green eyots. The diversions of the bath begin forthwith. The
ducklings clap their beaks and rummage here, there and everywhere;
they sift each mouthful, rejecting the clear water and retaining
the good bits. In the deeper parts, they point their sterns into
the air and stick their heads under water. They are happy; and it
is a blessed thing to see them at work. We will let them be. It
is my turn to enjoy the pond.

What is this? On the mud lie some loose, knotted, soot-colored
cords. One could take them for threads of wool like those which
you pull out of an old ravelly stocking. Can some shepherdess,
knitting a black sock and finding her work turn out badly, have
begun all over again and, in her impatience, have thrown down the
wool with all the dropped stitches? It really looks like it.

I take up one of those cords in my hand. It is sticky and
extremely slack; the thing slips through the fingers before they
can catch hold of it. A few of the knots burst and shed their
contents. What comes out is a black globule, the size of a pin's
head, followed by a flat tail. I recognize, on a very small scale,
a familiar object: the tadpole, the frog's baby. I have seen
enough. Let us leave the knotted cords alone.

The next creatures please me better. They spin round on the
surface of the water and their black backs gleam in the sun. If I
lift a hand to seize them, that moment they disappear, I know not
where. It's a pity: I should have much liked to see them closer
and to make them wriggle in a little bowl which I should have put
ready for them.