tars, the one which has the most interest for me--the star Jupiter.

Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing
about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose
only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to
make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly, I never look at thee
without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That
there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little
star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little
star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our
own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun--life in Jupiter
is life beneath moons--four moons--no single moon is able to illumine
that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is
anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us
every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on
which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale
moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in
Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much,
has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge, distant star.

Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During
the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of
the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two
individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me
a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps
they were.

One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by
this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined,
two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed
from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a
considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that
the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of
childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the
song which the voice was singing; the words were--but no, I thought again
I was probably mistaken--and then the voice ceased for a time; presently
I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another
moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it
abruptly stopped, but not before I h