” says mother. “They sell very well in town. Henri would mind them and take them down to the brook. And we could feed them on the grease from the tallow-factory, which they say is excellent for ducks, and which we could buy for a small price.”
“Very well,” says father, “let’s breed some ducks. There may be difficulties in the way; but we’ll have a try.”
That night I had dreams of paradise: I was with my ducklings, clad in their yellow suits; I took them to the pond, I watched them have their bath, I brought them back again, carrying the more tired ones in a basket.
A month or two after the little birds of my dreams were a reality. There were twenty-four of them. They had been hatched by two hens, of whom one, the big black one, was an inmate of the house, while the other was borrowed from a neighbor.
To bring them up, the big, black hen is enough, so careful is she of her adopted family. At first everything goes perfectly: a tub with two fingers’ depth of water serves as a pond. On sunny days the ducklings bathe in it under the anxious eye of the hen.
Two weeks later, the tub no longer satisfies. It contains neither cresses crammed with tiny Shellfish nor Worms and Tadpoles, dainty morsels both. The time has come for dives and hunts among the tangle of the water-weeds; and for us the day of trouble has also come. How are we, right up at the top of the hill, to get water enough for a pond for our broods? In summer, we have hardly water to drink!
Near the house there is only a scanty spring from which four or five families besides ourselves draw their water with copper pails. By the time that the schoolmasters donkey has quenched her thirst and the neighbors have taken their provision for the day, the spring-basin is dry. We have to wait four-and-twenty hours for it to fill. No, there is no place there for ducklings.
There is a brook at the foot of the hill, but to go down to it with the troop of ducklings is dangerous. On the way through the village we might meet murdering cats, or some surly dog might frighten and scatter the little band; and it would be a puzzling task to collect them all again. But there is still another spot, part way up the hill, where there is a meadow and a pond of some size. It is very quiet there, and the place can be reached by a deserted footpath. The ducklings will be well off.
What a day it was when I first became a herdsman of ducks! Why must there be a drawback to such joys? Walking on the hard stones had given me a large and painful blister on the heel. If I had wanted to put on the shoes stowed away in the cupboard for Sundays and holidays, I could not. I had to go barefoot over the broken stones, dragging my leg and carrying high the injured heel.
The ducks, too, poor little things, had sensitive soles to their feet; they limped, they quacked with fatigue. They would have refused to go any farther towards the pond if I had not, from time to time, called a halt under the shelter of an ash.
We are there at last. The place could not be better for my birdlets: shallow, tepid water, with a few muddy knolls and little green islands. The pleasures of the bath begin at once. The ducklings clap their beaks and rummage here, there, and everywhere; they sift each mouthful, throwing out the clear water and swallowing the good bits. In the deeper parts they point their tails into the air and stick their heads under water. They are happy: and it is a blessed thing to see them at work. I too am enjoying the pond.
What is this? On the mud lie some loose, knotted, soot-covered cords. One might take them for threads of wool like those which you pull out of an old ravelly stocking. Can some shepherdess, knitting a black sock and finding her work turn out badly, have begun all over again and, in her impatience, have thrown down the wool with all the dropped stitches? It really