river snails discreetly raise their lid, opening ever so little the
shutters of their dwelling; on the level of the water, in the
glades of the aquatic garden, the pond snails--Physa, Limnaea and
Planorbis--take the air. Dark leeches writhe upon their prey, a
chunk of earthworm; thousands of tiny, reddish grubs, future
mosquitoes, go spinning around and twist and curve like so many
graceful dolphins.

Yes, a stagnant pool, though but a few feet wide, hatched by the
sun, is an immense world, an inexhaustible mine of observation to
the studious man and a marvel to the child who, tired of his paper
boat, diverts 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.