Laying down his baskets, Jean unwinds his tackle. This is very
primitive--a switch, with a piece of thread and a bent pin at the end
of it. Jean supplied the rod, Jeanne gave the line and the hook; so the
tackle is the common property of brother and sister. Both want it all
to themselves, and this simple contrivance, only meant to do mischief to
the fishes, becomes the cause of domestic broils and a rain of blows by
the peaceful riverside. Brother and sister fight for the free use of
the rod and line. Jean's arm is black and blue with pinches and Jeanne's
cheek scarlet from her brother's slaps. At last, when they were tired of
pinching and hitting, Jean and Jeanne consented to share amicably what
neither could appropriate by force. They agreed that the rod should pass
alternately from the brother's hands to the sister's after each fish
they caught.

Jean begins. But there's no knowing when he will end. He does not break
the treaty openly, but he shirks its consequences by a mean trick.
Rather than have to hand over the tackle to his sister, he refuses to
catch the fish that come, when they nibble the bait and set his float
bobbing.

Jean is artful; Jeanne is patient. She has been waiting six hours. But
at last she seems tired of doing nothing. She yawns, stretches, lies
down in the shade of the willow, and shuts her eyes. Jean spies her out
of one corner of his, and he thinks she is asleep. The float dives.
He whips out the line, at the end of which gleams a flash of silver. A
gudgeon has taken the pin.

"Ah! it's my turn now," cries a voice behind him.

And Jeanne snatches the rod.

THE PENALTIES OF GREATNESS

[Illustration: 225]

IT was to go and see their friend Jean that Roger, Marcel, Bernard,
Jacques, and Etienne set out along the broad highroad that winds like a
handsome yellow riband through the fields and meadows. Now they are off.
They start all abreast; it is the best way. Only there is one defect in
the arrangement this time; Etienne is too little to keep up.

He tries hard and puts his best foot foremost. His short legs stretch
their widest. He swings his arms into the bargain. But he is too little;
he cannot go as fast as his companions. He falls behind because he is
too small; it is no use.

The big boys, who are older, should surely wait for him, you say, and
suit their pace to his. So they should, but they don't. Forward! cry the
strong ones of this world, and they leave the weaklings i