Yes, I shall find him; indeed I have him already. A little chap of seven, with a wide-awake face that doesn’t get washed every day, bare feet and a pair of tattered breeches held up by a bit of string, a boy who comes regularly to supply the house with turnips and tomatoes, arrives one morning carrying his basket of vegetables. After the few sous due to his mother for the greens have been counted one by one into his hand, he produces from his pocket something which he found the day before, beside a hedge, while picking grass for the rabbits: “And what about this?” he asks, holding the thing out to me. “What about this? Will you have it?” “Yes, certainly, I’ll have it. Try and find me some more, as many as you can, and I’ll promise you plenty of rides on the roundabout on Sunday. Meanwhile, my lad, here’s a penny for you. Don’t make a mistake when you give in your accounts; put it somewhere where you won’t mix it up with the turnip-money.” [129] The precious discovery was none other than the cocoon from which would presently emerge the desired Moth, vainly sought after during twenty years’ residence in Sérignan. Of all children Fabre must have had a weakness for the most rustic specimens; for those who, by virtue of their situation and by inclination, lived more nearly in contact with Nature and the animal creation. If they are ever so little wide-awake, they are at once, for him, friends whose society he seeks and helpers whose assistance he appreciates. Such is the “young shepherd, a friend of the household,” who is without a peer in catching the pill-rolling beetles, [130] so greatly does he excel in profiting by the truly exceptional advantages which the pastoral calling offers from this point of view. In such company insect-hunting is so engaging and profitable that our naturalist decides to accompany him. Among these memorable mornings there is one which deserves particular mention, for it was truly a historic occasion: The young shepherd who had been told in his spare time to watch the doings of the Sacred Beetle came to me in high spirits, one Sunday in the latter part of June, to say that he thought the time had come to begin our investigations. He had detected the insect issuing from the ground, had dug at the spot where it made its appearance, and had found, at no great depth, the queer thing which he was bringing me. Queer it was, and calculated to upset the little that I thought I knew. In shape it was exactly like a tiny pear that had lost all its fresh colour and turned brown in rotting. What could this curious object be, this pretty plaything that seemed to have come from a turner’s workshop? Was it made by human hands? Was it a model of the fruit of the pear-tree intended for some children’s museum? One would say so.