ide those bunches of
green string whence beads of air are rising and gathering into foam.
There is something of everything underneath. I see pretty shells with
compact whorls, flat as beans; I notice little worms carrying tufts and
feathers; I make out some with flabby fins constantly flapping on their
backs. What are they all doing there? What are their names? I do not
know. And I stare at them for ever so long, held by the incomprehensible
mystery of the waters.

At the place where the pond dribbles into the adjoining field are some
alder trees; and here I make a glorious find. It is a scarab--not a
very large one, oh no! He is smaller than a cherry-stone, but of an
unutterable blue. The angels in paradise must wear dresses of that
color. I put the glorious one inside an empty snail-shell, which I plug
up with a leaf. I shall admire that living jewel at my leisure, when I
get back. Other distractions summon me away.

The spring that feeds the pond trickles from the rock, cold and clear.
The water first collects into a cup, the size of the hollow of one's two
hands, and then runs over in a stream. These falls call for a mill: that
goes without saying. Two bits of straw, artistically crossed upon
an axis, provide the machinery; some flat stones set on edge afford
supports. It is a great success: the mill turns admirably. My triumph
would be complete, could I but share it. For want of other playmates, I
invite the ducks.

Everything palls in this poor world of ours, even a mill made of two
straws. Let us think of something else: let us contrive a dam to hold
back the waters and form a pool. There is no lack of stones for the
brickwork. I pick the most suitable; I break the larger ones. And, while
collecting these blocks, suddenly I forget all about the dam which I
meant to build.

On one of the broken stones, in a cavity large enough for me to put my
fist in, something gleams like glass. The hollow is lined with facets
gathered in sixes which flash and glitter in the sun. I have seen
something like this in church, on the great saints' days, when the light
of the candles in the big chandelier kindles the stars in its hanging
crystal.

We children, lying, in summer, on the straw of the threshing floor,
have told one another stories of the treasures which a dragon guards
underground. Those treasures now return to my mind: the names of
precious stones ring out uncertainly but gloriously in my memory. I
think of the ki