Let us look at the bottom of the water, pulling aside those bunches
of green string whence beads of air are rising and gathering into
foam. There is something of everything underneath. I see pretty
shells with compact whorls, flat as beans; I notice little worms
carrying tufts and feathers; I make out some with flabby fins
constantly flapping on their backs. What are they all doing there?
What are their names? I do not know. And I stare at them for ever
so long, held by the incomprehensible mystery of the waters.

At the place where the pond dribbles into the adjoining field are
some alder trees; and here I make a glorious find. It is a scarab-
-not a very large one, oh no! He is smaller than a cherry-stone,
but of an unutterable blue. The angels in paradise must wear
dresses of that color. I put the glorious one inside an empty
snail-shell, which I plug up with a leaf. I shall admire that
living jewel at my leisure, when I get back. Other distractions
summon me away.

The spring that feeds the pond trickles from the rock, cold and
clear. The water first collects into a cup, the size of the hollow
of one's two hands, and then runs over in a stream. These falls
call for a mill: that goes without saying. Two bits of straw,
artistically crossed upon an axis, provide the machinery; some flat
stones set on edge afford supports. It is a great success: the
mill turns admirably. My triumph would be complete, could I but
share it. For want of other playmates, I invite the ducks.

Everything palls in this poor world of ours, even a mill made of
two straws. Let us think of something else: let us contrive a dam
to hold back the waters and form a pool. There is no lack of