I take a pinch of sand and place it in my palm. The brilliant
particles are numerous, but so small that I have to pick them up
with a straw moistened in my mouth. Let us drop this: they are too
tiny and too bothersome to collect. The big, valuable lumps must
be farther on, in the thickness of the rock. We'll come back
later; we'll blast the mountain.

I break more stones. Oh, what a queer thing has just come loose,
all in one piece! It is turned spiral-wise, like certain flat
snails that come out of the cracks of old walls in rainy weather.
With its gnarled sides, it looks like a little ram's horn. Shell
or horn, it is very curious. How do things like that find their
way into the stone?

Treasures and curiosities make my pockets bulge with pebbles. It
is late and the little ducklings have had all they want to eat.
Come along, youngsters, let's go home. My blistered heel is
forgotten in my excitement.
The walk back is a delight. A voice sings in my ear, an
untranslatable voice, softer than any language and bewildering as a
dream. It speaks to me for the first time of the mysteries of the
pond; it glorifies the heavenly insect which I hear moving in the
empty snail shell, its temporary cage; it whispers the secrets of
the rock, the gold filings, the faceted jewels, the ram's horn
turned to stone.

Poor simpleton, smother your joy! I arrive. My parents catch sight
of my bulging pockets, with their disgraceful load of stones. The
cloth has given way under the rough and heavy burden.