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 little birds of my dreams were a reality.