erts his
eyes and thoughts a little with what is happening in the water. Let me
tell what I remember of my first pond, at a time when ideas began to
dawn in my seven-year-old brain.

How shall a man earn his living in my poor native village, with its
inclement weather and its niggardly soil? The owner of a few acres of
grazing land rears sheep. In the best parts, he scrapes the soil with
the swing plow; he flattens it into terraces banked by walls of broken
stones. Pannierfuls of dung are carried up on donkey-back from the
cowshed. Then, in due season, comes the excellent potato, which, boiled
and served hot in a basket of plaited straw, is the chief stand-by in
winter.

Should the crop exceed the needs of the household, the surplus goes to
feed a pig, that precious beast, a treasure of bacon and ham. The ewes
supply butter and curds; the garden boasts cabbages, turnips and even a
few hives in a sheltered corner. With wealth like that one can look fate
in the face.

But we, we have nothing, nothing but the little house inherited by my
mother and its adjoining patch of garden. The meager resources of the
family are coming to an end. It is time to see to it and that quickly.
What is to be done? That is the stern question which father and mother
sat debating one evening.

Hop-o'-my-Thumb, hiding under the woodcutter's stool, listened to his
parents overcome by want. I also, pretending to sleep, with my elbows on
the table, listen not to blood curdling designs, but to grand plans that
set my heart rejoicing. This is how the matter stands: at the bottom of
the village, near the church, at the spot where the water of the large
roofed spring escapes from its underground weir and joins the brook in
the valley, an enterprising man, back from the war, has set up a small
tallow factory. He sells the scrapings of his pans, the burnt fat,
reeking of candle grease, at a low price. He proclaims these wares to be
excellent for fattening ducks.

"Suppose we bred some ducks," says mother. "They sell very well in town.
Henri would mind them and take them down to the brook."

"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 li