ng's crown, of the princesses' necklaces. In breaking
stones, can I have found, but on a much richer scale, the thing that
shines quite small in my mother's ring? I want more such.

The dragon of the subterranean treasures treats me generously. He gives
me his diamonds in such quantities that soon I possess a heap of broken
stones sparkling with magnificent clusters. He does more: he gives me
his gold. The trickle of water from the rock falls on a bed of fine sand
which it swirls into bubbles. If I bent over towards the light, I see
something like gold filings whirling where the fall touches the bottom.
Is it really the famous metal of which twenty-franc pieces, so rare with
us at home, are made? One would think so, from the glitter.

I take a pinch of sand and place it in my palm. The brilliant particles
are numerous, but so small that I have to pick them up with a straw
moistened in my mouth. Let us drop this: they are too tiny and too
bothersome to collect. The big, valuable lumps must be farther on,
in the thickness of the rock. We'll come back later; we'll blast the
mountain.

I break more stones. Oh, what a queer thing has just come loose, all in
one piece! It is turned spiral-wise, like certain flat snails that come
out of the cracks of old walls in rainy weather. With its gnarled sides,
it looks like a little ram's horn. Shell or horn, it is very curious.
How do things like that find their way into the stone?

Treasures and curiosities make my pockets bulge with pebbles. It is
late and the little ducklings have had all they want to eat. Come
along, youngsters, let's go home. My blistered heel is forgotten in
my excitement. The walk back is a delight. A voice sings in my ear,
an untranslatable voice, softer than any language and bewildering as a
dream. It speaks to me for the first time of the mysteries of the pond;
it glorifies the heavenly insect which I hear moving in the empty snail
shell, its temporary cage; it whispers the secrets of the rock, the gold
filings, the faceted jewels, the ram's horn turned to stone.

Poor simpleton, smother your joy! I arrive. My parents catch sight of
my bulging pockets, with their disgraceful load of stones. The cloth has
given way under the rough and heavy burden.

"You rascal!" says father, at sight of the damage. "I send you to mind
the ducks and you amuse yourself picking up stones, as though there
weren't enough of them all round the house! Make haste and throw them